Tuesday, 30 November 2010


Thank you for your comments. It seems as if my latest post triggered something. I am glad to see that. I will try to reply quicker to the comments, in the future. I really like having a dialogue with you. Nikolai wrote about keeping the lookout on a ship in freezing weather and I think he hit the nail on the head, that it is the helplessness and vulnerability that are key and to some extent that makes it more easy to understand, I think. It seems as if something gruesome evokes this feeling of vulnerability that can be quite sensual. And maybe it is therefore it works...if you see what I mean.

And now a short something:

The night was falling and the thin layer of snow that had fallen that morning had almost melted away but now the cold air was descending again. He took me across the yard and to the stable. I could see in his eyes that he was in no mood for discussions.

The stable was not as cold as the outside but I still felt quite miserable standing in the dark. He switched the light on, but there was only one bare lightbulb hanging from a wire, spreading its gloomy light.

'There,' he said, and pointed on the sawhorse, 'you go on that.'

I shivered. The sawhorse meant he was angry.

'It is really cold here,' I tried.

'I know.'

I approached the dreaded device.

'Take your clothes off.'

'I can't do that, it's too cold.'

'Take your clothes off.'

I looked at him and I knew there was no room for anything but obedience.

I slipped off my jacket and trembled. I had to go on. I took off my shoes, my jeans, and my top. When he kept staring at me, I slipped off my socks and my knickers.

'Get on the horse, now.'

The concrete floor was ice cold against my bare feet and I shivered as I placed my hand on the rough wood of the horse. My fingers felt the coldness of the surface. I shook my head.

'I can't do it, it's too terrible.'

'On the horse, now!'

It was easier to do it when he was this determined, this harsh with me. I climbed the horse and gasped when my thighs and bottom touched the wood.

'Down over it.'

I laid myself down and held my breath as my belly and breasts came in contact with the coldness of the surface.

Without a word he took the ropes and tied my hands and my feet to the horse. When he was done, I did no longer have to do my best to stay on it. The ropes helped me.

'I feel cold, I will have a cup of tea,' he said and walked to the door.

'No,' I cried, 'you can't leave me here.'

'Can't I?'

He closed the door behind him.

When being tied naked to a icy wooden device in a stable seconds appear like minutes. I didn't know how long he stayed away. I was naked and helpless and shivering in the cold. I wanted him to come back, even if it brought me closer to what he had in mind.

It could have been hours, minutes, a lifetime, I didn't know, before he returned. I was happy to see him, even if he didn't speak a word as got the terrible horsewhip from its hook.

The horsewhip is fierce and horrible. It is brutal and bites into the flesh like few other things. And he was angry. He used it well on me and I could do nothing but cry and squirm and wriggle and pull at my ropes.

I was sweaty and aching when he was done. He seemed calmer, more content, but he took his time and decided to walk around the stable and look at all his gruesome tools. I stayed on the horse, naked, cold, and whipped.

Finally he untied me and we went back to the house. He carried my clothes and as we walked across the yard, towards the inviting light from our living room, snow had begun to fall.

Wednesday, 24 November 2010

Four Years and the Perils of Cold Weather

Today it is four years since I posted my first post on this blog. I just wanted to let you know and say that I am, after all that has happened, quite proud. I know it is slower now, but that doesn't mean I will close the blog.

I thought I should address another issue, while I am here. I have thought a lot about why I chose the picture for the last blogpost. Why did I take a picture of a naked woman in snow? The truth is that I have a thing about snow and cold weather.

Don't get me wrong. I don't like it. Snow can be beautiful and fun, but I don't enjoy freezing and being miserable in cold weather. What is it that attracts, then? I don't really know. But there is something fascinating about being forced into the cold, and especially when you are exposed and vulnerable. Being forced to pull down knickers in the outdoors and get a spanking, or being stripped naked and bound and marched in weather you would need a good jacket to endure, are things that crops up in my fantasies and stories.

There is something about the utter unpleasantness of it. If you walk out into the cold autumn and you feel the wind through your jacket and sweaters, it is a strange and terrifying, but yet exciting, thought that it would be so much worse to naked in that weather.

Maybe it is one of those things that you know you would survive, at least for some time, but that would be terribly unpleasant. And thus something that could be done to you, if someone had the power to punish you. Maybe it is the utter vulnerability, the sense of being outdoors, being exposed and unprotected. I don't really know.

I have had a hard time explaining this to myself. A lot of other things may be traced back to something pleasurable. Spanking includes intimacy, and there is a clear connection between pleasure and pain that gets exciting when you think about someone controlling that for you. All this about being bound and enslaved is not that strange to understand, after all (well I have been fretting about it on the blog, but I do see the logic in it). Being looked at, and being looked at without clothes, is something nice, at least if you are desired. And being a slave holds a lot of promises of pleasures, and without the burden of responsibility.

But being cold? Being marched naked into the snow? There are few things that are so utterly unarousing (new word) than freezing. It must have something to do with the utter helplessness and vulnerability.

I remember watching some film clip on the Web where some woman who was quite tied up and gagged and very naked was taken out into the snow and even pelted with snowballs. I remember feeling shocked at the sheer meanness of it all. But, then, there was this strange excitement. And when I had seen it I began to include it in my fantasies and I began to let it happen to me (in my mind, of course). I guess, though, that it ties in with older fantasies about being outdoors and risking being seen or, actually, being seen.

Never mind, I just wanted to write about this and welcome any input from you, Dear Readers.

Friday, 12 November 2010

No, I Haven't...

...abandoned my blog. I have been busy in Real Life, as they call it. There have been some illness in the family and a lot of worry. I am ok, but it has taken a lot of time and energy. I guess you don't really want to hear excuses, I still thought I owe you an explanation. It just hasn't felt right to be scampering off into fantasyland at the moment.

I just wanted to blog today, to say that I am still here, I still read emails, I still communicate with people, although not so much from the blog. And I hope I will be more active soon and I apologise to you Dear Readers for having being so absent from here.

It is slowly becoming winter here (although it is still autumn), so I thought I should post a picture to cheer you up, of a young lady in the snow, in the buff, so to speak. Take care!

Thursday, 7 October 2010

The Crate

Early, at dawn, one chilly autumn morning, a car drove up to the kitchen entrance of the Manor. Two men jumped out and unloaded a crate from the back. They were strong men and the small crate didn't seem to bother them too much. They went back to the car and drove away. They never rang the doorbell.

'My Lord.'

'Yes, Pearson.'

The Lord was sitting at his table, being served his breakfast. He was a man in his late fifties, grey whiskers and broad face. He was impeccably dressed in grey tweed.

The Butler bowed his head.

'My Lord, there is a crate down at the entrance for you. I believe it is sent by Lord F.'

'Oh, that was quick. Have you brought it in?'

'Yes, of course, My Lord. It is in the kitchen.'

'I'll come down, immediately and we will open it.'

Pearson had a hard time keeping up with the Lord as he rushed down the stairs to the kitchen.

'Well, Pearson, open it, what are you waiting for?'

'Baines!' the Butler called and one of the footmen approached the crate with a crowbar in his hand. He forcefully opened it, removed the lid, and stepped back.

The Lord looked down into the crate and Pearson and the other staff craned their necks to get a glimpse of what it contained.

'It is a very small space,' the Lord said, 'I wonder how she fits in there.'

He was looking down at the bare skin of the back of the inhabitant of the crate. She was leaning forward, crammed into the minute space.

'Pearson, get her out of there, feed her, and clean her, or whatever is appropriate, and then bring her to me. I'll be in the Library. I won her on cards, the other day.'

The Lord went and Pearson and the footman reached down and lifted the girl from the crate. The crate was small so it took some effort to extract her from it.

When the ropes were removed from her body, she could stand up. She was naked. Pearson handed her over to the maids who cleaned her thoroughly. She was then fed in the kitchen, before she was placed across the main table, and Pearson delivered the appropriate dozen of stripes with his cane.

'My Lord, your gift is prepared.'

The Lord was in the Library. With him, dusting his books, was a maid, who had the good sense of moving within his sight, turning her back to him, and thus, giving him opportunity to rest his eyes on the parts of her that weren't covered by her apron, the only item of clothing she was wearing.

'Bring her in, Pearson.'

The naked girl was ushered into the room and stood before the Lord. She was fairly blond, quite delicate in her frame, a young woman.

'She is pretty,' the Lord said. 'Was there a note?'

'No, My Lord, nothing, except for a slip that says she was delivered from Lord F.'

'Very good.'

The Lord regarded the young woman. He let his gaze wander up and down her body, let it linger on her breasts, stayed for a while on her belly, slid down between her legs and followed the thighs and the calves down to her feet, only to return to her face, with its short nose and soft lips.

'Turn her around, Pearson.'

The Butler snapped his fingers and made a movement with his hands and the girl turned around.

'Nice bottom, don't you reckon, Pearson?'

'A very fine specimen, My Lord.'

'Are the stripes yours, Pearson?'

'Yes, My Lord, I thought it appropriate to get her acquainted with the ways of the Manor.'

'Very good, you are a Master with the cane.'

'Thank you, My Lord.'

'Pearson, I want to have her bring my elevenses.'

'My Lord, how shall I have her dress?'

'Nothing, I want her in the buff. Perhaps something to adorn her, something nice, but nothing that covers.'

'Very well, My Lord.'

Later the young woman returned, carrying a tray with the Lord's tea and scones and some toast and other nice snacks he enjoyed. She was dressed in nothing but a golden necklace, some discreet bangles and a golden chain around her hips, like a girdle, nothing that covered her body at all.

Friday, 1 October 2010


I was awakened by two slavegirls. They were dressed in their very short tunics, brazenly open in the side, showing too much of their flesh for my liking, for my inner calm.

They attended to me, but made no secret of my status, of what I was. They were attentive but cold, they showed me no affection. When we were done, they brought me through a long corridor to a room where I was greeted by the Slaver.

I had no reason to show him any respect but politeness made me bow my head in his presence. He smiled at me and bowed his head in mock courtesy. He looked me over, from head to toe. I was glad I was still in my robe.

All was lost, I knew that. My freedom gone, lost to some dreadful scheme, some plan I didn't even know about, a plan that would benefit someone other than me. I was a pawn, although a valuable pawn, but I had been sacrificed, sacrificed or utilised.

'It is time, my lady,' the Slaver said and bowed to me while making a gesture towards the door.

'Time for your triumph,' I replied, not wanting to give him the pleasure of seeing me humble myself, not before him, not yet.

I knew the time for him to triumph, for him to see me being degraded, was to come. There was no turning back, now, no way out, but I would keep my head as high as I could, for as long as I could.

He clapped his hands and, instead of the two slavegirls, two young men entered. They were dressed in tunics and sandals, but although they were servants those were the tunics of free men.

I was taken from the room, the two guards by my side and the Slaver in tow. We stopped at the foot of a stair. Sun was shining in through the doorway at the top and I could smell the day outside. It was a hot day.

I stood in the shadow awaiting my turn to climb those stairs. I heard the noise from the commotion outside, the people shouting, the growling and barking of angry men, eager men.

I heard my name being called. I heard a voice call 'the former...' before the roar drowned the announcer. I didn't know what title he had given me, but whichever one he had chosen, it was gone now, stolen from me, and could never be given back.

I climbed the stairs with my two young attendants. I was moving from the shade, into the sun, and it was as if this transition spelled my doom, signified my move from freedom to captivity.

The Slaver entered the stage with me and was greeted by the Auctioneer. He nodded at the Slaver and looked me over. Then he turned to the crowd.

We were standing on a platform that was built from stone, attached to the Slaver's house, his castle, where he kept his stock.

As I got used to the scorching sun, I saw the sea of heads below me. The square in front of the Slaver's castle was packed with people. Most of them were men, staring and smiling men. Some were women, but not many.

I had been at the square, myself, and I had been bidding on girls on this very platform. Never had I seen the place so crowded as now.

When I had been the buyer, I had looked at the girls, tried to assess their assets, tried to figure out if they were strong enough or lithe enough, what I could use them for. I had partly been a calm and collected buyer, but partly I had pitied them, thought they had looked miserable and scared as they stood in their nudity, being watched by the crowd.

'Strip,' the Auctioneer said, his voice authoritative but calm.

'No,' I replied.

He took a long and hard look at me. Then he turned to the crowd.

'The lady doesn't wish to show her assets to you. She prefers to keep her clothes on.'

The people laughed. He turned to me.

'But how will they know what they are buying, if you don't take your clothes off?'

'I will not take them off,' I replied.

'We are waiting.'


'Strip,' he repeated, a lot more menace in his voice, this time.


He made a gesture with his hand and I felt hands grip my arms. It was my two young attendants. I knew there was no point in resisting it. There was no way out.

I felt my robe being torn down from my shoulders, revealing my body. I felt the fabric of my dress slide over my skin, with a sense of disbelief.

I had never been naked in the presence of men. The only ones who had been allowed to see my body had been my mother and my maidens in waiting. It was unthinkable for a woman of my standing to reveal her body in public. Yet it was done to me.

The Auctioneer nodded again, and I felt my robe being pulled down from my hips and in an instant, I stood naked in front of the crowd.

My pride forbid me to try to cover up, although there was not much pride left for me. There is no pride allowed for a slave, there was none allowed for me. I had been stripped naked on the Slaver's platform. I was to be sold and the buyers had to be allowed to assess my assets.

The crowd went wild. They stared at me, leered at me, shouted and me and cheered. They cried out at the Auctioneer and I heard bids being given.

I wondered why they were so excited. Surely it couldn't be the sight of a naked woman, a naked me, that excited them. There were naked women on this platform, every day.

Was it because I was of noble birth, that I had lost my standing and now they could enjoy the sight of me being humiliated in public?

Another thought entered my mind. I heard the bids and knew I was selling for more than most slavegirls were sold for. I was valuable.

An unwelcome pride about being valuable struggled with the overwhelming shame of having to stand naked before the people, being auctioned off like an animal. I was valuable and it spoke to my vanity. Together with that sensation came the bitter pang of the knowledge that I had been stolen, that I would not gain from my sale. I was to be given nothing. It was the miserable and fat Slaver, who stood licking his lips, who would make a profit. I was the commodity.

When finally one bidder had outbid the rest, I went for a price at least ten times more than I had ever paid for a slave, even for a strong young man. I stood rooted to the spot, watching the proceedings as if they didn't concern me, as if it was someone else, not me, being sold.

When my buyer presented himself, I saw who he was. I knew him well. He was a man who had been a guest in our house, who had looked at me with lust in his eyes and a cruel smile on his lips, the man whom my father had rejected as my fiancé, who had undone my father's bid for power, and made it clear he would take his revenge. I knew, in my heart, that it was he who had planned my enslavement. I knew all to well that he had made this happen. And now he had bought me, now he owned me, and I was not even to be his wife, I was to be his slave, his property.

Thursday, 16 September 2010

To the Manor Born

I usually don't allow advertising on this blog (up to this very moment I have had 28 comments on the last blogpost trying to promote dodgy sites, the spam filter is quite good, though) but I will make an exception today.

Over at Blushing Books there is a book by someone I know. Her name is Amanda Dashwood and the book in question is called To the Manor Born. It is a tale of a young man who inherits an estate and a title and as it happens he is met by the staff, mostly female, who have very special ideas about how he should run it.

Since I write about it here and regarding the site where you can get it, you will understand that there is a lot of smacked bottoms in this book. Just wanted to let you know.

Tuesday, 7 September 2010


As I said, the stories that include some public whipping of poor women tend to get the most attention. The last one has now eight comments and that is more than I am used to. I don't mind, it's just that it fascinates me.

Today I am posting a story, or a fantasy, whatever you wish to call it. Actually, I have nicked this fantasy, read it somewhere, a long time ago, but it made an impression. The words are all mine but the basic outline of the events are those of the fantasy I read.

He was tall, lean and almost scrawny. His head moved like a bird's and his eyes were as keen as those of a bird of prey. I stood to the side, looking at him as he came through the door.

I had been scrubbing and cleaning the whole afternoon for the small party in the evening. I had tried to do everything according to his demands. I had prepared the dinner, chopped the vegetables and the meat, had made marinade and peeled the potatoes. I had done my very best to follow his every instruction.

He looked at me and smiled. It was a kind of smile that was bound to scare, rather than comfort. He hung his coat on the hanger and I immediately took it and moved it to the wardrobe. He went into the flat and looked around. He stood for a long while, scrutinising it.

He went to the kitchen and looked at all my preparations. He didn't speak. With every second of his silence, my apprehension rose. My mouth was dry, my heart was beating. I waited for his verdict.

He went back to the living room, put his finger on the sill and slid it along the surface. He looked at his finger. He stared for a while at the table and I noticed that a corner of one of the napkins was in disarray.

'There are some imperfections here,' he said, his voice dry.

I didn't reply.

'There is some dust left, the napkins aren't in order and I found that there is a tiny piece of potato peel by the sink,' he continued.

'I am sorry.'

'You know what this means?'


'Get the whip.'


I walked on trembling legs to the cupboard in the living room. I opened the door and took from its hook the narrow green dressage whip. My fingers were numb as I carried it to him.

I stood back as he took the whip from my frightened hand and held it before him. He smiled again. This time I knew what the smile meant.

'What are you waiting for?' he snapped.

'I was just thinking...'

'What were you thinking?'

'The guests will be here, any minute.'


'No, nothing, I am sorry.'

I walked over to the sofa. I looked over my shoulder at him. He stared intently at me and I saw no hint of hesitation in him.

I unbuttoned my skirt and folded it and put it on the sofa. I took a deep breath and pulled my knickers down to my knees. I leaned forward and took my position across the armrest.

He approached me. I looked up at him and I could see he was angered. I must have protested too much, must have dallied too much. I knew I would feel that anger very soon.

He let the whip swish through the air. I looked forward and closed my eyes. The sound of the whip made my body tremble.

He let the whip fall on a cushion, in front of me and I had to look up. He whipped the cushion again with a menacing hissing sound followed by a sharp report. Soon my skin was going to be hit by the whip, just like the cushion was hit before my eyes.

I drew my breath as he placed the green whip across my bottom. I closed my eyes.

I drew my breath and held it, as the whip left my skin. I waited. He waited.

Then it fell on my exposed skin, with the same menacing hiss, followed by the same terrible report. I gasped and tensed my body. My frame was traversed by a relentless wave of pain, emanating from my bottom.

He hit again. I whimpered and squirmed. He took no heed. He whipped me again. And then again. Burning lash fell upon burning lash and I had to struggle with all my willpower to stay in place, to endure the whipping.

Then he stopped. I came to my senses after a short while. He stood listening. I listened too. It was the doorbell.

'Wait,' he said and rushed off.

I heard him open the door and how he cheerfully greeted one of the guests, an old friend of his with wife. He chatted with them for a while. Then I heard them, to my horror, approach the living room.

'Please, take a seat,' he said, 'I am just disciplining my wife.'

Then he began whipping me again. I could no longer keep my tears back. I whimpered and sighed, I gasped and even let off small cries of distress. He showed no mercy.

More guests arrived and they were all greeted cordially and conducted into the room where I was still lying across the armrest. They were all invited to watch my being whipped.

'Now I think you have had enough,' he said.

I drew a sigh of relief, although my bottom was still burning with an intense pain.

'Get up and prepare the dinner.'

'Yes,' I gasped as I rose to my feet.

'Take off those knickers and put them away with the skirt.'

I nodded and pulled my knickers down to my feet and stepped out of them. Blushing I took my skirt and went out of the room. Still naked from the waist down, I went into the kitchen. My face was still wet from tears and my bottom numb from the whipping. There was no time to think of that, I had a dinner to serve.

Thursday, 19 August 2010

Another Flogging

I have found that the kind of stories that people often contact me about are the ones with some public flogging or the like. There is obviously something in those themes that speak to you Readers. I wouldn't have written those stories if they didn't speak to me too. Here is another one.

They were all there, every man, woman, child and animal had left their homes to gather at the square. They fought for the best places, for the best view, everyone wanted to watch. They battled but they were happy, happy and excited. They had gathered for their favourite entertainment.

It was not a long way from the dungeons of the City Hall to the scaffold in the square. The guards were smiling when they collected me.

'Quite a crowd, lass.'

'They are happy to see you.' The other guard laughed heartily, thinking he had cracked a really good joke.

They secured my hands behind my back and didn't care much as I gasped when the ropes hurt me. My dress was flimsy as it was and with my hands behind my back I could do nothing to prevent it from sliding off my shoulder. The guards looked at me and thought I was presentable.

I walked on trembling legs and as the door opened and I met the mob, my heart began trembling as well. The excitement and the cheer that greeted me almost encouraged me, almost made me as excited as they were.

The strong guards protected me as we made our way through the crowd. I hesitated at the stair to the scaffold but was pushed onto the stage. The guards were not late to lend a helping hand that made me aware of how thin my garment was.

As I stood in front of the crowd I felt small. They shouted at me, smiled at me, welcomed me. There was no friendliness in their smiles, no kindness in their words. They had come for the entertainment, they had come to see me entertain them.

I had to stand like that for a while. The mob became impatient, urged the guards to get on with the show. I could do nothing but stand there, bound and look out over the multitude of faces. Should I keep my head high and antagonise them, or should I bow my head and be humble? Neither alternative changed what was going to happen.

Then the crowd broke out in a frenzy. They were taken by their own madness, shouting and cheering and staring. I turned my head and saw what had sparked them. I saw him.

He was the real performer, the one they had come for. He was the master and artist. They had come to see him work. They had not come for me. I was the clay he would work on, I was a tool for his skill. I was the one to be mastered by him.

He was an animal. He was clad in red trousers of leather, clinging to him like a second skin. He wore boots, heavy boots that would have crushed my bare feet had he chosen to. Around his hips hung a broad and heavy leather belt. His upper body was bare, his well tanned muscles glistening in the sun. He was at least a head taller than the guards, who, in turn, made me look small. His shoulders were broad as a bull.

His face was covered in a mask that left his mouth and jaw uncovered. He smiled. His lips were curled in a self assured and mocking smile. I saw his eyes glowing through the mask. This was his moment.

He was not a man but an animal, or if he was a man, he was twice the man compared to the ones around him. I could not look upon him without trembling and feeling faint. He was not a man you had an opinion about, he was a force of nature, far removed from sophistication and civilised life.

He was the master and this was his stage. I was to play a part in his performance. I belonged to him.

I stared at the whip that hung from his belt. It was a vicious thing, a wooden handle, worn and well used, and from that handle hung three braided tongues of leather. I knew he was master of that whip, I could almost feel the power from his body transmitted through the whip already. My body was shivering.

He had his moment, walking around the stage, bowing, smiling, raising his hands, playing the crowd with his movements, his body and splendour. They loved him.

Then he stopped. He made a gesture and the guards pushed me forward. I was stood before the crowd, at the edge of the scaffold, alone with the crowd.

I stood in silence, staring in awe at them. I was waiting, the crowd was waiting. I didn't see the gesture, I felt it. The crowd felt it. The guards took hold of my flimsy garment and tore at it. I gasped as I almost lost balance and fell. The fabric was torn from my body to the cheering and cries of the crowd.

There seemed to be one violent movement that rocked my body and tore away my clothes and when I gained my balance, I was naked. I had been stripped before the crowd and they knew they would soon be treated to their entertainment.

The guards pulled me away from the edge of the platform and pushed me towards the sturdy pole set in the middle. They pushed me against the rough surface of the pole with such force I almost lost my breath.

The ropes around my wrists were loosened and my hands were pulled forward, one on each side of the wooden post. My wrists were retied in front and to a rope that ran through a hoop at the top of the pole. Strong arms pulled at the rope and my hands were hoisted in the air.

I cried out in pain as my hands were pulled upwards. I could hardly breathe as I was lifted from the floor, only my toes in contact with the wood. When they were done, I was almost hanging from my bound wrists, my body tense and pressed to the unforgiving whipping post.

I was prepared. I had been made ready for the whip. Now it was time for the entertainment.

The man with the whip, the master of the stage, didn't speak. He just held the whip out to me, made sure I could see it. It was as if he wanted to show me the whip that soon would fall on my naked skin.

He took a step to the side and I turned my head to look at him, but I could hardly see him. The crowd fell silent. No one spoke, no one moved. They were waiting. I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead on the wood. My heart was beating hard, so hard that I wondered if not the whole town could hear it.

Then I heard the hiss of the whip. It was a short, menacing sound, sudden and merciless. My body exploded with pain in the next instant, together with a sharp and terrible report as the leather made contact with my skin.

It seemed like an eternity before I began breathing again. The chaos of pain and sound became focussed and I felt the burning marks on my body where the whip had hit me. He had chosen to whip me across my bottom, but one of the tongues had bitten my thighs.

Then came the next lash. This one took more of my breath away, since it hit higher, a little higher. I cried out in agony and pain, panicking, terrified.

He took no heed. He showed no mercy. He let the whip fall, time and again, on my unprotected body. Relentlessly did the leather tongues of the whip dance across my skin. He hit high and he hit low, concentrating on my buttocks. The whip curled around me, stinging my belly, the front of my thighs, my breasts and even my sex.

I became a wriggling, helpless body, crying in utmost agony. I didn't hear the cheering crowd nor did I see their cruel faces. The only thing that existed was the whipping post, my trembling body and the merciless whip.

It continued for an eternity but at last it was over. I hung in my aching arms, not believing another lash wasn't coming. I realised it was over, when I was let down, when eager hands took hold of my body, kept it standing when the ropes were untied.

I could hardly stand, I fell, but was held. I was not completely aware of what happened, but I was taken from the platform, back into the City Hall. I remember a dark room, a hard wooden bench, my aching body on fire and drifting off.

What happened next is another story. I was given my torn dress and left the building sometime later. It was dark outside and the town square was not crowded any more. I hurried away, didn't want to meet anyone, didn't want to be found out. I wanted to hide. I was no longer entertainment, I was just a whipped woman.

Wednesday, 11 August 2010

Touching Happiness

This time I will use my blog to write about me. I always do, you know, but this time directly and not through some story or fantasy. Maybe what I write will be sad, I don't know, but this is how it is.

Don't get me wrong, most of the time I am a content person, happy with what is there, able to see the good things in life as well as the bad things, with a fairly real view of life...I think. What I wanted to write about is something else. I wanted to write about that underlying, always present, experience of being outside.

As long as I can remember I have had that feeling of being outside, left out and that things don't really happen to me. Reality is always beyond me, too far away. I am still like that.

Most of the time I don't think about it, but occasionally this sensation surface, becomes real. And then I know it is always there, always present. Holidays sometimes have that effect, emotions catch up with you and hidden feelings become real.

There is a longing, of course, to be able to reach that which I feel is real, that which is beyond me, that place where it really happens, where I am whole and complete and not lonely. Growing up has to some extent been realising that life is here and now and not over there, not that which I really long for. It is hear and tangible, at times, and not there and perfect.

When I met my first love, when my love, for the first time, was answered, I became happy. I was struck by a sense of reality, that things were really happening, now and to me. Whatever it was, it crashed through the barrier and became real. I was truly happy in all senses of the word.

It didn't last. The real reality made itself known, the distance between people became real and I crashed. I can't call it anything else. This was a terrible time, a crisis, almost madness. Not to the extent that I was admitted anywhere or treated it with anything, drugs or medication or that sort of thing. But I crashed and it was hellish.

I have had similar experiences since, not as powerful and not as terrible, but it has always been connected to powerful emotions, when I break through the barrier, when something good happens. The truth is that I cope better with misery than happiness.

The barrier is not complete, not impenetrable. There is sweetness in life, sweetness that makes me feel real. I can see that now. A caress can be so immensely sweet that I can feel that this is the only reality I ever need. Sometimes a smile or a kind word can get through and touch my heart. Growing up has been to learn to see these small holes in the wall, the moments when I am not alone and miserable. It makes me more content, more satisfied with life.

I will not return to blogging and connect it to what I am doing here. Fantasies are to some extent a way of dealing with that longing, that desire for not being outside, but being inside, where things happen to me for real. Entering into my imagination is to enter into a world where I can create that reality I deep down long for.

Fantasies are not just about sex but they are fuelled by desire. This is because sex is real, sex is something that breaks through, a little, and at times. Not always. Sex is something that really happens and that makes it real. It is dangerous too because when it is really good, the returning to the world can be harsh.

Fantasies about things that are arousing, is a way of being transported to that other world of real things, that world of longing, where things are simple and sweet and delightful. Sex and arousal are good things in that world and that is why they are so prominent in fantasies. But they are not the only thing I long for.

Maybe the kinky side of fantasies functions as a battering ram, to break through the wall. It is by shocking the system, by breaking the norms that I am crashing through and can allow myself the sweetness of my fantasies. I don't know, I am just writing down my thoughts.

Blogging, for me, is not just about writing stories, it is about admitting to that strange inner world where my longings and desires exist, even those that are truly beyond anything that can ever be real.

I see, now, that I have used 'reality' and 'real' in two different ways. On the one hand it refers to the world where we live, where we watch tv and eat food and can be lonely, and on the other hand it refers to that other existence, that inner world, the one I long for, that world where things really happens, the imaginary dreamworld. I hope I haven't confused you too much.

Monday, 9 August 2010


Hello, Dear Readers. I am back from a loooong holiday. I know I am supposed to be relaxed and refreshed now. The truth is that I am much the same as before. This doesn't mean I didn't have a brilliant holiday, I had, a very lazy one, with lots of reading and just staring into nothingness. Thing is with holidays that they tend to make you more like how you are, so if you are content you feel more content but if you are sad, sometimes, the sadness catch up with you. I think, however, that this is a good thing, that you have time to become more who you are, warts and all.

No new stories, today, I just wanted to say hi and let you know I am still here. I hope you are still there. Take care and be kind to yourselves.

Friday, 18 June 2010


It is time again, Dear Readers, for the summer holiday. I will be away, longer this year than usual. There will be no blogging until I come back and that is in August. I am a privileged person, I know, but I can assure you I will try my best to make the most of my summer...smiles.

Take care and be kind to yourself and don't forget to let your minds wander. We need our imaginations, that is something I am sure of. Have a great time.

Monday, 14 June 2010

Another Strange Dream

I have to say that you are a very encouraging lot. Thank you for all the support. You are, really, the best. What can I do in return? Publish the things I write, strange and weird. Here is a story (note my choice of words, here). Be kind to yourselves.

'It is strange how you dream.'

'Well, yeah, that's true.'

'Sometimes you don't know where your mind wanders in the night, or why.'

'I gather you have had some weird dream.'

'Very weird.'

'Won't you tell me?'

'Something tells me I shouldn't.'

'But some other part says you should?'

'Yes, I did mention it, didn't I?'

'You did.'

'It was terrible.'

'What happened?'

'I was in this city and it was dark. Or maybe I just saw it. Anyway, I had this sense of danger or like if there was a disaster happening. Perhaps it was war and the city was being sacked. There were fires and light so I could see quite clearly.'

'Light and dark, dreams are strange.'

'Well, this was more or less a sensation, a mood, or something, or a part of the dream that I have forgot. I remember the rest much better. I am not sure it was me or if I just saw her, but there was this girl, not like a young girl, more like a young woman. She was slender and thin and very fair, almost pale. I think it was me, or I became her, later. I don't remember. There was a crowd gathered and they stood around her...or me. She was being held by these men. And they were like black clad, in leather jackets and boots and that sort of thing. They didn't look like soldiers but somehow I knew that it was they who were sacking the city or whatever it was that was happening. In front of her was this man, also dressed in black, he was quite young, had long dark hair, looked like a rocker or goth or whatever it is called.'


'Whatever! He looked at the girl, woman, and had this terrible grin on his face and in some way I knew she was the enemy, a spoil from the plunder or had done something terrible according to the man in black. He made this sign with his hand, quite elaborate and strange and although I can almost see it before me, still, I can't tell you what he did.'


'The men holding her grinned in response and began tugging at her clothes. She was dressed in red shorts and a striped tank top. When I think of it now, this is weird, the modern clothes. I got the impression that it was some ancient city being conquered but the clothes were modern. Anyway, they tugged at her clothes and made clear they wanted her to take them off. She looked around and saw that there was no escape, then I slipped my top off. They all looked at me. The leader, the man in black, made another sign and I was dragged backwards and thrown on the ground, on my back. There was this wooden beam I was held down onto and my hands were pulled out. And then, this is really horrible, they brought big nails, like those you see in museums, that are made by hand, by some smith. Then they nailed her arms to the wood, like if she was being crucified. I remember seeing her bend her back, in agony. But it didn't hurt.'

'It didn't?'

'No, I remember no pain, but it was horrible, all the same, like some kind of terrible fear or anxiety cutting through my body. The worst thing was that she was beautiful, in a way, something about her arching body, her outstretched arms and her agony was weirdly beautiful...beautiful but terrible.'

'Sounds grim.'

'Grim is the word, it was like some dark horror painting, with me in the middle of the darkness, all pale and white and being nailed to the crossbar of a cross. The beam was lifted and I was pulled backwards to some great pole or pillar, the cross. There was a strange silence in the crowd but I had this sense of animals, of predators licking their lips, eager to watch, but also full of pity and anger.'


'Yes, some kind of pity, that kind of pity that almost enjoys it.'


'Perhaps, I don't know. Then came the harsh bit. I had to be lifted and they had ropes and ladders and it was a lot of people around me. And when the girl was hoisted in the air, she cried out. There was a bit of panic, as if she couldn't believe she would be able to hang from her arms, her nailed wrists. Still there were no pain, no proper pain.'

'Haven't thought of it, maybe it doesn't happen in dreams?'

'What doesn't happen?'

'Real pain.'

'Perhaps. She was lifted and she was hanging from her arms. The crowd didn't cheer, but there was this sense of a wave going through it, a kind of awe or fascination, as they saw her breast heave in agony. Then I was hanging there, overlooking the crowd and I remember looking down on my body, thinking of those red shorts. Remember, I was dressed only in those shorts and they were quite small, not extremely small but I felt them to be tiny. For some reason, that seemed to be more on my mind than having my wrists penetrated by nails, that I was almost naked, that everyone could now look at me, on display, so to speak.'

'Stranger things happen in dreams.'

'They do. There was this weird sensation in me, as if this terror, this agony, this horrible thing happening to me, was, somehow, also satisfying. Maybe satisfying is the wrong word, maybe it touched something in me, that wasn't just horrible, something that, somehow liked it.'

'You weren't crucified for real, dreams are symbolic.'

'I know, but it didn't feel symbolic while I was there. But as I was hanging there, feeling looked at, ogled and exposed to this horror, I thought how utterly helpless I was. If someone wanted to do something to me, I could no longer defend myself. I hadn't thought that thought to the end before the guards came up to me and reached out for me. I was suddenly terribly scared they would take my shorts. This was something I really didn't want to happen. They reached for me and unbuttoned the shorts and I remember sighing in frustration. The crowd was silent, as if it was holding its breath. Then the guards yanked my shorts down from my hips and there was a giant sigh and I whimpered. Strange thing, that I heard myself whimper! Or maybe it was me hearing the girl whimper, I don't know? Anyway, shorts were removed and she was naked, I was naked. And somehow this seemed to be the worst humiliation of them all, that I was denied the last item of clothing. And yet, there was a kind of surge in me, as if I found this exciting, arousing or something.'

'Not so strange.'

'I think it is strange.'

'Naked on a cross, in a symbolic way, it can be sexual.'

'I suppose. Then they nailed my feet to the cross and I could see in the body of the girl, that it hurt. Then something happened that was like in a film. The sound seemed to disappear and I began to see the cross from a distance. I clearly saw the naked girl on the cross, the girl who was, or had been, me. And there was like a circle around her, a circle of black clad people, with torches and banners and then I think I woke up.'

'Some dream.'

'Why do I dream such things? Why does it happen like that?'

'Why should you worry? You weren't crucified for real, it was a dream, it didn't happen and it was just an image.'

'It was scary.'

'And nice.'

'Scary and nice, yeah.'