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."
"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...
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.