Blind

At last, a newly written text, written by me. I have to warn you, Dear Readers, there is no kink in this. But there is some sex. Don't know if it is an erotic story, though. Come to think of it, don't think it is. Anyway, I think this story isn't as far away from my other stories, really, despite the lack of naughtiness.

I was young and stupid and in love. He was nineteen, two years older than me. He was tall and dark and I thought him a little bit wild. He dressed in black and leather and wore his hair a bit longer.

He was of another kind, the kind that seemed to know what they were doing, the kind that don't hesitate, don't doubt themselves. Some play cocky, self assured and as if they don't care. Maybe he did too, exaggerated it, but there was something in the way he moved and looked at me that spoke of a self confidence I could only dream of.

I never thought a man like him would look at someone like me. I had felt very special when I started to hang out with his kind of people. Still I couldn't imagine anyone of them would notice me.

I was warned about him. When he started looking at me they told me to stay away from him, that he would only toy with me and leave me heartbroken.

The way he looked at me made me weak in my knees and at first I thought I could just allow myself to drown in his eyes, thinking that he meant nothing with it, that it was a bitter sweet indulgence, meant to torment myself at the same time as it fuelled my dreams.

I was like that, a dreamer and thought I could look at this gorgeous being without being swept away by him.

At a party he danced with me and I felt awkward, found out and embarrassed. At the same time, it was like a dream, like in a dream. He danced with me and he looked at me and I let myself be thrilled by it.

Then he kissed me. I felt more awkward and more wonderful. This man wanted at least to kiss me. I was at least worthy of a kiss.

There was no hesitation in that kiss. He kissed me and I could do nothing but respond. I was nothing compared to him and I knew it. Yet he wanted to kiss me and I wanted to enjoy it while it lasted, thinking that I would be forgotten the moment he stopped.

I was lost to him in that kiss. Maybe he knew that, maybe he just did what he wanted. He wanted me. He went to the bar, got me a beer and we stood for a while, listening to the music. He looked at me. I knew anything could happen. I knew I could never resist him, but I didn't believe anything would happen. That was beyond my imagination.

Somehow he got me close to the staircase, the one leading to the entrance of the club. We were standing there, I had my back against the wall. Suddenly he had his hand by my head, against the wall beside me, he leaning forward.

He kissed me again and I remember thinking that I couldn't believe what was happening, I was lost in a kind of surreal sensation.

But he was there, his body close to mine. There was a voice in my head telling me that he was playing with me, pretending, just wanted something for the night. All that which had been said about him, all that was told of him to make me be careful.

I remember feeling his hand move in between my legs and how I at first felt intimidated and intruded upon but I then decided to let it happen, as if I took a deep breath and relaxed. Although I wasn't calm, I wasn't relaxed. My body was tense and I my mind was wild.

His hand moved up and under my skirt and I couldn't believe it was happening but it was. His hand found its way down my knickers and in a sense of disbelief I felt his fingers slide in between my thighs. His cold fingers slipped into me and his head came close to my face. While his hand was snaking inside me, his lips met mine.

He must have felt how powerless I was, how willing I was. I didn't resist him. I couldn't resist him. He was inside me, around me, penetrating my body and my mind. I surrendered to him and I was swept away.

I was led away from the club. There was a murmuring in my head that told me to be careful, to be cautious, but I didn't want to. I wanted to be overwhelmed and swept away and this was more mind blowing than anything I had ever experienced.

We walked the short distance to his flat, his arm around my shoulders. My body missed having his fingers inside me and I wondered if that was what it meant to be horny, to really desire someone or wanting something to happen. I knew I wanted it and hoped it would happen.

In his flat he poured me a glass of wine and when I sat, on the edge of his bed, drinking it, he slumped back beside me, looking at me. He seemed like a panther, an animal that was waiting. I wondered if I was the prey.

He reached out his hand and stroked my hair. I was soft in his hand, defenceless to his touch. He told me I was beautiful. I didn't believe him but liked it all the same. I thought it really meant he was attracted enough to want me for the moment, to have me for the night.

Then he kissed me again, but he didn't put his hand inside my knickers. He put his hand on my breast and kneaded it. He wasn't gentle, he squeezed till it hurt but I wanted that. It seemed to signal that he wanted it, wanted to touch me.

Then his hand was under my top, his palm soft but cold against my skin. I felt how wonderful his touch was, how immensely sweet it was. I wanted more.

With a gentle movement he slipped my top from my upper body. I wondered how he did it, how he made it disappear so swiftly. He looked at my upper body, at my breasts and smiled. He caressed and squeezed my bosom and even the pain helped smash away any hesitation that was left in me.

I was then lying on my back and he was pulling down my tights and my knickers. I still had my skirt on. He didn't just pull my clothes down, he removed them, they were gone and I was naked, bar the skirt.

He descended on me, he lowered his strong body upon me and I felt his t-shirt against my naked skin and thought that he didn't seem to want to take his clothes off. I had wanted to be naked but I felt vulnerable, exposed to him and more so since he kept his clothes on. Still I wanted to be stripped and bared with him, before him.

He reached down and I felt his sex against my thighs and how he moved my legs apart. His hand directed his member and when he found my opening, he slid into me. I wanted that.

He was eager, powerful and himself enough. He moved inside me and I was surprised and overwhelmed by how good it felt to have him there. He moved and I felt him move and I longed to be swept away by that violent desire that had been reserved for my own dreams until then. I was defenceless and I wanted to be defenceless.

I was shocked and scared when my desire broke through, when my lust and longing for satisfaction mixed with the reality that was him, him inside me, when my private world had to blend into the real and I had to admit that I wanted it too, that I had it in me to let it come to me.

Then he exploded. He cried out and his member began to twitch, he stopped moving and let out a groan. He panted and moaned as he emptied himself in me.

I was left with my itch, my longing, my desire to follow, to be touched by the magic. I was defenceless and I was helpless and I couldn't help myself.

Still I felt blessed. It was such a magical thing to be privy to, to have him inside me, to feel his power, his satisfaction, his lust, there, inside me. And I was there, with him.

He rolled away, sighed and lay staring at the ceiling. I lay on his chest and wondered if he would tell me to leave now, if my magic moment was over.

He gathered himself and he smiled at me and he took off my skirt. I don't know why but he stripped me completely naked. Then he leaned back and took his wine. He gave me my glass and smiled at me.

I was naked, sitting on his bed drinking wine with him. I had no idea what he felt or what he thought of me. I wished he could love me but I didn't expect it, I didn't think a man like him could love a girl like me.

Who She Is

This arrived in my mailbox, written by someone who wants to remain anonymous. I was fascinated, as you can imagine, and with permission I put it here on the blog for you to read.

As I read it I thought it looked familiar and there is a very good reason for that. I wrote part of it. This is a comment, counterpart, compliment or fleshing out of my story Who Am I?.

It is absolutely amazing to see your own story, or rather your own text, transformed into a story, like this, put in a context you hadn't intended. I can tell you that I had something completely different in mind writing it, but this is very good and very well written and I try to be true to my words that a story belongs to the reader when it is read. I welcome and embrace interpretations of what I write. If someone ask me, I will try to tell them what I was thinking when I wrote it but that doesn't mean any other views are wrong. I am surprised how differently people see stories.

For me this story changes my own text, quite a lot, but it doesn't matter, I like it all the same and it makes me think and realise how the original was read.

Oops, now I go on about myself, again. I really wanted to share this little gem with you and at the same time say a great big thank you to the one writing it, for letting me post it.

I had seen her on campus many times. She was sweet. She was sweet in all senses of the word. Her body was small, her limbs slender and delicate. In the spring she wore dresses so fragile a gentle wind would press the fabric against the front of her body, and I would shamelessly observe the contour of her waist...her hip bones were like hills beside the sloping valley between...the little mound on her belly. Behind her knees the dress would flutter as she walked, and I imagined it would simply fly off, leaving her delicate body entirely exposed in the middle of the large grassy field.

My wandering eyes were attracted to an awful lot of girls at that time, and I confess that I enthusiastically observed them all. I had a thirst for variety, and would follow the various lines from their shoulders to their toes, digesting the shape of their breasts and behind. I learned that I was a hopeless admirer of the female form, but would usually pull my eyes away as they turned in my direction. I was afraid they would think I was a pervert. It was true, my thoughts were wicked and detestable as I drank. I was ashamed. Yet, with her, nothing could part my eyes. Whether she noticed or not, God help me, they were fused to every square inch of her like warm syrup over pancakes.

Her skin was smooth, her belly was soft and smooth and flat. It curved from her midriff down over her lower belly to the valley between her thighs and in its centre there is her belly button, a sweet but shallow hole.

Her hips were narrow but her body still possessed the right curves, the roundness that makes it sweet and touchable, not square and hard. Her breasts were small and sweet, proud and round. They were like perky animals peeking out, sweet round mounds, crowned with her rosy nipples, small but lovely, and I fancied that sometimes they were as soft as her skin but sometimes hard as small pearls.

Her legs were soft and round, her thighs were slender but still with the softness, that roundness that is unmistakably female. Her feet were rosy and untouched and unconfined. They were vulnerable and helpless, still they were what she walked on, what makes her move in the world.

It was her feet I would observe first as she appeared. I would be seated alone on a bench, waiting for her as she turned the corner. The first time she passed, our eyes met briefly and then she looked straight ahead as I continued to admire her neck, shoulders, and breasts. By the time she was in front of me I assaulted her belly and hips, and imbibed upon her backside as she continued and finally slipped out of view. The second day she looked straight ahead as I remained focused on her, following each delicate movement of her body. This persisted the following day, and the next, and the next... Each time her eyes remained straight ahead, as if she didn't notice my observations. She was consistent. She never used the other door, which was just as convenient for her route. And, she never looked back after she passed, but innocently placed her left hand on her side for a moment. She placed her hand there every day, and at the exact same number of steps after she passed me, which was 8...

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

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

She was the kind of person I wanted to protect, the kind that would seem to break in contact with the harsh world. She was the girl I wanted to hold and comfort, to keep and protect, because she was so vulnerable.

I knew she was intensely vulnerable, fragile and delicate. Perhaps that is why her subtle consent consumed and empowered me. She wanted me to drink her flesh as she walked by. She encouraged me to undress her with my eyes, tearing her clothes off as they fluttered away in a gust of wind. I was calm as I observed her, although she captivated my imagination with such intensity that I feared I might lose control. I wanted to touch her. Somehow I knew that by touching her I would be touched by that magic she had. The magic I wanted.

Her eyes told me of something else too. They would not look in my direction as she passed, but that did not stop me from admiring them. They were not just vulnerable and sweet, they were curious and hungry too. They spoke of something else, they spoke of a kind of desire that is not just innocent and gentle.

She was the kind of girl I didn't just want to protect but the kind I wanted to have, as well. Her body was the kind of body I want to touch. She was the kind of person whose clothes I wanted to rip away and whose body I wanted to expose and look at, ogle and stare at.

That hand touching the side of her leg was enough to invoke a ravenous beast within, scratching and crawling inside. It wanted to get out. It growled for me to subdue her.

She was like a sweet, wrapped in paper. Her clothes were like the paper around the sweet and I couldn't wait to unwrap it. She was not desirable because she dressed in a certain way, it was not the paper that made me want to eat the sweet, it was what I knew is underneath it, what I saw peeking through.

Each day as she sweetly passed I wanted to intercept her as she approached so we were standing face-to-face. I would not say a word, but quietly look upon her, knowing I had complete control...knowing that she could not escape from me, and that I was in command. She would look at my chest and arms and experience the degree of her vulnerability. I was much stronger and faster than she. I would overwhelm her delicate frame, inches from her feathery figure. I knew all of this was in my power anyway, but I wanted, needed her to know it. I wanted her to feel that she was in my possession, if I chose to take her.

She was beautiful and perfect in every sense of the word. She was desirable for her sweetness and her youth, for her smooth skin and her soft body, for her sparkling life and for her delicate limbs and her perky breasts. In my mind she was already in her knickers and I could see for my inner eye how the fabric clung to her bottom. I could imagine her breasts under her top and my hand moving towards them. I thought how lovely it would be when my fingers touched those mounds.

I didn't just want to touch and caress and embrace. No, I want to have. I wanted to have her and take her. I wanted to undress her, rip the clothes from her body. I imagined she would protest, say no and despise me but that only made me want to do it more.

She appeared one day in the most delicate floral dress of an abbreviated length. It was like air surrounding her, and she approached me at her usual pace, looking straight ahead. She had never seemed more desirable and was free of any books or encumbrances. The fabric hung off her breasts like a bunched tablecloth sliding over the edge. Her hair fell over her eyes and grazed her shoulders as she walked. How could one glow with such malevolent perfection? She passed just a few feet in front of me as my eyes assaulted her graceful figure. I begged for mercy as she continued, and watched the pleats of her dress flirt with the skin of the back of her legs. At 6 steps her hand began to fall to her side as a shiver welled in my spine. By the 8th step her hand had traveled back farther than usual and I watched in slow motion as her fingers wrapped around the light fabric bunching it a bit. I was paralyzed as her hand moved slowly upward, pulling the material just enough to expose the bare crease of her bottom. It disappeared as quickly as it arrived.

I quickly emerged from my stupor, rose from the bench, and began to follow her. She did not look back, but began walking faster, as if she knew I was in pursuit. I increased my pace, fixated on the way her shoulders moved as she walked, the sway of her hips, the push off the balls of her feet. I was a predator stalking my prey. I would not allow her to rule over me, to taunt me without reprisal. I was not her victim. By the time she turned the corner and walked up the steps of her dorm I was close behind her, and walked through the dorm's front door a few seconds after her. She still hadn't looked back, but must have known I was in pursuit, and ran up the stairwell as fast as she could. I was faster and closing in as she tore down the hallway and then pushed the key into her dorm room, opening it and slipping through. As she pulled the door shut I barely slipped the toe of my shoe against the door frame, blocking the large wooden door. I pushed the door open, slipped through, and wrapped my hand around her mouth just as she began to scream. My other hand wrapped around her waist and I pulled her backside against mine, restraining her tightly as she squirmed.

She deserved what was coming. It was inevitable. For weeks she had abused me with her body. She had tormented me with every step and she knew it. She could have chosen another path. She could have walked behind the bench instead. No, she chose to walk directly in front of it. She chose to place her hand on her leg at the exact same point every time, as if to say "I know you are watching. I have the power here. I dominate the deepest portions of your mind and body. You are a slave to me." These thoughts ravaged my mind as she struggled in my arms. Her one free elbow struck backward, jabbing my side with moderate force. Of her assertions, I had proven her wrong each day by my complacency, silently enduring her playfulness. She would not be able to capture me or control me. But this...exposing her bare bottom to me...it was an insult. It was an intolerable offense with unstoppable repercussions. The beast lurking beneath my skin would not permit it.

I relaxed just enough to allow her to breath. I growled in her ear: "When I remove my hand you will stop screaming." After a moment she nodded hesitantly. I slowly removed my hand and brought it to my side. I also suddenly released her waist, allowing her to escape. She did not move, but stood silently in front of me. Rushing to the other side of the small room would be useless. She was at my mercy.

I placed my hands gently on her shoulders and turned her around so she was facing me. I looked into her glossy, pleading eyes, and saw desperation. I could not see her thoughts. I could not comprehend. I only knew my hand was gently moving to her neck, almost without my knowledge. She lifted her head as my fingers moved underneath her chin. I dragged them softly over her lips, and she did not respond, only stood, trembling slightly. She was breathing heavily, and her dress was moving up and down as her chest heaved. A mixture of fear, helplessness, and mysterious wonder filled her face, and I saw in her what I desired...vulnerability. I recognized that she was mine in every way, and I that I could not possibly want her more any other way. I did not want her consent. I wanted to take her without it. I required complete autonomous power over her every sense and thought.

My hands moved over her shoulders, which were bare other than two tiny strings. I pushed them to the side and her dress instantly fell to the floor, bunched at her feet. She was almost still, but recoiled in shock, trepidation, and embarrassment. She was impossibly fragile as my hands lightly moved back to the side of her arms. She was now wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of thong underwear.

"You may scream now if you wish."

She opened her mouth as if to scream, but was mute, my hands holding her shoulders gently. I took her nipples between my fingers and twisted gently as I looked into her eyes, which still appeared exasperated and bewildered. I began to explore her body, discovering the spoils of my hunt. Her skin was warm and impossibly soft. I did not know why she didn't scream, but somehow knew that she wouldn't. She looked at me as if she needed to tell me something, yearning to find the words. A tear fell down her cheek. It was useless. She could not control me with pathos either, and I looked at her sternly.

"You will do as you are told."

She nodded.

"Turn around and place your hands on the desk."

She turned and walked over to her desk, slowly placing her hands on the wood to either side of her computer keyboard.

I walked forward and stood directly behind her, then began to unbuckle my belt. I could see her legs subtly shaking.

"You are sweet, but I don't just want sweetness from you. I want more. I want to have you and take you despite what you want, do you understand?"

She hesitated and then nodded twice, quickly.

"Your youth and sweetness infuriates me, and I will punish you for it. do you understand?"

She nodded again similarly.

The tiny amount of fabric still clung to her body made me angry and anxious. I could think of nothing but pulling them down and smacking her bottom. Her bottom looked so sweet and innocent. I needed to spank it – hard. I needed to feel my hand smack into the soft skin and I wanted to feel how hard it was for her...how much she suffered. I wanted to hear her cry and plead. I wanted her to feel the power reign down over her...to rule her and feel my power on her body.

A smile or even a glance from her is a blessing for me, a gift I cherish. Still I want to punish her for that power she has over me, the power she has to smile to me or not to smile to me. The power she has to just walk by be, elicit these awful desires, and be gone. The power she has to make me feel old and lonely. Those are crimes that are unforgivable. Those are powers someone like her should not be allowed to have. She must be punished for it. She must be whipped and suffer for her youth and her sweetness and her power over me.

She is free. I control my life and I can and should get what I want. I cannot get her. She is free and I cannot get her unless she wants to give herself to me. That is a crime worthy of punishment, that is a wrong that should be set right.

"No," I decided. "This is not right."

I needed to take possession of her completely. I needed to be the one to decide, how and when she shall take her clothes off, how and when she shall please me with her body. I want to have that power over her and I have that power...

I growled, and pulled her panties down to the floor, then pulled off my socks and used them to tie her wrists to the wooden crossbeam of the lofted bed.

I put my belt on the desk and removed my shirt, then tied her right leg to a chair. I then removed my pants and tied her left leg to a small sofa.

"Someone as sweet as her should not be allowed to go free, should not be allowed to choose for herself. My power should be asserted. I should take possession of her."

I picked up my belt and wrapped it around her neck, then pulled it back and fed it through the buckle, pulling it taught against her neck. I pushed the pin though to hold it secure and then stood on a chair and tied the other end to a pipe that extended across the ceiling.

She is my slave. She stands before me, her body at my disposal. Her legs are spread, the path to her sex is clear. She is naked and everything is open and exposed and touchable and there for me. She has no say, she has no power and that is how I want it. She is a sweet, lovely body that is there for me, that is mine to do whatever I want with it.

But, she is already my captive, my slave, my possession. She is not just a body. She is my willing body. She is my happy slave because she wants to be my slave. And if she didn't want to be my willing slave I would demonstrate that she is. I wanted to hold the whip in my hand and she would be just like the horse at the circus, the animal I tell what to do, the animal I whip to submission, the animal that is rewarded if she does what she is told.

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

I wanted her to resist me so I could defeat her and conquer her. I wanted to have to whip her to submission. But I also wanted her to see what a desirable creature I was and I wanted her to accept my power over her, to love my power over her. I wanted her to love and desire my need to whip her into submission.

I placed my hand gently on her bare bottom and could feel her trembling.

"I am going to spank you now."

I held my hand back and gave her a hard strike on her right cheek. She quivered, and shrieked just a bit. I delivered another strike, then another. The flesh rippled each time, and her utterances grew more controlled as I continued, even though I increased the force. I began to speak along with each strike...

"You...

are too...

sweet...

to not...

be punished..."

I only stopped when I could no longer bear the sight of her red bottom.

I stood still for several seconds behind her in silence.

I walked up behind her and placed my hands on her breasts. They were damp. My hands roved up her chest and over her face, which was also moist with tears. By now I was in nothing but my underwear, which pressed against her bottom. My hands returned to her breasts, cupping them gently.

I pressed my lips against her ear...

"You've been a very good girl. I am pleased..."

I untied both her legs to retrieve my jeans and shirt, then put them on. I removed the belt from her neck and wrapped it around my waist. I left my socks, knowing that she would be able to untie herself in time. I slipped into my shoes and walked out the door.

I sat on the bench the next day.

She appeared as she always did, and looked straight ahead.

She walked right in front of the bench.

My eyes were locked, as usual.

After 8 steps I watched her left hand descend slowly to her side, gently bunching the pleats of her skirt.

Confusing

From time to time someone emails me regarding the blog, something they have read on it or just generally. Most people say really nice things, it seems as if something I have written really has struck a chord, they have connected to something on the blog. Believe me, few things make me happier. What more can you ask for? You write something you like to write and it turns out that someone recognises themselves in it or are really moved by it. That's the best reward, really.

Some of those seem very keen on communicating with me and I am likewise happy doing that. But then something happens. Often, but not always, they lose interest. It is as if the enthusiasm wears off and I am left with unanswered emails. Don't get me wrong, I don't think anyone writing to me has to commit to a life long cyber friendship. That's not what I meant, these things come and go, that's in their nature. Still I wonder why that happens, why do they stop, why do they just disappear, without a word?

Maybe it is the nature of cyber space, I don't know. But I can't help thinking that it is because I am not what they expected and that they are disappointed when they find that instead of this mysterious, free thinking, bold and sensual person they find a rather boring, dry academic kind of person, someone who is quite prudish and not keen on adventures.

I am like a horror writer who doesn't believe in ghosts (quite common, I believe). I don't believe in uneven relationships and arrogant, authoritarian people really put me off. Power fascinates me and power exchange and uneven distribution of power is interesting, even exciting. But the real me will just walk away from someone who is too arrogant.

Don't get me wrong here. I have nothing against people who want to live in spanking relationships or BDSM-relationships and who are happy submitting to or dominating one another. It is just that it isn't for me. The very reason I dare indulging myself in my fantasies is that I live in a very equal relationship, a relationship where we depend on each other and support each other in equal measures.

Those of you who care to dig deeper may have seen those themes in my stories, that there is a lot about dependence and vulnerability and how to try to accept that this is a part of life and that you may submit to that, open yourself up and try to trust rather than protect yourself.

And I don't pretend to sit here with the key to what my stories are about. They are about so many things and not all of them in perfect harmony. There is a bit of repressed emotions and desires and ambiguity when faced with arrogance. But that is how we are, a mix of thoughts and emotions.

Enough of this rant. I am in so many minds when it comes to the blog. I know it is ok when I write stories but I am not so sure when I rant or just analyse a picture or something similar. I often think that I shouldn't write about me here, that my stories are far more interesting than what I think about them. Believe me, they are.

One Wise Woman

I got this story in the mail. It is written by Oxbridgeman, who, as it happens, is not at all from Oxbridge. It is a story of love and devotion, of a very special kind. Read and enjoy.

[6 January is Epiphany Day, the day when the Church commemorates the coming of the Wise Men to the baby Jesus, the One they adore above all, and bring Him the three gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Here is a story of one wise woman who also brings three gifts to the man she most adores in her life.]

He had chosen her. He loved her. He cherished her. He cared for her. He protected her. She loved him. She was pleased that he had pursued her and chosen her. And he was honorable and worthy of her adoration. So she chose to give herself to him. Soul and body. For she was a wise woman and knew that the greatest gift a woman can give to a man is herself. Totally and completely.

Tonight she would again show him that she wanted to be his, to belong to him. And so in her bedroom she had taken off all her clothes and put on a lovely short nightgown, plain with just a touch of lace and thin satin straps over her shoulders. It came down only to the tops of her thighs. She had used just a hint of make-up and had brushed her shoulder-length hair to a beautiful shine. She looked at herself and smiled slightly. She knew he would like this.

She was now ready to present herself to him. She was a little nervous as she picked up a long thin piece of cloth and started toward the sitting room. The tiles were cold on her bare feet and even though the house was warm her body seemed to feel the cold winter air from the outside and she shivered slightly. But that was fine. She would be warm in a moment.

In the sitting room he sat in a chair near the fireplace. The fire roaring in the fireplace warmed the cozy room chasing away the January chill. The cat was curled up on the chair where the woman of his life usually sat. He had the newspaper in his hand but he wasn't really reading it. He knew she was coming.

She walked into the room. They looked at each other but neither said a word. She walked over in front of him and knelt down before him, resting her bottom on her heels. She placed the piece of cloth beside her on the carpet. Her head slightly bowed, knees together, hands to the side, she stayed in the kneeling position while he drank in her beauty. The hem of her nightgown rested on the tops of her thighs. He loved that this intelligent, successful woman should think so much of him that she would voluntarily kneel at his feet. His heart overflowed with love for her. The cat stared at them then went back to her slumber as the man continued to gaze at the kneeling woman.

Finally she said, "I have some gifts for you." The wise woman presented her first gift. She pulled the nightgown over her head and laid it to one side thereby giving him her first gift, her nudity. She resumed her kneeling position only this time with her knees slightly parted so that he could see all. Nothing would be withheld from him. Once again he gazed at her from his chair. His soul was filled with passion and part of him wanted to reach out and pull her into him, but he waited for he knew there was more to come. The only sound that could be heard was the January wind blowing outside and fire crackling in the fireplace inside. The man and the woman were hardly aware of either.

After another few minutes, the wise woman offered her second gift to her man. She handed him the long thin cloth then put out her arms and crossed her wrists one over the other. He paused just briefly then proceeded to bind her hands together. He wrapped the thin piece of cloth around one wrist, then the other, knotted it, then wrapped both wrists together front to back, side to side and then knotted it again above her wrists. The cloth was soft but firm and the knot was away from her fingers. She was now naked and bound. She resumed her kneeling position with her bound hands in her lap. He was on fire with love and passion for her. She was his. And had she stopped here it would have been enough, but he knew there was yet more. He reached out and gently caressed the tips of her breasts. She felt a slight stirring as he did this, but she didn't move.

Finally, after many minutes had passed, she looked up at him for the first time since she had knelt before him. She was nervous and her voice was almost a whisper, but she summoned her courage and said, "Drawer." She then looked back down and he gazed at her for a long time. Finally, he lifted her face to him and smiled at her with love and assurance. He got up and went over to the bureau. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a small whip. The wise woman had now bent her body down, placing her elbows on the floor. She stretched out her arms and placed her head on the floor between her arms. The wise woman then presented her third gift to him. She raised her bottom up ready to receive his passion, his strength and his masculinity through the kiss of his whip.

She trembled slightly and felt in her throat that she was going to cry but she had already resolved in her mind that she would be brave and receive in her body all that he would deliver to her so that they would both know that he was strong and able and that she truly belonged to him.

He stood behind her as she presented her beautiful waiting bottom to him. She was naked, kneeling, bound and ready to be whipped. He hesitated. She did not deserve this. She already was his. She had given him so much. But his passion cried out that he had to make her his own completely. He had to mark her as his own, and the way he had to mark her was with the stripes of a whip. He took the small whip, held it over his head, paused briefly and then struck.

She received the first sting of pain. The second caused her to flinch. As the whip began to strike her over and over, she had to fight herself and make herself keep her bottom raised. Her thighs were giving way but she willed them to stay still and keep her bottom raised to receive each painful sting, each kiss of fire, each expression of his passion -- the intensity of his love. She wanted to cry out to him to stop. She wanted to get up and run away. But she stayed where she was. Her bottom was on fire and she could not protect it. The culmination of the successive stings was overwhelming her. But she stayed where she was. She pressed her head into the carpet and clenched her teeth. Her hands closed into fists and her fingernails dug into her palms. Her toes curled up tightly and occasionally her lower leg would raise slightly as the whip struck her yet again. But she stayed where she was. She would be strong and bear it no matter how long he whipped her.

After two dozen lashes, he stopped. He gazed at her trembling body. He gently put a hand on her hip indicating that she could rest her bottom. He stared at the red stripes which were all over her bottom and even on the tops of her thighs. He had done that to her. He had marked her with those red stripes, markings that declared that she was his. Although she wouldn't see them until later, she knew that her beautiful body was now marked. She was marked with his stripes. And the memory of the pain and creation of those markings made real for her again the knowledge that she was truly his.

He went in front of her, and lovingly raised her up. He took her chin and raised up her face to his. Although she had not cried out, tears trickled down her cheeks and her lip trembled.

"Let it out," he said. As she grabbed him around the neck with her bound hands the sobs burst forth from her. She cried on his shoulder as he held her tightly and comforted her.

As her tears subsided he looked at her and said, "I love you, with all my heart!"

"I love you, too," she replied. He then picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. She rested her head in his chest. She didn't have to be strong now. She could let herself be comforted by him, cared for by him, loved by him.

Later that night the fire in the sitting room died away, and the cat stretched and yawned before resuming his long winter nap. The man and the woman were also curled up together, deep in the sleep of satisfied lovers. The wise woman's gifts had been received with gratitude by her man, and he had in turn offered her the gift of his manhood that assured her she was beautiful and loved.

The Dungeons

Don't get excited now. This is not going to be a long description of bondage sex in some suburban basement. I am just scribbling something down that was in my head. It's not even a proper story, just a fragment.

I am back and have had a very relaxing Christmas break. It is still winter and it is still dark so I will have to wait for better days, though. Hope you have had a good Christmas. UK is experience the worst winter in 30 and maybe even a 100 years but where I live there hasn't been a single snowflake...until yesterday. Now we have a proper winter too.

Anyway, here it goes. I do get some very overly dramatic scenes in my head, sometimes, more fairytale like than anything (with some kink, of course...grins). And this is one of them. Be warned, it isn't a story, just a hint of a scene...sort of.

The castle sits perching on top of the cliff like a brooding creature from the ancient times. It casts its shadow over the surrounding country as if it is a giant bird of prey ready to strike at any moment.

Below the castle, deep in the bedrock, hidden from the world, never seeing daylight, are the tunnels, the deepest depths of the dark heart of the castle, the tunnels that are called the Dungeons in frightened whispers in the inns and taverns of the land.

At the heart of the Dungeons are the chambers, where the air is torn by the screams and cries of the unlucky inhabitants, those who are taken there for the pleasure of the Master of the Castle. Most have sinned according to His laws and could be said to deserve it but some are as innocent as the day they were born. The Master follows no laws other than his own. He does what he wants and woe betide those who catch his eye when he thinks his dungeon is becoming empty.

If the violent cries in the chambers tears the heart, the tunnels where the inhabitants are kept are deadly silent, freezing the blood in the veins. Here and there a torch casts its flickering light on the mute walls. The prisoners in the cells dare not speak, dare not whisper, they hardly dare breathe.

Along one of those tunnels come an odd pair, one looks tall beside the other who stoops and moves almost sideways, like some giant ape. They are clad in leather and boots and carry knives and whips in their belts. The taller one stops and listens for a while, his small eyes glimmering with the hope that one of his guests have uttered a sound, giving him a reason to punish. Not that he need a reason, but if there is a reason, he won't hesitate.

The stooping one snarls, turns his head this way and the other, sniffs the air and grunts. He is clad like the other but when the tall one is grim and ugly, this one seems to be born out of the rocks themselves, the result of an unlucky match between a troll and an ogre.

They continue down the tunnel and stop outside a door. The tall one peers into the darkness but sees nothing. He doesn't have to see. He knows who is locked up in that cell.

He takes a torch from the wall and unlocks the door. When the two guards enter the cell they hear the faintest gasp. The tall one holds out the torch and lets the light shine on the prisoner. The ogre like one licks his lips as the flickering light fall on the form of a girl standing by the wall.

She doesn't belong there, she is young, she is shapely and belongs in the sun, on the surface, among her peers, among humans, not among the worms of the earth. She has been left standing, her hands manacled and chained to the wall. She is dressed in a short flimsy dress that falls to her mid thighs. It is almost open in the front, barely covering her body.

She turns her head at the sight of the guards. The tall one, the one that is still slightly human, chuckles to himself. He loves this, this is what makes life in the tunnels worth living.

He turns to the apelike one and snaps his fingers. The ogre grins and begins to drool as he moves forward, towards the girl. She gasps and squirms and tries to move backwards, away from the monster, but behind her is only the solid wall.

He reaches out his claw like fingers and takes hold of her dress. To him the fabric is like cobweb and he tears it open, exposing the fair prisoner. As she holds her breath in terror, he tears away her dress, leaving her naked. He throws away the torn clothes and moves forward but a command from the other guards stops him just at the moment when his rough hands are about to make contact with her soft skin.

The two guards stand back, regarding the girl. She is at their mercy, chained to the wall, naked and helpless. They smile to each other.

That's it, folks. You have to fill in the rest, I am afraid.