A New Way

I am sorry to keep you waiting but now I am back. I haven't written anything for you now so I have to look in the archives. This was, perhaps, meant as a beginning of a longer story but works, I think, as a short one too. Change of roles but hope you like it anyway. Don't let the picture decide the story for you.

'Are you angry?' she said, looking at me.

That look was very cute, very adorable but I was determined not to let it affect me.

'What do you think?' I replied.

'I was held up.'

'There is always something.'

'But I missed the bus.'

'You said you should be there.'

'What can I do about the buses?'

'Get an earlier one.'

'I couldn't know this one was to be late.'

'I don't care!'

'You are angry.'

'Yes, I am angry.'

'I am sorry.'

'Sorry isn't good enough.'

'I am really, really sorry.'

I looked at her. She looked miserable.

'I am going to punish you,' I said.

She stared at me. Part of her wanted to laugh, the other was bewildered.

'You are what?'

'I am going to punish you, for being late.'

'That's ridiculous, the bus was late. Are you going to punish the bus too?'

'No, only you.'

'But why?'

'Because I want to.'

She shook her head.

'So how are you going to punish me then – sulk?'

'No, I am going to spank you.'

She started laughing. I wasn't.

'I am serious,' I said, 'I am going to spank you.'

'You spank children,' she replied, 'or not even that, nowadays.'

'No, not children, you shouldn't do that to children.'

'But you want to spank me.'

'Sloppy girlfriends, that is a completely different matter.'

'Come on! We live in the 21st century.'

So what?'

'That kind of things belong to the past'

'Are you sure?'

'This is silly, it won't happen.'

'Won't it?'

'You have no right.'

'No, I have no right.'

'It won't happen.'

'It will.'

'How is it going to happen, then?'

'You will let me.'

'Never!'

I rose to my feet and went into the bathroom. I saw how she looked at me, her face a mix of ridicule and worry. She wasn't sure of me. She didn't know what I was going to do.

When I returned I held her hairbrush in my hand. It was a wooden brush, with a flat back. It wasn't big but heavy enough for its purpose, I thought.

'Stop this now!' she said, staring at me, 'it is silly. I said I was sorry and it won't happen again.'

'Too late now,' I replied.

She stared at me. She seemed to take a long good look at me. I don't know what she saw. Maybe she saw that I really wanted this, that I was determined.

'You really are going to spank me?' she said, her voice a little broken.

'I told you so.'

She stared at me. She hesitated. This was a strange kind of stand-off.

'If I let you spank me,' she said, 'if I let you spank me, will it make you feel better then?'

'Yes, I would think so,' I replied.

'You will have to promise not to be too hard, if I let you.'

'I won't promise that.'

'You have no right.'

'Unless you let me.'

'I guess I could let you do this, this once, just because you are angry.'

I felt the hairbrush heavy in my hand. The thought of using it on her made my hands tremble.

'It is a punishment, after all,' she continued, 'I guess it is only fair you decide.'

She looked at me. I was still standing, she was sitting down. Her face was changed, she looked worried as if she wanted to plead with me. She looked very small.

I turned around and took one of the wooden chairs and placed it on the floor. I sat down on it and looked at her. She looked at me. She pretended not to know what she was supposed to do. I was not going to tell her.

She seemed to take a deep breath, swallow, shake her head before she rose to her feet. She walked hesitantly towards me. She stopped short some distance away. She wanted a prompt.

I tapped my knees. She looked scared.

'You have no right to do this,' she said.

'No right, whatsoever,' I replied.

She came forward and awkwardly leaned forward. She knew what to do, where she should be but she wasn't sure how to get there, where exactly to put her body.

I took her hand and directed her. Something in her stance made me think she appreciated this guiding hand. I wasn't sure either how to place a girl in your knee, whom you are going to spank.

It took some adjusting, some nervous action before she was lying in a way I deemed suitable for a spanking. She was hanging her head but I couldn't see her face. I couldn't see what she felt. I knew this was beyond that. Now it was me and her bottom, her jeans clad bottom.

I took a firm hold of the hairbrush, lifted it, hesitated a little. This was a strange moment. I really wanted to spank her. I was angry but I knew I wanted it for more reasons than anger. Still I was going to punish her, punish her because she had made me angry. That was the plan.

I smacked her right buttock. She drew her breath. I didn't hit very hard but I knew she felt it. She didn't protest. I couldn't know how much it had hurt her. She didn't say. She seemed to be determined now.

I smacked her left cheek, a little harder and I heard her sigh and felt her tense her body. I knew she felt this. But did it hurt? Did it really hurt? Did I want it to hurt?

I gave her a series of smacks, alternating between buttocks. I was still too afraid to put some real power in them but the series of five-six smacks made her squirms a little. She was affected. I knew that now.

I began to spank her bottom with a series of smacks, in a steady pace. I started not too hard and soon, after three or four she seemed to settle into it, squirming a little and moving her head. I then felt the urge to increase the power, to make them count. It was a punishment, after all, she was to feel pain.

She seemed to brace herself for the harder smacks and held her breath, sighed and moved her head, determined to endure. I liked this. I felt how much I enjoyed this. I was punishing her and I felt I had the right to do it but I couldn't explain the elation I felt.

Then I stopped. I knew what I had to do.

'Is this it?' she said, turning her head.

She was a little flustered.

'No, there is some more,' I replied.

I reached my hands under her belly, trying to find the button in her jeans.

'What are you doing?' she squealed with a hint of panic in her voice.

'Taking down your jeans,' I said.

'Why?'

'Guess why!'

'You can't do that.'

'I can.'

She protested but she didn't resist me. She just didn't help me. I managed to dig in, under her, and unbutton her jeans. I started to yank them down. That was not easy, her jeans fitting her quite snugly.

'Get up!' I ordered.

She scrambled to her feet. She made no effort of stopping me as I yanked her jeans down to her knees. She gave me a strange look that seemed to coincide with a sudden flash of arousal that traversed my frame.

I guided her to lie down across my lap once again and this time it was a little less awkward. Soon she was lying there, this time I was looking at her knickerclad bottom. She was wearing red, cotton knickers that partly covered her bottom cheeks. They were thin and would not protect her much. She had a small, round and very lovely bottom. That could not be denied.

I gave her four more smacks and she seemed to sense the increased effect of them. I felt that this more like the proper way of spanking a girl. I was amazed that I thought like that, 'the proper way of spanking a girl.'

Something in her body, how it moved made me know,, for sure, that she felt the impact of the hairbrush more directly now. I felt a strange excitement at that, the added cruelty of it. I struggled a little with that sensation. I was excited by the fact that she was less protected, felt it more, that it was crueller to spank her on her knickers. At the same time I felt a little bad for wanting to be cruel to her. I decided to go with the excitement. It was meant to be painful after all.

My qualms about being cruel gave away and soon I felt a strange and evil urge to go all the way. Although her knickers didn't give much protection it would be even crueller, even more humiliating to smack her bared bottom.

I stopped again. This time she didn't ask and when I reached for her knickers something strange happened. Instead of hearing her loud protests she gently lifted her hips and, thus, helped me pulling down her knickers. This gesture was a humble gesture, allowing me to bare her, to make it worse for her, making her punishment harder. Helping me was humiliating her but she did it, all the same.

Her bottom was a little pink at places and I resisted an urge to squeeze and caress it. Instead I lifted the hairbrush and smacked her.

She felt the impact. I doubt it hurt her more but she felt it directly on her skin. She knew she was bared for it.

I felt that sense of elation again as I smacked her and I decided to let go of my inhibition. I felt that it was time to spank her for real.

I began smacking her in earnest. I put some power in and felt how the impact affected her. The strange thing was that she did not protest. She struggled and squirmed but she didn't struggle with me. She struggled with herself, struggled to stay put and endure.

I spanked her for quite some time and I felt that she was on the brink of losing control. I felt that this may be it. I could go on longer but I felt that it was enough. I ended it with a series of really hard smacks and she squealed out loud as the hairbrush made hard and brutal contact with her beautiful and very naked bottom.

'You may rise now!' I said when I had stopped.

She scrambled to her feet. I expected her to pull up her clothes but instead she turned to me.

'Please forgive me!' she said.

Her face was flustered.

'I am not angry any more.'

'Then there was some meaning to this.'

We both started to laugh.

'May I pull up my jeans?'

'Yes, of course.'

She sighed deeply as she pulled her knickers and jeans over her newly spanked bottom. I could tell it hurt. She buttoned her jeans, let her hands stroke her bottom, looked at is, as if the redness the spanking had caused was visible through the fabric of her jeans.

She was in pain, that was sure but she seemed amazed more than upset. I didn't understand that. She had been spanked.

Hello

Slow and low seems to be the order of the day. Thank you for the comments. You are really wonderful, dear Readers. I have no good excuses for not posting anything today, so I won't try to explain it away. It has been one of those weeks, or two, that makes you want to forget about everything and just sit in a corner and stare at the world.

I will be busy this weekend, relatives coming to visit, so any blogging will have to wait till next week. But then I will put something up, if nothing else, something from the archives. Take care and thank you, again, dear Readers, for your comments.

Love Our Lurkers Day

You mean a lot to me, Dear Readers, and your comments are much appreciated. Still I don't want to force anyone to delurk just to be kind. Still it would be nice to hear from you, you who read but don't comment.

I do imagine my readers to be a fairly small but dedicated group of people, at least the ones who comment are very nice and kind and enthusiastic. I can't tell you how much your encouragement means. I do welcome critical voices too, of course, even if it may not seem that way. More than anything, I want to share and talk about fantasies with you.

This doesn't mean you have to have anything important or clever to say to delurk, no, a simple 'hello' is very welcome.

This idea about delurking comes from Bonnie over at the My Bottom Smarts. Go and visit her cracking blog.

Oliver

Did you know that John Lennon would have turned 69 today, had he been allowed to live?

I am still digging out things from the archives. This one is from last year. It is one of those stories, or scribblings, that start somewhere and decides for itself where it ends up.

All stories are about me but all of them are also purely fictional, remember that while you read this.

Oliver Clarke was the most despicable person I could imagine. He wasn't grossly fat but he was, indeed, a very big person. He was at least twice my size. He had puffy cheeks and he was always flustered and red and sweaty.

He could, I suppose, have looked alright, perhaps even be good looking, had he not been so overweight. He had brownish hair, like a tuft of some moss on his head and his grey eyes were small and sunken in his face.

His clothes seemed always to have been bought in an earlier era when Oliver was of a more normal size. His stinking body seemed to struggle to get out of those ill-fitting shirts and trousers in the un-matching colours he always seemed to choose.

If Oliver had been a nice person he may have evoked some sympathy or at least pity but he was not only an unhealthy lump of flesh rolling through the corridors of my school, he was also an arrogant bastard.

We all laughed at him but he was unaware of it. He talked with gusto about his whereabouts and what he expected to achieve in life and seemed completely ignorant that most people considered him a 'loser'.

He had no sense of how unattractive he was to the girls and this impression was considerably sharpened by his view of the opposite sex, which he generously shared with the rest of the world. Although he seemed to think all females to be of a lower order of life he had no hesitation to tell them what he wanted to do to them. The only redeeming quality in him was that we all were convinced that he would never get the chance to use anyone in the way he imagined.

Still it was this lowlife, this pathetic excuse for a human being that entered my thoughts every time I put my hand down my knickers to take away some of the itching anxiety that seemed to traverse my body in my youthful loneliness.

Ever since Oliver had once looked me over, pushed his tongue out and suggested he would come home to me and show me what I really wanted with him, the image of him had popped into my mind whenever the desire hit me.

He was a curse. For a while I was almost physically sick whenever I felt the least tingling in me. Whatever or whoever evoked those feelings didn't matter, as soon as I closed my eyes and let my inner eye concentrate on the bliss and joy of those sensations, Oliver was there with his ugly snout, breathing heavily and looking smug.

I was quite depressed at first, feeling bereaved of my fantasies, my inner cinema. Oliver had taken it over and seemed to control the menu. At least he had a firm grip on the more seedy and arousing offerings.

I managed to learn how to block him out, temporarily, and concentrate on the physical sensations. This was a relief but it was not satisfactory. I needed my inner cinema, I wanted it.

I had a very vivid imagination and the strangest things could get my mind moving in directions that not only filled my head with colourful pictures but also made my heart throb in my chest and blood to rush to different parts of my body.

A history lesson about the Romans would paint some fascinating pictures in my mind, including me dressed in some thin flimsy toga like outfit and some hunky men indulging ourselves in some orgy or the like.

The horror was that Oliver suddenly was there, reclining on some divan, fat and sweaty, surrounded by a harem of girls, dressed in flimsy dresses if anything, providing him with grapes and wine and their bodies.

He would be the Emperor or similar and he would chuckle and leer at the entertainment, some exotic women, dressed in jewellery only, dancing before him. And the worst thing of it all, I often found that I was not one of the noble women at the court but instead one of the scantily clad dancers or even a naked slave who stood behind Emperor Oliver waiting on him.

I would be eager to return to reality when my mind was full of Oliver and his despicable frame. The most shocking discovery was that I often found that I was terribly aroused by my fantasies.

I was quite deflated when I had to admit to myself that my fantasies, the ones where Oliver, the monster, appeared, were really turning me on. I tried my utmost to subdue all images of him. I tried to block him out, tried to concentrate on film stars or my favourite singers, just to keep Oliver out. I even let some of the boys from school be there, just to make sure he wasn't.

My fantasies became grey and boring and predictable and I longed for the free flow of my living, tumbling and unruly imagination to return. I wanted the colours and the beauty and the unhindered desire of my imagination to fill my mind again.

As I realised I couldn't keep my imagination hidden away, I decided I had to let it back in. I had become anxious and unhappy and my friends had noticed and found me less interesting to be with. I just had to open my mind to my own delightful world of fantasies.

And Oliver was there again. There was no way for me to follow an arousing thought, a delightful thrill in my mind without Oliver turning up. When I was dancing the dance of the seven veils for a dark eyed sheik of the desert, revealing more and more of my aching body for him, I suddenly found that Oliver was there in the tent, urging me on, telling me that I wanted to strip for him, that I wanted to please him.

When I was taken to some fancy restaurant by a tall dark and handsome man in his black tie and shining eyes, Oliver suddenly sat himself down at the table and told my date how I wanted to take my clothes off and wanted to please them.

Worst of all was that he was right. That was exactly what I had been thinking, what I had hoped for. He seemed to be the voice of my desires, dressing in words what I played out in my fantasies.

I was defeated. I couldn't keep him out. I had to let him be there. I acknowledge my defeat and surrendered to him. I was determined to enjoy my fantasies despite the despicable Oliver. Let him watch when I was undressed by my dark handsome lover, or when the barbarian king threw my on his bed to have me.

I had lost but I had won. I was again allowed into my fantasy world and the delights I found there. My friends saw the difference and life was easier again. I could talk of my excitement about this or that film and I could giggle with my friends and blush as we imagined what it would be like to have that particular famous star kissing you senseless.

What I didn't tell them when I shared my own images of such things was that Oliver was always there, watching in the wings, commenting and telling me what a naughty person I was.

I was getting used to having him there as a voice of some darker side of me, but it got worse. Oliver started to take up more space. He more often insisted on the centre stage himself. He pushed the handsome lovers out of the picture and demanded my full attention for himself.

Oliver always wanted something raunchy and dirty. He never said anything nice to me. He sat in the middle of my fantasy, fatter and sweatier than in real life and always demanded that I should dance for him, strip for him or wait on him, while he mocked me and insulted me.

The worst horror of them all was that I was the willing victim of his demands. I did strip for him. I stood there in front of him and slipped my clothes off for him and nothing could be more arousing than to unbutton my shirt and open it, revealing my bosom for him, while he was licking his sweaty lips, leering at me.

All the while there was the real Oliver, the living breathing Oliver who was less of the monster in reality than he was in my imagination. Sometimes he looked at me and I wondered if he knew he was a permanent guest at my inner cinema. Most of the time I made my best to avoid him.

He didn't just become bigger and uglier in my imagination, he also came closer. He had always been a watcher, the one sitting as a wobbling mountain of flesh, staring at my body, demanding that I should undress for him. He had watched but had never touched me.

It all happened in steps. When he had had me strip he started to demand that I should touch myself. This seemed to be a natural progression, given the fact that the real me did some touching in the real world while the fantasy me performed some exotic and alluring dance for him, stripping the veils off, one by one.

The horror, the horror, the inevitable happened. In one very intense fantasy, a particular favourite of mine, I was a slave, performing a dance for my captors who happened to be some barbarian warriors. It was all set in some enormous tent, lit by fires and torches, the warriors sitting on their loot of fabulous rugs and silken cushions, surrounded by the gold and jewellery they had stolen, drinking their ales and wines from goblets made from the skulls of their enemies, waited upon by the semi clad beauties of the newly sacked city, the living loot from their plunder.

I was, or had been, a princess of that city. Now I was loot. I was still dressed in my silken but revealing dress and still adorned with my jewellery but these men were brutes, they heeded not my birth nor my status. No, I was forced to perform for my survival.

And perform I did. I danced before them like I had never danced before, carried away by my fear and my desire, forgetting how cruel these men were. I danced and let my hate and horror be swept away by my lust and arousal, as I moved my body to the chaotic tune they played.

My clothes fell from my body and I trembled with excitement as I felt the silken robes caress my skin as I took them off, one by one.

Oliver was the chieftain of these barbarians and he was perched on the greatest pile of loot in the centre of the tent and it was before him I danced, before his desiring eyes I revealed my body.

At last the dance was done and I stood sweating and trembling before him, naked, dressed only in my jewellery, panting and overcome by my passion.

At this moment my hand was deep down my knickers working its wonders. But there was just one little piece to add to the jigsaw, to make the picture complete, to finish off what the image had started.

I was called forward and was stood close to the chieftain, the monstrous mountain of flesh that was the fantasy image of Oliver Clarke.

Then he touched me. He put his sweaty hand down between my legs and snaked his fat fingers into me. And in that moment I reached what I had desired in the real world.

From that moment, Oliver insisted on touching me. If there had been any kind of hesitation on his behalf he soon overcame it. He was as ingenious and repulsive in his way of touching as he had been with his words. There was nothing sweet with him. He didn't caress, he didn't embrace or stroke. No, the disgusting Oliver pinched my nipples, or pushed his sweaty fingers into my sex, or even into other body cavities. Nothing was alien to him.

His treatment of my body was repulsive, degrading and cruel, but ever so arousing. Soon, it was not enough to dance and strip to this person, I had to be touched by him. He demanded ever more of me and it became increasingly humiliating to let him do it.

I was scared of the real Oliver. I think he saw the fear in my eyes but he couldn't possibly know what it was about.

My inner life had become a maelstrom of degradation and horror and I had begun to wonder what depraved creature I was. I felt guilty for letting myself be touched like I was and for enjoying it.

The Oliver inside my mind soon picked up on that and accused me of all sorts of dirty thinking. He demanded that I should be punished. At first I defended myself but he had all the power and he was accuser, judge, jury and lawyer in one, so I was always found guilty and deserving of the most gruesome punishments.

At first he was satisfied with having some of his barbarian tribesmen or henchmen come and tie me to some pole and then whip me. Sometimes he wielded the whip himself, enjoying it immensely.

But soon, that was not enough. Nothing less than some public display of my humiliation would do. He then had me dragged through the streets to some public place of punishment, where I had my robes ripped from my body, to be tied to a pole and whipped mercilessly, while Oliver looked on and licked his lips.

There was nothing more arousing than the sense of the tongues of the whip licking my body and the passionate cries of agony as lash after lash made my frame tremble.

Afterwards, when I hung limp in my bonds, my body whipped into submission, there was always some extra humiliation for me in store. Sometimes a company of guards were allowed to enjoy me or I was put in some cage, high above the street, for all to stare at, naked and punished.

But Oliver also had a softer side to him. He could be an ordinary, although unpleasant and disgusting man, who lived in an ordinary flat. I was his ward, or servant, who had to wait on him.

I was caned or whipped for the slightest error and was kept firmly in line. And he would slap my face and call me names if I didn't react quickly enough. He was a true pig.

In the evening he liked to sit and watch tv and when he was bored he would have me strip naked and lie beside him in the sofa and he would eat his crisps and down his beers while his hands wandered all over my body. His fingers would alternate between the crisp bowl and my sex and I was not allowed to protest or say anything.

He would pinch my nipples hard when there was nothing on the telly to keep him occupied, just for the sheer joy of seeing me in pain. Sometimes he would have me lie before him so he could rest his dirty feet on my belly.

Worst of all was when he was excited. Then I would have to crawl to him and do lip service to his sweaty little friend. It would be the ugliest and most wrinkly little member ever imagined but I would still have to kiss it and take it in my mouth. And when I did, it would grow and grow to enormous proportions and it would tear my jaws open and make me cringe and cry with pain.

Still I would long for him to take his, then, gigantic member and put it into me and do what is supposed to be done there.

I was ashamed then, in the real world. I would be amazed and ashamed and disgusted and horrified. I would sit back and wonder why I wanted so much to be degraded.

Then one day, something happened. Something wonderful happened. It began as something almost insignificant but it grew and grew to encompass my whole being and it would not just fill my mind, it would liberate me.

It was very simple. One day when Oliver, the real Oliver passed me in the corridor I saw that he didn't look like the Oliver in my fantasies.

It seemed obvious and very trivial at first. I was aware that they weren't the same but seeing the difference, although I couldn't put my finger on it, started a train of thoughts that became the path to my freedom.

Seeing that difference made me know that they weren't the same, the real and the inner Oliver. My thoughts had known it before but now I saw it. That little piece of knowledge opened my mind. I knew that the inner Oliver wasn't the real one.

When this thought had been allowed to grow I realised that the inner Oliver wasn't really anyone else but me. He was mine. I owned him, he was a part of me. The real Oliver had just been an inspiration.

I could now look at the inner Oliver and scrutinise him and try to figure out who or rather what he was. I listened to his words and I saw that he was something good.

The ugliness I had seen was only my fear, the disgusting form he had taken was really how I believed I had to look upon him. I began to see that he was really quite handsome.

My Oliver, the inner Oliver, was nothing less than my own desire, my own pleasure of being me, my living sexuality, the one that had been forbidden for me, denied me, the one I had to pay with guilt for embracing. I had longed for him and let him take over but I had dressed him up as a monster and I had let this monster punish me for letting him in.

For the first time in my life I saw that he was sweet and lovely and full of life and that he was me, that he was my hand down my knickers, the hand I had been ashamed of. Oliver was me, at least my inner Oliver was me.

I danced a little dance on my way from the bus when it dawned upon me. I didn't care that anyone seeing me must have thought me mad. This was too important.

For the first time in my life I was happy being me. I was happy having Oliver in my dreams. I was living, and the shame and guilt seemed like a dark memory.

I longed to get home, to sit down with a cup of tea, and once again enter the tent of the barbarians to perform my dance of the seven veils, to strip naked and dance my desire before the ones who found me desirable.

And I longed to let my hand slip down my knickers and pay a visit to my chamber of secrets. I was quite sure that there would be no trial and no punishment after that.