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.