Tom's School Days 16

Should I publish longer texts? Are these too short? I don't know. Here is another one, anyway.

Tom was staring in amazement and disbelief as Amanda Tilly, slowly, and deliberately, although a little nervously opened her shirt, and let it slip from her shoulders.

'Really, there is no need...' he started.

'Please, don't worry,' she replied, lowering her gaze.

'Gratitude?'

'Gratitude!'

Before removing anything else, Miss Tilly unbuttoned her skirt and slipped it off. She sat on the bed, dressed in her underwear. Something of her determination seemed to have left her, and she looked nervously at Tom as if to gain his approval.

Something in the way he stared at her, seemed to have given her courage, because the next thing Tom was presented with, was Amanda's newly bared bosom. He liked what he saw.

When completely devoid of clothes she slipped under his covers and Tom was graced with the bliss of having another person in his bed. He was a little shocked as this other person seemed so keen on getting her hands inside his pyjamas.

On the whole it became a memorable night for Tom. Amanda was not the self assured seducer Stephanie was, but what she lacked in confidence she made up for in enthusiasm and eagerness.

In the morning the knickerless Miss Tilly made her way out of his window with a smile on her face. She had come to persuade Tom to join the Society. She felt she may have succeeded. And, moreover, she had not minded the process.

Monday morning was a particularly dreary morning, rainy and damp, and grey. Tom made his way to lectures in a good mood, although he had very little heart for Medieval History.

He couldn't help craning his neck as he walked across the quad, in search for the slender figure of Amanda Tilly.

At noon the rain had stopped, which was unfortunate for Miss Tamara Saddler. Sometimes if the weather was bad, the Headmaster postponed the execution of public punishments, but now the weather allowed it.

In the middle of the central quad a sturdy pole was stuck in the ground. If a punishment had been announced, the students who wanted to watch, which of course was everyone, gathered in the quad to enjoy.

This time Miss Saddler had been sentenced to receive 24 in public, which was considered quite harsh. The crime no one cared about. The only thing that concerned the gathering crowd was the punishment.

The lunch had been eaten and everyone was in a good mood, perhaps with the exception of Tamara herself. Although she was not inexperienced in public punishments, she still wasn't overly keen.

Tom's School Days 6

Tom's got himself into something of a mess, not that I say it necessarily is an unpleasant mess, but still. Read on and you will see what will happen.

The next morning, Tom woke up, shook his head and wondered what had become of his school days. He wondered if it was his membership in the Mushy Peas Club that had changed it. Or was it he, himself, who had changed?

He had been fooling around with the girls before, and especially Stephanie Burns, but she had never before been so keen, or so, Tom was searching for a word,...advanced.

He was nervous about the after dinner treatment he was to bestow upon Stephanie. At the same time he looked forward to it. He walked through the day in a kind of haze, finding it hard to focus on his studies.

He noted also that there was another kind of attention given him, especially from the girls. He blushed fetchingly when some particularly pretty one smiled at him.

When he walked from lunch, he felt someone grab his arm.

'Hello, Mr Tom Banks,' a small voice said by his side.

He turned to the voice and saw that it belonged to the girl he had treated with the cane the evening before. She held his arms and smiled at him.

'Amanda!' he said.

'You remember my name,' she said, and blushed, still smiling.

'I...I am sorry for yesterday,' he stammered.

'Oh, don't be. I was late, you know.'

'Oh, I see. I had never before...you know.'

'You handled it well, then.'

'Did I?'

'Yes, I can still feel it.'

'Sorry.'

'No, that's how it should be.'

'Do you think so?'

'Yes, of course I do,' Amanda said with a slightly dreamy expression on her face. 'Don't you think that there is a very special affinity between a boy and the girl he has whipped?'

Tom felt mean hearing her call it 'whipped'. It was, indeed, a whipping, but Tom thought it reminded him of far more gruesome things.

'So you are not angry with me?'

'No, not at all, you did your duty.'

'Yes, yes,' he said, his voice uncertain, 'I did my duty.'

'I use to take a walk in the garden, after dinner,' she said.

'Oh, I am busy,' he replied before thinking of what he was saying.

'I know, but not every evening.'

'No, no, that's true.'

Amanda left and hurried away. Some distance away, she turned, and smiled and waved to him.

Tom was baffled, but not in an unpleasant way. He liked Amanda. She was very different from Stephanie, smaller, darker, cuter in a way, although Tom had always found Stephanie very beautiful.

Dinner came and Tom was not able to fully appreciate the blandness of the stew and the texture of the overcooked vegetables.

He walked on trembling legs back to his hall of residence. A small crowd had already gathered outside his room. There were mostly boys, for obvious reasons. Only boys were allowed in the boy's hall of residence, unless invited by a resident. Besides Stephanie there were some girls who had, indeed, been invited to watch the spectacle.

'I never knew I was this popular,' Stephanie said as Tom unlocked the door.

'Will you just wait a second, until we can get in?' he shouted above the crowd. They held back a little, although the constant chattering didn't stop.

The audience stared through the doorway as Tom and Stephanie went in. The room was small, and Tom had made sure to put anything private away. He still didn't like the idea of having a lot of people there.

He took his chair, the one by his desk and turned it around. Stephanie stood beside the chair with an expression on her face he couldn't interpret. She didn't look scared, rather amused, or even eager. He was surprised and a little confused.

'Can we come in?' someone said.

'All right,' Tom barked, 'but not too close.'

A dozen or so crammed themselves into the room, the rest gathered in the doorway. They all stared eagerly at Tom and Stephanie.

Tom's School Days 5

Another instalment of the story of Tom and his experiences in school. I do enjoy writing it, but I can see that this story dominates my blogging at the moment. Please let me know if you get bored by it.

Tom's reaction and actions weren't exactly rational as Stephanie paid lip service to his member who dutifully stood to attention. He knew Stephanie was gifted and very, very attractive, but he was still surprised and even overwhelmed by her skills.

He did very little but gasp and moan and bite his lip. What he did do, included trying desperately to yank down Stephanie's shirt from her shoulders, making her more naked than she was. He wanted more of her, but as it was, she was almost out of reach for him, and he didn't want to interrupt what she was doing.

Everything must end, and this event reached its conclusion, all too soon, but not soon enough for Tom. And as Stephanie was occupied with the after-care of his tired warrior, using both her mouth and hands, Tom was slowly coming back to the realm of the living.

Fortunately, for Tom, Stephanie had just managed to replace what she had released, when disaster struck. A voice resounded through the night.

'What have we here?'

Tom immediately recognised the voice as that of Mr Allen, the History teacher, one of the sterner of the staff. His heart stopped beating, as it seemed.

'We were just talking,' Stephanie, said, and turned to Mr Allen who had appeared out of the shadows. She was still on her knees.

'I do understand you have been using your mouth, my dear, but that doesn't explain the shirt.'

'Oh,' she said and immediately pulled her shirt up and began buttoning it. She rose to her feet, and stood back from the lecturer.

'Mr Allen,' Tom began, 'I can explain...'

'No, need to explain, Tom. It is late, but you are, after all a member of the Mushy Peas Club.'

'But...'

'You, on the other hand,' he said and turned to Stephanie, 'are in breach of the curfew, caught with your dress in disorder, and suspected of inappropriate conduct.'

'I am sorry, sir,' Stephanie whispered, sounding meek.

'You know we have no hesitation in dealing with misdeeds, and that we do not spare the rod. This calls for a punishment, you know that, of course?'

'Of course, sir.'

'I will give you a choice, Miss Burns, and that is between 20 in the yard, or 40 in my rooms.'

In the yard meant that the cane would be applied publicly, in the yard, where a whipping post was set in the ground. It allowed students and staff to watch and was generally considered a great disgrace.

'Oh, please, Mr Allen.'

'Surely you agree that your conduct calls for some disciplining.'

'Yes, sir, I do. But can't Tom do it? Please.'

'Ah, that's an idea,' Mr Allen said, his face lightening up, 'it is not such a bad idea.'

'Please, Mr Allen, Tom can punish me, in his room.'

'Well, why not. If Mr Banks agrees to it.'

'Please, Tom, will you do it?'

Tom was flabbergasted. But Stephanie looked desperate, as if she really wanted it, and she had been very kind to him.

'Yes, sir,' he replied, 'I'll do it.'

'Good. Tomorrow, after dinner, Miss Burns will come to your room, where you will give her 60 strokes with the cane.'

'60?'

'Yes, 60. I will inspect her Friday morning, and I know what to expect. I know what a bottom is supposed to look like after 60 sharp cuts with the cane. You, Tom, will get a cane from the porters lodge.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Is that what you want, Stephanie?'

'Yes, sir.'

'So be it. And you can't do it in private, anyone around will have the privilege of watching. Understood?'

'Yes, sir,' they both said.

'Agreed then, good night.'

'Good night, sir,' they said in unison.

'And, don't forget, always on the bare.'

'No, sir, yes, sir.'

In a Pickle

I can imagine that some of you will find this story a tad insensitive. I guess it is. Still I decided to write it and publish it. If only to show that imagination is strange and that mine is not always doing what it should. If you are a tinsy winsy bit like me, your imagination wanders off in very inappropriate ways when it shouldn't. It doesn't mean you condone the things that made it wander. I think you will understand this and forgive me for this story.

It goes without saying that I do not condone the gadget riots in UK, and I do take them seriously. It's just that my mind got some strange ideas at the same time, quite detached from my moral compass.

There I was, standing in a room, in front of four sturdy policemen, dressed in nothing more than a neon green t-shirt. It was long and covering, almost like a very short dress, but the fact that it was the only thing I was wearing, made the stares of the four men much more intimidating than would otherwise have been the case.

It started as a very ordinary day. I was walking home and noticed that there was some commotion in the streets. There were policemen and people in a angry mix. I didn't care that much, instead I tried to keep away from the crowd and found myself walking down a small lane.

As it happened I came out on a larger street where chaos had already started. Now I began to realise that something was, indeed, happening.

I had not much time to think about it, before I was grabbed by a motley crew who pulled me aside. They were a mixed bunch of mixed colours and creed and the only thing they seemed to have in common was their audacity and desire to take what they wanted.

They began immediately to help themselves to my clothes. They were very efficient, I must admit, and soon I was lying on the ground, quite naked, and held by my arms and legs. The gang was about to help themselves to more than my clothes when I heard the clang of metal.

The hissing sound that was heard made them release me and scamper away like frightened squirrels. The white smoke and the pain in my eyes and throat suggested that a cannister of tear gas had fallen nearby.

I fled down an alley as I saw the riot police rush forward. Out of the immediate danger I found it appropriate to try to take care of the fact that I was stark naked.

After have been running for my life, I started walking cautiously, scared that I would cut my bare feet on glass or other debris on the ground. I heard the fighting behind me, but found no one in the alley. I thought this was a good thing, since I was not keen on being stared at in my present condition.

I got to a street that had already been affected by the riots and found myself standing by a smashed window, staring at a neon green t-shirt that someone had dropped. It seemed like a heaven sent gift, so I took the shirt and donned it. I found that it was long enough to cover me and thought that now, at least, I was more able to get home with a minimum of embarrassment.

My plans had to change when I turned around and was confronted by the riot squad, complete with helmets and shields and very nasty looking sticks. They wasted no time and arrested me and bundled me into a police van.

I was glad the others were equipped with handcuffs too, their eyes told me that otherwise they would have taken the opportunity to strip me of my last vestiges of decency, and probably more.

The police station was brimful of looters locked up in the cells, so I was ushered into a room where the situation was explained to me. It was very simple. I had been caught looting and would be charged for it.

There was an alternative, though. If I was willing to accept them dealing with my case immediately, they would let me go.

So there I was, standing, facing the four sturdy policemen who where about to deal with my case. The way they said 'deal with' made me understand that it would be something quite unpleasant but temporary, as opposed to the drawn out process that otherwise would have been my fate.

As soon as I had nodded, accepting their suggestion, I was gripped by my neck and my upper body was forced down on a table. I saw the glaring eyes and the evil smiles and began to regret my decision.

Soon I saw one of the policemen remove his belt from his trousers, while another pulled my shirt up.

I must admit I was embarrassed as he stopped short and started chuckling.

'This one has made it easy, no knickers.'

'What a pity, I quite like that.'

'What?'

'The getting rid of knickers thing.'

'Well, you do it with some gusto.'

'I can't help it they tear so easily.'

One of the policemen grabbed my wrists and the other held me down with a grip around my neck. The third one had the belt, while the fourth was just staring.

A strong policeman with a belt in his hand, trying to make you suffer while your bottom is naked and exposed to his efforts, is not a nice thing. The impact was terrible, my body rocking forward while my buttocks exploded with pain.

He seemed to be skilled with the belt. And he was not keen on mercy. No, he let the dreaded belt swing through the air and land on my unprotected skin, time and again.

I did cry. I did yell and whimper. It was hard to avoid it. And it never stopped. I guess he had a lot of frustration to take out on me.

I was quite numb as I was finally let up from the table. The smiling policemen said I was now free to go. I nodded. Before I had time to leave they told me that the shirt I was wearing was looted and had to be returned.

I did hesitate. It is understandable, considering the fact that it was the only item of clothing I was wearing. But the smiling policemen were very helpful and soon I was stripped of the neon green t-shirt.

I was embarrassed walking through the reception on my way out. Once again, I found myself in the not so enviable situation of having to get home through the city wearing absolutely nothing.

How I got home is another story, a completely different story.

A Place of One's Own

At the very end of this month, I will present you with a lovely little piece by someone I have known for some time, through my blog. I have the permission to post it although I don't know what to call the author. They will have to get back to me to let me know. At the moment they are just Anonymous.

This is not, as you will see, a story about whipping and slavery. This is a story about devotion and determination. It is also, I believe, a story about pride. Anonymous mentioned Jane Eyre in our conversation about this story and I didn't understand. The more I think about it, the more I believe it really has to do with pride. And the thought of Jane Eyre makes sense then.

I think this is a really beautiful story and I am proud to be able to put it on the blog. Read and enjoy.

With much bowing and murmuring, they brought my new slave girl to me. She was a small thing, thin-boned, high tight bosom, slim hips. Everything about her was tiny, in fact, except her darting almond eyes and full lips. Rather plain, I thought. Quite unlike the ripe beauties who waited, each evening, for the golden apple that summoned one or two, or ten, to revels and games in my bedchamber.

My eunuch detected my indifference to her. "She will serve you well," he said. "She is obedient and clever. She has been trained in all the arts. She can dance and sing and ... of course..."

"No doubt," I replied. "Leave us."

"Nearer, girl." She stepped forward on slim, long-toed feet. "Kneel." She sank down smoothly, eyes slightly downcast. Her training, no doubt.

"What," I asked, "do you do best?"

She paused. "My Master will learn, and perhaps tell me."

"The proper answer," I said sternly, "is that the thing you do best is to serve me."

She nodded.

"And will you serve me?"

"Oh yes," she said, "yes."

"And how will you serve me?"

"By being for you what no one else will be. By doing for you what none else would do."

I shook my head. "You'll have to better than that. My slaves do what I tell them, always. They become whatever I require."

"I offer more..." she whispered, head still lowered. "More than that."

Her vanity amused me, momentarily. I would test that vanity, I thought. I shall let her observe me with my favorites -- let her see these exquisite girls, so much lovelier than she, give a man everything he could dream of. Let her watch, and find herself untouched, unseen, unnoticed in our frenzy. Let her ache.

"No doubt," I replied. I sipped my wine, planning.

"Master," she said quietly. A statement, not a question. "Yes?" "Master may I ask a question?"

Surely she knew better. But I was amused enough to say, gravely, "You may ask a question."

"Your servants told me that you punish slaves who disobey you."

"Of course."

"They told me that your arm is strong, your whip cruel."

"Why would you ask such a question? Are you afraid of being whipped?"

"No," she replied. "I am not afraid..."

"Perhaps you should be." My voice was cold.

"But they said... they said..."

"What? What did they say? Speak up."

"They said that if I obey you I would not be punished."

At last I understood. "They speak truly, little slave girl. Obey me and you will not be punished. Obey and you need not fear my strong arm or my cruel whip."

She nodded.

"Now leave," I ordered, "until you are summoned."

I turned to the window, savoring the tart wine, watching the sun set. Then I rose. She was still there, kneeling.

"I told you to go," I said, my voice all menace. I expected her to flee. She remained, still kneeling.

"Leave, I tell you." She said nothing. "Are you deaf?" I thundered. "Leave!"

She stood now, feet apart, gazing into my eyes, silent.

"So be it." I strode to the wall, where the whiplash hung on a peg. I snapped it. She jumped, but held her ground.

So be it.

I took her two little wrists in one hand and pulled her into the antechamber. She moaned when she saw the hook in the ceiling. She resisted with her little strength as I bound her small hands and secured them over her head.

I clapped three times. My servants rushed in, then stopped short as they saw her, helpless, awaiting punishment. "Watch and learn," I told them. I ripped open her tunic, baring her back. I pulled it down, exposing her bottom. I leaned close to her. "As for you -- FEEL and learn."

I stroked her back with the long whip. Her breath was fast, her eyes closed.

She endured the first lashes in silence. I stood farther off, bringing the whip to play over her maiden breasts. Now she danced and sang.

I struck harder. I used all my cunning to time her stripes. She hung in her bonds, exhausted, overawed. I struck between her legs and she rose up again, shrieking piteously.

I could feel every nerve in my body, feel my strength coursing through me. I felt... I felt pleasure at teaching this sylph a lesson in long, hissing strokes.

"Leave us now." The servants backed away quickly. As obedient as they had been, as eager to please, they would now be abject, driven, unrestrained in their duties. I imagined my buxom lovelies -- how industrious they would be tonight, how creative, how artful, how abandoned...

I held her pretty face in my hands. Her ... pretty face. Pretty? How odd.

And then a thought.

I took a dipper of water from the jar and held it to her lips. Still sobbing, she drank greedily. I gave her another drink of water, and another. I could see how the blinding agony of her flogging was receding just a bit, to a dull, more distant pain. How her dread and fear and humiliation were giving way to exhaustion and oblivion.

"No," I said. "You may not sleep, not yet."

"Then I shall not," she whispered.

"You fool," I said, "why did you disobey me?"

She shook her head. "No..."

"I ordered you to leave, and you defied me. Why would you disobey me, knowing what would come?

She was still shaking her head. "Ssss...." She couldn't get the word out.

"What are you trying to say? 'Sir,,' is that it?"

"No," she murmured.

"Say it. Say it now. What were you trying to do, in my chambers, when you defied me?

"Sss... serve...serving you... master..."

"What?" I sputtered. "Serving me? How?"

The words came slowly. I ladled more water into her parched mouth. "Giving you....the one thing," she whispered. "That ... no ... one... else would do for ... you."

"Giving me disobedience? Defying me?"

She nodded. Her reedy voice was stronger now. "I told you I was not afraid of the lash. Plain girls must be fearless."

"Go on." I stroked her cheek.

"Everyone is so terrified of my master. Too terrified to ever..."

"Disobey me?"

"To give you leave to whip them. Too terrified to give you what you truly need, as a man, as their master. Selfish slaves. All they offer is their beautiful pampered bodies, their perfect, skilled caresses."

I nodded.

"I gave you that. I am not beautiful..."

"Shhh," I whispered, feeling suddenly tender. "Hush, slave. You are beautiful."

"No," she replied sadly. "They are great beauties, your many women, your harem, your slaves. But plain as I am..."

She paused. "Plain as I am, I have found a place."

I released her. She slumped to the floor.


I had my six girls that night. I took my pleasure from them roughly, imperiously. I grabbed, I sucked, I bit their perfect breasts. I plunged into their mouths, their cunts, their bottoms. They groaned and endured.

A week later, I took the little slave girl to my bed. I used her a bit roughly, marveling at the fading weals. "Serve me..." She was generous and graceful then, as in all things. But she was still ...

As I lay back, she knelt by the bed. "Next week, master..."

"Time will tell."

"Next week," she said, insistently.

"Next week, what?"

"Next week I shall be... strong enough to disobey you again."

I nodded. "So you say. But the second offense merits harsher punishment than the first. Think on that."

She thought.

"It is my place, to serve and not obey."

Some Kind of Cruelty?

This is a little something I wrote some time ago. I guess this is how I write, more about what happens in the mind than with the body.

And I have to say that I find your interpretations of the last post interesting. I thought I left some of the things unsaid, so a different kind of interpretation is quite possible.

This is madness. This day is ruined. My mind is in turmoil, I can't concentrate. I need to focus, I need my faculties. I have a job to do and I need to be here.

He ruined it yesterday. I didn't sleep well. How could I? He is an evil man. He knows my day will be horrible.

He sent me an SMS. Very modern. It is just like him, a combination of extremes; medieval mind and a 21st century knowledge of technology.

'Tomorrow 8 be ready!' That was what he sent me. I knew I had something coming, that was not the surprise. Still my heart started beating, and have kept on beating really hard ever since. Those two words: 'be ready,' made all the difference. It means it will be severe.

My day is ruined, I can't concentrate on my job, my colleagues thinks I am unhappy or mad and I can't talk to anyone about it, not even my best friends at the office. They would probably fall off their chairs if I told them I was nervous for a punishment.

And we are going out after work. I know they will ask about me, how I am and all that. I can't tell them. They won't understand. How could they possibly understand?

'You see, this guy, I am with, he punishes me when I am doing something wrong.' How would they react to that? They would call the police, demand I went for counselling.

He should really pay my boss for sending me an SMS like that. I am not very efficient at work today. I can't get it out of my head. All I can think of is this punishment.

He knows what he is doing. He knows exactly how I will react, he knows very well that he will ruin my sleep and my day. He wants it. He wants me to feel like this. Oh, I wish it was evening, I want it over and done with.

Waiting for a punishment is like waiting for the dentist. No, it is worse. The dentist at least tries to minimise my suffering. A punishment is the opposite. He wants me to suffer. He wants it to be bad.

'Be ready' means it will be a hard one, a lot of suffering for me, a severe punishment. I can't keep my mind from wondering, what will it be?

Severe may mean a long one or it may be with something really painful. Or it may mean both. He has this really heavy paddle, as he calls it. It is really mean. The weight of it makes it terrible. It really, really hurts.

I don't want to think about it. I am at work and my colleagues will wonder what is on my mind. Still, I can't get the thought of the dreaded paddle out of my head.

He has used a bamboo stick too. That is not nice. It is supposed to be dangerous, it may split and you may cut yourself, or rather he may cut me. But he is careful about those things. I trust him. The bamboo stick is really, really painful. There is a kind of raw power in it.

But it is supposed to hurt. I am supposed to be in pain. It is a punishment after all. I don't like it but I am not supposed to like it.

It is such a contradiction, sitting in this office, being a professional, being good at what I am, being among my peers, polite and nice and well behaved. And knowing that this evening I will lie or kneel somewhere in some kind of state of undress. I don't know exactly how I will be dressed but I am sure I will not be wearing knickers. I will have bared myself and I will receive my punishment. On my body.

It is madness. I know it is madness to let someone punish you, to let someone decide those things, let someone choose to give you pain. It is madness, especially if you are so scared, as I am. I know I am mad.

'Dear colleagues, your fellow worker, who is sitting among you will this evening go to her partner's flat, and there she will submit herself to this cruel and painful punishment for which she will bare her body in order to make it more painful.' I can't possibly tell them why I look so nervous. They would lock me up, if I did.

Because, I can't make them understand that I want this. How could they understand that there is mutual understanding in this? How could they understand that I have given him this right, this right to rule over me and my body, given myself over to him? How could I explain that although I am scared witless by the thought of my punishment, I do, really want him to have that power over me and that giving him that power means he will use it. It would be pointless if he didn't.

How could I tell them I want it?

Cold

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.

Punished

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?'

'Yes.'

'Get the whip.'

'Yes.'

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.'

'And...?'

'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.

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.