Merry Christmas

It must be the darkness. The darkest day of the year has just passed and the good thing with that is that we head towards spring and light. I am looking forward to it. But first there is Christmas and ours will be a relaxed and nice one, not too much of visitors and other duties.

I really haven't much to say now. I don't like winters and they are not good for my inspiration. But there will be better times. I just want to wish you a brilliant Christmas (even if you don't celebrate it) and a Happy New Year. You are a patient lot and I do appreciate that. Take care and be nice to yourselves and others.

Just an Ordinary Day

It is a very ordinary day. It is 29 years since John Lennon was killed. It is winter and the darkness descends on us who live in the northern hemisphere...well, at least here. I am tired of having to come up with something for the blog. Maybe it is the winter, maybe it is me but I have been doing this for three years and sometimes I am not so very creative. It goes up and down and now I am fed up with trying to be clever.

No, I am not scrapping the blog, that's not what I am saying. I am trying to say that today I don't feel like blogging or writing about fantasies or anything. So I will tell you how boring I am.

Have been working a little from home today, I shouldn't complain, it is not too bothersome. This means I take my lunch at home, alone, take a walk in the park (to get out of the flat at least once a day). I have been emptying the dish washer and generally uncreating the mess that I always seem to leave behind. Staring at the almanac at the wall. It has pictures of ballet dancer and was a gift from my beloved husband. This month it is a male dancer and I realise that I don't fancy male dancers as much as the ballerinas. He looks kind of silly in a silly costume (ballet dancer, not husband), some kind of fancy bolero thing that would look strange on a woman but silly on a man. You see, I am not very free in my mind.

I am thinking of my latest blogpost, the one before this one. I thought people would be a little offended or hurt by it but instead they find it erotic or that sort of thing. And I am not the narrator, I never am. It is just that I like seeing things from the inside.

Never mind, this is becoming a rant and that was not my intention. Take care out there and be kind to yourselves and others.

Who Am I?

If you write, you know, perhaps, what I am talking about, if you don't, it may be hard to explain. Sometimes when you sit down to write you start out with something, often something you don't even know what it is, it may be a sentence, a word, an idea. Then you start writing, a word follow another, you begin to reason, think, associate, try different things. You get carried away and the text itself seems to decide where to go. It is very immersing, very confusing, wonderful in a way, sometimes frightening. Then, when you are ready, you read it and wonder where all that came from. Sometimes you know, sometimes you understand, sometimes you have to realise that you really had that in you but just didn't know it.

I didn't write this for the blog, it just happened but now I decided to put it here anyway.

I am sweet. I am sweet in all senses of the word. My body is small, my limbs slender and delicate. My skin is smooth, my belly is soft and smooth and flat. It curves from my midriff down over my lower belly to the valley between my thighs and in its centre there is my belly button, a sweet but shallow hole.

My hips are narrow but my body still possess the right curves, the roundness that makes it sweet and touchable, not square and hard. My breasts are small and sweet, proud and round. They are like perky animals peeking out, sweet round mounds, crowned with my rosy nipples, small but lovely, sometimes soft as my skin but sometimes hard as small pearls.

My legs are soft and round, my thighs are slender but still with the softness, that roundness that is unmistakably female. Me feet are rosy and untouched and unconfined. They are vulnerable and helpless, still they are what I walk on, what makes me move in the world.

My shoulders are narrow but soft and my arms slender and delicate, my hands are the sweetest things you have seen, with those fingers that can touch with curiosity and gentleness.

My neck is slender and my face is pretty. I have that kind of face that makes you want to protect me, vulnerable and innocent but also curious and alive. My eyes are big and my nose is small. I may even have some freckles, just a hint of them on the back of my nose. My hair is not long not short, auburn or perhaps red, maybe reddish.

I am that kind of person you want to protect, the kind that would seem to break in contact with the harsh world. I am the girl you want to hold and comfort, to keep and protect, because I am so vulnerable.

But those eyes, my eyes, tells you of something else too. They are not just vulnerable and sweet, they are curious and hungry too. They speak of something else, they speak of a kind of desire that is not just innocent and gentle.

I am that kind of girl you don't just want to protect but the kind you want to have, as well. My body is the kind of body you want to touch. I am the kind of person whose clothes you want to rip away and whose body you want to expose and look at, ogle and stare at.

I am like a sweet, wrapped in paper. My clothes are like the paper around the sweet and you can't wait to unwrap it. I am not desirable because I dress in a certain way, it is not the paper that makes you want to eat the sweet, it is what you know is underneath it, what you see peeking through.

I am not beautiful, not perfect in any sense of the word. I am desirable for my sweetness and my youth, for my smooth skin and my soft body, for my sparkling life and for my delicate limbs and my perky breasts.

When you see me, your mind is struck by my innocence, my youth and my sweetness but in the next moment your desire strikes. You start to undress me with you eyes, you start to study my movements, how I swing my hips, how I stand and move my arms. You see my uncertainty and you see my confidence. You see me move, maybe dance. My movements are desirable to you and you think that by touching me you will be touched by that magic I have. The magic you want.

But you don't just want to touch and caress and embrace. No, you want to have. You want to have me and take me. You want to undress me, rip the clothes from my body. You imagine I would protest, say no and despise you but that only makes you want to do it more.

You invent some kind of excuse for doing it. Maybe I deserve it, maybe I need it. Maybe it is your right. But it all comes down to you touching me, having me, taking me.

In your mind I am already in my knickers and you can see for your inner eye how the fabric clings to my bottom. You can imagine my breasts under my top and your hand is already moving towards them and you think how lovely it will be when your fingers touch those mounds.

But you don't just want sweetness for me. You want more. You want to have me and take me despite what I want. You feel helpless and angry with me for being so youthful and sweet. You want to punish me for it.

In your mind you don't just have me, you don't just want to put what you have into me. That would, after all, be too sweet. I may enjoy it. No, you want me to suffer. You want pain for me.

My knickerclad bottom makes you want to spank me. You want to pull those knickers down and smack my bottom. You want to let your hand land on my sweet and innocent bottom – hard. You want to feel your hand smack into the soft skin of my bottom and you want to feel how hard it is for me, how much I suffer. You want to hear me cry and plead. You want to feel the power over me. You want to rule me and you want me to feel your power on my body.

You know a smile from me is a blessing for you, a gift you should cherish. Still you want to punish me for my power over you, the power I have to smile to you or not smile to you. The power I have to just walk you by and be gone. The power I have to make you feel old and lonely.

Those are crimes that are unforgivable. Those are powers someone like me should not be allowed to have. I must be punished for it. I must be whipped and suffer for my youth and my sweetness and my power over you.

You are free. You control your life and you can and should get what you want. You cannot get me. I am free and you cannot get me unless I want to give me to you. That is a crime worthy of punishment, that is a wrong that should be set right.

You want to take possession of me. You want to be the one to decide, how and when I shall take my clothes off, how and when I shall please you with my body. You want to have that power over me and in your mind you want to have that power.

In your mind you capture me, you tie me up and put your collar on me. Someone as sweet as me should not be allowed to go free, should not be allowed to choose for herself. Your power should be asserted. You should take possession of me.

In your mind I am your slave. I kneel naked before you, my body at your disposal. My knees are open, the path to my sex is clear. I am naked and everything is open and exposed and touchable and there for you. I have no say, I have no power and that is how you want it. I am a sweet, lovely body that is there for you, that is yours to do whatever you want with it.

But in your mind, when I am already your captive, your slave, your possession, I am not just a body. I am your willing body. I am your happy slave because I want to be your slave. And if I don't want to be your willing slave you want to persuade me that I am. You want to hold the whip in your hand and I would be just like the horse at the circus, the animal you tell what to do, the animal you whip to submission, the animal that is rewarded if she does what she is told.

But you want more. You want my enthusiasm and my desire. You want me not just to dance for you, wait on you and touch you and satisfy you on command. You want me to want it too, you want me to desire it too, to long for it and be satisfied by it too. In your mind you want to know that you possess that magic, that kind of power that not only overpowers me but also makes me desire it, desire you, the power that makes me happy and satisfied by being your slave.

You want me to resist you so you can defeat me and conquer me. You want to have to whip me to submission. But you also want me to see what a desirable creature you are and you want me to accept your power over me, to love your power over me. You want me to love and desire you to whip me into submission.

What do I want? Do I want that? Perhaps I want a little bit of that, perhaps I want some of that, a fraction of it, a hint of it.

But only if I decide I want it.

A Public Punishment

With permission from the author, none other than Wystan Ephraim, himself, here is a guest story. I think it is a little gem, with something of a sting in the tail, if you allow me the expression. Read and enjoy.

Roseena had sat in her cell, waiting for the sunrise. She saw the glow rising in the east, which foretold the unthinkable glow and burn of the stripes she must soon endure. At sunrise. At the town square.

The jailer had tied her to a chair, facing the tiny window. When she tried to look away, he would snap the whip and murmur unspeakable threats. She learned to sit still, to watch the moon rise, to see the stars slowly wheeling. She pushed away the horror that crept toward her. Being marched, prodded to the whipping post. Being stripped. Waiting for the first bite of the lash. The first of many. She had no illusions that she would be brave. She had seen prisoners whipped before. By the third stroke, they were panting and sobbing. By the tenth, the bravest pleaded for mercy…

The jailer contented himself with counting off the hours: 'Three bells …. Four bells, m’lady Rose….' With the rosy dawn he whispered, 'Won’t be long now…'

She saw the first yellow line, the top of the rising sun. 'There he comes,' the jailer murmured. 'He’s eager to watch you, from up above. He’s as anxious as the rest of us, to see you, naked, writhing…' He paused. 'He wants to heat your flesh, as I do, to redden it, to see your sweat trickle between your breasts and run down over the red weals…'

She heard a key turn stiffly. Rough hands grabbed her from behind. Her manacles were removed from wrists and ankles. 'Stand.'

Her shaking knees would not comply. He caught her as she fell. Bore her up, almost tenderly, his strong arm around her waist. She felt his hand feel for her breast, squeeze it. 'None of that,' another voice barked. 'Plenty of time … later.'

She tried to move her legs as she was half dragged, half carried out the door, to the jailhouse entrance. She opened her eyes, blinking in the half-light. The town square was already crowded.

They marched her past the whipping post. A bar had been placed between two trees, some seven feet high, with straps dangling. She was denied even the small modesty, the small comfort, of pressing herself to the sturdy post. She would be in full view…

Numb, she watched, rather than felt, her hands raised above her, saw her wrists secured. A winch clinked, and she was raised to her toes.

Roseena was dressed in a long, coarse blouse and a long skirt, much too large about the middle. It was held up by a knotted cloth belt. The blouse had six buttons, spaced from below her navel to her small chin.

The jailer faced her now. She pursed her lips, waiting for him to rip her shirt from her body. She had seen it before: a single yank, and an admiring (or derisive) gasp from the crowd as naked female flesh was revealed.

He leered at her, and reached for her throat. She shuddered, heart pounding.

He unbuttoned a single button. Voices from the crowd protested: 'Off with it! What’re you waiting for?' The jailer winked at her, and stepped back. The crowd pressed in. 'Can’t see her tits yet…' 'All in good time,' the jailer replied. 'In the meantime, just picture her tits... are they proud and perky, or do they droop a bit? Are her nipples small, or big as coins? Dark, or pale pink? You'll know soon enough.' Minutes passed. Again the jailer approached, and again, undid the second button. This time the crowd did not jeer. 'Isn’t she worth the wait?' the jailer sly asked. They stared, breathing hard. Stared… as the jailer unfastened the third button, and the fourth. Now he pulled her blouse open, showing just the white tops of her breasts. Roseena felt the crowd push forward for a glimpse. She felt their hunger, their need.

The jailer stroked her cheek with his gloved hand. 'So fair,' he mused. 'So brave. Still a hint of roses in your rosy cheeks... but ' (addressing the crowd) 'soon these cheeks will be wet with tears, her face red and contorted, her pretty mouth open as she howls...' He made a face, imitating her agony.

The sun was higher now. How long had she…? The jailer opened the last two buttons now. He untucked her shirt, pulling it open again, but left it on her.

Roseena felt a warm breeze from the front. Her blouse billowed out now, flapping, exposing, then hiding her breasts.

The jailer reached around her waist. He untied the belt, holding her skirt up for a second, then letting it drop. 'That’s the stuff!' a man cried hoarsely. But her long blouse, whirling about her in the gathering wind, still partly covered her bottom, and her coyly wrapped itself around her maiden triangle.

Once again, the jailer approached. He uncoiled the whip, the wicked braided whip. He shook it. Roseena thought, 'Finally… give me strength…'

But he held the whip out, handle forward. With the wooden grip, he tapped her right nipple. At once, Roseena and the crowd moaned aloud. The jailer teased her nipple to hardness, flipping and flicking it to a tight, red bud. Now the other…

He stepped back. The men licked their lips, breathing hard. Roseena could almost feel their scruffy beards chafing her breast, feel their nipping teeth, their swirling tongues and sucking lips.

Without warning, the shirt was ripped from her body. She heard the winch tighten, felt her arms raised… Roseena saw the jailer step behind her. She heard the whip whistle as he tested the distance. Dimly, then with fresh terror, she saw another man in front of her. He, too, was uncoiling a whip. He winked at her… She would be lashed, front and back…

The winch chattered. Roseena’s wrists were lowered to the level of her shoulders. She held her face in her hands, weeping…

The jailer’s master spoke for the first time. 'There will be no punishment today,' he shouted. 'The governor himself wishes to see the wench flogged. But last night he was called away on urgent business. Punishment will take place at dawn tomorrow.' 'No,' was the general cry. 'No, lash her now, flog her white skin…'

The bailiff silenced them. 'The wench will remain here, in public view, for two more hours. You may not touch her. You may come as close as you like, but you may not touch her. That,' he concluded, 'is for us, the keepers of the law.'

Celebratory Spanking

Three years, 233 posts and some 263,000 words. Today it is exactly three years since I started blogging. It was scary when I wrote my first posts but you, my Dear Readers, have made it worthwhile. You have been brilliant. I think I have achieved something during this time. I have spoken my mind, in the sense that I have shared, with you, some of the things that are in my head. Thank you for reading and being there.

I will celebrate this occasion with a very gentle story, that includes some bottom smacking. I think this is a story I wouldn't have been able to write when I started, or wouldn't have written, may be better to say. I have changed, although some things seem to be constant. Hope you have enjoyed some of the time here. I have certainly enjoyed it. And I intend to go on with this. It is too much fun to stop.

'One more thing, we need one more thing,' she said, smiled and skipped away along the aisle.

'Elinor, wait, don't do this to me. I want to go home.'

'Amanda, my friend,' she said as I caught up with her, 'we need one more thing before we can go home.'

'What is that?'

'A hairbrush.'

'A hairbrush?'

'Yes.'

'What's wrong with the one we've got.'

'Too weak.'

'Too weak?'

She had picked up a sturdy, wooden hairbrush.

'This is heavy enough, don't you think?' She handed me the brush.

It was, indeed, heavy in my hand. It was quite beautiful, with a long narrow head, a flat back and black brush.

'But why?'

'To spank you with, of course.'

'Shhh,' I whispered, 'what are you talking about?'

'You wanted me to spank you and for this purpose I am buying you this hairbrush.'

'Will you, please, keep your voice down.'

I saw in Elinor's eyes that she was well aware of her voice, she did this to tease me, only to tease me.

'Didn't you say that?'

'Yes, yes, I did.'

'Do you want me to spank you?'

'Well, I don't really...I guess, I do.'

'Good, then we buy this one and go home and warm your behind.'

'Not now, I am too...I don't know...tired.'

'Nothing to argue about.'

Elinor bought the quite expensive brush and gave it to me. She smiled as she handed it to me. She obviously wanted me to carry it home.

'I want to get on with it immediately,' she said, as we stood in our hallway.

'If I don't?' I said, defiantly.

'Don't be such a chicken, come on now. Get the brush.'

She went into the living room. I picked up the brush and went in, after her. She had already taken one of the wooden chairs and turned it and was about to sit down.

'Give me the brush and come here.' She was smiling.

'Elinor, perhaps we should wait a little. I know I said...'

'No waiting. I think now is a very good time.'

I gave her the brush and she sat down.

'Over my knees now. But first I think you should take your knickers down.'

'Can't we start on the skirt?'

'No, I don't think so. Knickers down.'

I stared at her for a bit, then I pulled my knickers down and leaned over her lap.

My cheeks were flashing red as she flipped my skirt up. She worked my knickers down further. Then she sat still.

'You know what, Amanda, your bottom looks bigger from this angle.'

'That is exactly what I want to hear at this very moment.'

'Oh, don't say that, it is still a very cute little bottom. Very fair...still.'

'Elinor, can't you just get on with it?'

Then she smacked me. She hit me on my right buttock. It stung quite a lot. I jumped.

Then she hit me on the left and I jumped again.

'It hurts.'

'What did you expect?'

'Maybe we don't have to do this?'

'No opting out now, I quite like this.'

'Do you?'

'Yeah, I do.'

'That's good.'

'Is it good?'

'Yes, I, kind of, want you to do if for you.'

'There are some downsides that comes with that.'

'Like what?'

'If I enjoy it, I may want to smack you harder.'

'I guess, that's part of the deal.'

She smacked me harder and I drew my breath. It stung a little too much.

'Ouch.'

'It is supposed to hurt,' she said and smacked my other cheek.

'It did.'

'Now, Amanda, dear, I am going to smack you for a while, you just lie there and relax and we will be fine.'

'Relax?'

She replied by smacking me again. She began a series of swats all over my bottom, hard and soft, high and low, and two or three on one spot and then changing.

At first it wasn't too bad. I felt I could manage the pain, just about, but then she began to hit me harder and I felt that it may not be such a good idea, this thing about spanking.

'Stop, please.'

She held up. Then she began again.

'I told you to stop, I cried.'

She held up again.

'But I think you should take your spanking now. You do this now and then you can decide what you think of it. I will do it the way I want it and you can think about it afterwards.'

'It makes sense.'

She smacked me hard. She gave me a series of quite hard ones. Then she stopped again.

'What is it now?'

'I am thinking of how hard I can smack you.'

'It hurts a lot already.'

'I mean, if I should smack you really hard. I am sure you won't break.'

'Break! Is that what worries you? How about, it hurts like hell?'

'That is what it is supposed to do.'

'You are a cruel woman.'

'Ain't I just?'

She began a new series of smacks on my, by now, quite tender bottom. It felt as if I had no skin to protect me but that didn't stop Elinor.

'This is fun,' she said, a little winded.

She tried new spots and even my thighs. She tried to hit the area where my bottom becomes my thighs. She tried high up but decided that the lower parts were better. She gave me a long series on the same spot only to suddenly change to another spot with a really, really hard one.

'It will soon be over, Amanda. I think you are doing fine. We'll end with twelve good ones.'

I didn't reply. I knew what she meant with 'good ones'.

I was made painfully aware of the strength of my friend. She was a small woman, just a tad taller than myself, but she surely had some power in her arm.

'Ok, that's it, on your feet.'

'Don't be so cheerful, it hurts.'

'I think it was quite fun.'

I scrambled to my feet and pulled my knickers up over my burning bottom.

'What do you think, Amanda?'

'I think it hurts.'

'Besides the obvious.'

'Well, it was, kind of, interesting.'

'That's not so bad, innit?'

'I guess not.'

'A lot of guessing.'

'Sorry.'

'Maybe I should spank you for guessing.'

'No need for that.'

'Sure?'

'Elinor,' I hesitated, 'I did like it.'

'But it hurt?'

'Yes, but it was you who hurt me.'

'Oh.'

I Can't Believe It!

And now a story, written today, containing some smacking of bottoms. Not much to say, really. Hope you enjoy it.

At a table in the museum café sat a young woman. She wore a deep green, fairly short but modest dress, had auburn hair and had put her Morris patterned handbag on the table beside her. She was having tea and a tiny chocolate biscuit. She was waiting.

The blond woman, dressed in a white dress with black polka dots let her gaze sweep over the room and when she saw the woman at the table her soft face lit up in a smile. She walked across the room, silently on her ballerinas, that were black with white polka dots, matching her dress.

They looked at each other and then the blond woman sat down. They didn't speak at first, they didn't have to. The auburn woman, who was known as Emily, looked at her friend.

'What's the matter, Sarah? You look awful.'

'Thank you,' she replied, her lip tensing for a flicker of a moment.

'Tell me, what has happened.'

Sarah looked around, called for a waitress, ordered her tea and biscuit, waited patiently and when her order had been delivered she turned to Emily.

'You can't believe what has happened,' Sarah said as she lowered her voice.

'Something awful?'

'You won't believe it is true.'

'That bad?'

'I have never seen Mark this angry.'

'He is never angry.'

'I know. That was the odd thing. He was furious. Or rather, I could tell he was.'

'Bad day at work?'

'Someone had told him about Chrissy's party.'

'Oh, no!'

'Yes, I don't know who, but he stormed in and accused me of all sorts of things.'

'But you did kiss him, that artist person.'

'Yes, I did, but that was all.'

'Not all.'

'Well, not all, but nothing below the waist. And we sat in a corner.'

'I saw it.'

'Alright, never mind. Mark was furious because someone had told him.'

'I can understand that.'

'He has no right to take the moral high ground. He has that little redhead. We all know about that.'

'Did you say that?'

'Yes, it only made him more upset. He launched into some rant about it being different for women, or rather for men.'

'That's stupid.'

'Yes, I told him that too.'

'And then?'

'Nothing happened, not until later when I was sitting in the bedroom, brushing my hair.'

'Yes?'

'He came in and I could see he hadn't been able to let go of it. He just stood there and seemed all lost for words. Then he just grabbed the hairbrush from me.'

'What for?'

'You won't believe me.'

'Tell me.'

'This is so mad, I can hardly talk about it,' she lowered her voice, 'he got something in his eyes that was quite scary, actually. Then he took my arm and dragged me away from the mirror. It was quite brutal.'

'Sounds like it.'

'And then, this is the worst, he sat down and flung me down across his lap.'

'Oh, he wanted a little...'

'No, he didn't, that was what I thought first too. No, he had something else in mind. Do you know what he did?'

'No. Tell me.'

'He hit me with the hairbrush, on my bottom. He spanked me.' The word 'spanked' was said in a whisper.

'No, he didn't.'

'Yes, he did. He smacked me, and god, it hurt.'

'How humiliating.'

'Yes, like I was some...I don't know. And that's not all. He continued with it. He really had a go at it.'

'What did you say?'

'What can you say? I told him to stop and I tried to get up.'

'Of course.'

'He would have none of it. He locked my legs with his legs and took my arm and bent it. That hurt too. He has never been violent before. It was terrible.'

'And he continued...'

'Yes, he did, but first he did something else. You won't believe it.'

'What?'

'He flipped my skirt up. Then he began smacking me again. Man, did it hurt?'

'Awful.'

'That's only the beginning. I was furious and what not but he didn't care. He just smacked me. He just continued and hard. I was close to tears.'

'Of course.'

'Then, and this is the worst. Then, I can hardly talk about it. Then, you won't believe it. Oh, then he took my knickers. He almost ripped them apart. Those were very nice knickers, I loved them. Oh, I blush. He pulled them down and began smacking me even harder.'

'Oh.'

'On the bare, on my poor naked bottom. It was terrible. It hurt and he kept on for a long time. I don't know how I coped.'

'Oh.'

'My bottom felt like it had no skin but did he take any notice? No, he kept on smacking me. And when he was almost done he gave me a dozen really, really hard ones.'

'Oh.'

'Then he let me go and he flung the brush on the bed and stomped out of our bedroom.'

'Oh.'

They sat in silence for a while.

'Emily!' Sarah stared in disbelief. 'Why do you look like that? Don't you think it was horrible?'

'Yes, of course...'

'I don't believe this, you don't think it was a disgrace.'

'Sarah!'

'I can't believe it, what's the matter with you?'

'Come on, Sarah, after all, you had it coming.'

'What do you mean, and why do you smile?'

'You did kiss that guy.'

'But that's no reason. Mark does more than kiss his ginger woman.'

'But that's different.'

'Don't give me that. Because he is a man and I am a woman.'

'It's not just that.'

'Not just that! What is it then?'

'I don't say that Mark is doing the right thing, but I can understand he was upset for you making out with some other guy.'

'But that doesn't give him the right to...well, spank me.'

'That's a matter of opinion, I guess.'

'What do you mean.'

'Mark thought he should. And it's you, as well.'

'Me?'

'Yes, he's been holding back for a while.'

'Holding back, what do you mean. What am I doing that would upset him so?'

'Arrogance, for a start.'

'I'm not arrogant.'

'Sarah, we are friends, right? I love you, but you can be quite arrogant, at times.'

'I don't believe my ears.'

'You do have a way of annoying people.'

'Annoying people.'

'I think Mark felt he couldn't spank you for annoying people, now he had a pretext.'

'So you think he did the right thing?'

'Not necessarily the right thing.'

'But that I had it coming?'

'Sort of, yes.'

'That I deserved it?'

'In a way, yes.'

'You have no idea how painful it was, how humiliating it was.'

'I can imagine.'

'Yet you think I deserved it?'

'Well, yes.'

'Perhaps you would want to do it yourself, since I am so damn arrogant.'

'It's not just me.'

'Maybe you would join the queue, then, of those who have a desire to punish me like that.'

'Don't get upset.'

'Why not?'

'It's not the end of the world. I am just saying that you can be a little arrogant and that there are some who wouldn't mind giving you a spanking for it.'

'This is madness.'

'...Or two, or more.'

'And you would want to watch, I assume.'

'Of course, who wouldn't want to watch?'

Honesty?

I have been blogging about my fantasies for almost three years now. I have dared to write about my own, sometimes, silly preferences and desires. I have almost only been met with acceptance, tolerance and enthusiasm. This is a true blessing, to realise that what I fancy, what I am ashamed of admitting I fancy, actually are things that you readers either accept or even like.

This grace makes me happy and it makes me more prone to accepting others, to be less judgemental about what others enjoy and prefer. I don't think I was very judgemental before but the generosity and acceptance I have received have only gone to strengthen this stance.

I have tried to be honest, as far as I am able. And this leads to a dilemma. Fantasies are about what we fancy, what we want and desire, maybe even what we fear and loathe. They evoke powerful emotions, strong feelings and overwhelming desires. This means that negative feelings are as prominent as positive ones.

What I am talking about is that when we move in the land of fantasies and when we share we are bound to come across themes that are as powerfully repulsive as other are desirable. One persons turn on may be the other's turn off.

It is not always easy to only write about the positive and never mention the negative. I have avoided that just because I don't want to be judgemental or seen as being judgemental.

I haven't talked about my dislike for high heels and how rubber suits are at best silly and at worst a real turn off for me. I haven't told you that dressing sexy is more likely to be a body hugging short black dress than a pair of high heel leather boots and latex top with a pierced belly button.

Don't get me wrong here. I have no problem with people who fancy crotchless rubber suits, or pony tails sticking out from their bottoms. I don't fancy it myself but I do understand that some people do, and I understand that they like it as much as I like the thought of being undressed against my will (chuckles) by a powerful and handsome stranger.

It is just that I sometimes question my honesty when I avoid talking about my dislikes out of fear of alienating absolutely lovely people who may have a kink I find to be a turn off.

I will try to say this as clearly as I can. I have no problems with kinks and fantasies I don't like. I am more than happy to talk about fantasies for fantasies sake with you, even if you imagine I am dressed in rubber from head to toe, while doing it. I love to talk about fantasies, good or bad.

And to be perfectly honest, I don't know why I am writing this blogpost. I guess it is because I want to be honest, maybe even write about my dislikes but I don't want to be judgemental. I suppose there is no getting away from it. When you write something down it gets a kind of authority I sometimes find a little intimidating.

I still think you are the best readers I could ever have imagined.

Something New

And not something you haven't seen for a while, a brand spanking new story from me, written today, for you. Well, for myself as well, but you know what I mean. Someone said something in a comment which made me think of this story. I didn't write it to prove him wrong, on the contrary, he is probably right.

And the title is ambiguous...you get it?

I had been late for our lunch date, she had every right to be angry. I didn't mean to be late but it happened that way. She was angry. I think I have never seen her this angry.

Angry is not the right word. I hate to say it but she seemed hurt. Although there was anger, as well, a lot of it. Not the kind that shouts and screams and behaves, no, the held back kind, the kind that is contained by gritted teeth and tensed muscles.

I felt guilty, I always do when I manage to hurt her. Still I felt intimidated when she said she would punish me when we got home. I didn't know what she meant but I knew she was serious with it, that she would do something.

I was apprehensive when I opened our front door, later that day, expecting a row, an argument or at least a telling off. I thought I was going to get the worst kind of telling off, the kind when you know you are in the wrong, or at least that the other has a right to be upset.

When I closed the door I heard her voice.

'Ah, there you are.'

She didn't sound as terrible as she had at lunchtime but I could see in her eyes that she hadn't forgot.

'I'm sorry,' I started.

'I know you are sorry. This time, however, I am going to do something about it.'

There was a kind of determination in her that made me hold my breath.

She didn't wait for my reply. She beckoned me to follow her into the living room. She walked over to the big table and from it she picked up a hairbrush. It was her old wooden hairbrush, very big and heavy.

'I have decided that I need this to forgive you,' she said.

'I am sorry, I really am.'

'I know you are but I need this.'

'Not sure I understand...' I heard my voice trail off.

'When I said I would punish you, I realised I meant it. I am going to punish you, with this.'

She held out the brush.

'You can't be serious.'

'I am serious.'

'You really mean...?'

'That I am going to spank you, yes, I really mean it.'

'Is it even allowed?'

'I don't care.'

'You can't.'

'Don't do this. Don't argue. Just come here. Do whatever you want afterwards, say what you want, but just come here and let me punish you.'

She took one of the wooden chairs by the table and turned it round and sat down on it. I knew what she meant by it. I stood staring at her, not really knowing what to do.

It was then I took a step forward. I seemed to know that there was a place for me across her lap and it was to that place I was moving. I felt like a robot, preprogrammed to obey an order. I awkwardly leaned forward and laid myself down on her knee.

She didn't say anything. It all happened in silence. Maybe we couldn't talk, maybe saying something would destroy the determination that had made me move.

It was uncomfortable to lie across her thighs and I tried to find a way of balancing myself. My heart was beating as I wondered what it would be like to get a spanking. I couldn't believe she would really go through with it. It seemed surreal, a strange and weird thing.

Then she took hold of my skirt and flipped it up.

'You can't do that,' I gasped.

'You know I can,' she hissed.

It was so easy, just lifting my skirt. In one instant she made me vulnerable and exposed. With one movement, she cut through my modesty, my sense of integrity.

Then she smacked me. It stung and I jumped. My first reaction was not to protest or cry out but to close my eyes and tense my body, being surprised and shocked by the sudden pain.

She then smacked me again. Again, I jumped.

'It hurts,' I whimpered and felt silly.

'It's supposed to hurt.'

'How many smacks?'

'You'll see.'

She then began to smack me, one smack on the right and then one on the left and then the right again. She did it slowly but steadily. I began to squirm and move. She found her strength and let the brush land with some force on my bottom.

I felt angry and intimidated that she wanted to hurt me, wanted it to be painful and I began to struggle, not wanting it, not accepting it.

'No, you can't do this, it hurts too much,' I cried.

She stopped.

'You have no idea, have you? I am punishing you. I want it to hurt. Just take it and think of the rest later.'

Her voice was low, menacing.

Then she began to smack me again, slowly, hard. This time I didn't protest. I was defeated. She knew what she was doing and she wanted this for me.

It still hurt and it was still unbearable and I didn't know what to do, where to go or how to cope with it. I began to cry and felt even more deflated than before.

There was a strange kind of release in my tears. But they didn't take the pain away. I was still suffering.

Then she stopped.

'I am sorry,' I whispered. I was in a strange frame of mind. I seemed to have moved all the anger to the side and was just relieved she wasn't spanking me any more.

'I am not done yet.'

'But why? I get the message.'

'Because I am not done, that is why.'

She then sat in silence as if she was regarding me.

'I am going to give you some more,' she said, her voice very soft, 'and for that I will prepare you.'

'Prepare me?'

She didn't say anything. Instead she took hold of my knickers and began to gently pull them down.

I don't know why or what really happened but some part of me seemed to be in tune with her thoughts, because I lifted my hips and helped her take my knickers down. I felt my cheeks become hot as I adjusted my body in her lap.

I braced myself for the spanking but was still surprised and overwhelmed when the hairbrush hit my naked skin. It was sharper, more direct, a more pronounced sensation.

I don't know if there really was that much difference or if it was just because I knew I was bared for my spanking, that my skin had been exposed to make me feel it more, but this time the spanking hurt more, was felt more.

Then something happened. It stopped being her, my partner and lover, who smacked my bottom, who caused me pain. It became something else, a concerted effort, as if we both were in on this. She held the brush and I endured the pain. As if we both wanted this.

Then it was over. She told me she was done. I couldn't move but was lying still, trying to figure out where I was, what had happened and how I felt.

My bottom was numb and warm and I was exhausted. I took a deep breath and scrambled to my feet. I pulled my knickers up and rearranged my skirt. Things were getting back to normal.

We didn't speak. I looked at her. She looked empty, spent and very tired.

It was in that moment I think I accepted it. I stood staring at her and wondered what I should say. I had waited to tell her how stupid all this was and how wrong she was to do this. But all that happened was that I smiled a little and felt how much I loved her.

I had done this for her. I had endured this for her, because she wanted it for me. In a way, I had exposed more than my bottom to her. And instead of anger and humiliation, I felt warmth. I was proud of her. It was strange and I didn't understand it but I was very proud of her.