In Denial?

As a comment for my last blogpost, In the Desert, Lily wrote: 'When I first read this, I immediately wanted to respond that if I were there (or if I were continuing the writing) I would be plotting her rescue'. This made me think. The first thing I want to say is that I react in exactly the same way. I find it hard to write cruel stories because I do want people to be happy. On the other hand, what makes a story or a fantasy interesting is the tension, the excitement and passion.

I want the slavery to be gruesome, the whipping to be painful and the undressing quite shocking. It is not that I strive to create a sensation in the reader (although I don't mind), it is what I want to read myself, what I want to write about. Not that I am always true to this, sometimes I get caught up in some conversation or want to write about sweetness and kindness and then there is not much tension.

Leaving my inconsistencies aside, what I wanted to get to was that I can see that I am in denial when it comes to fantasies, and writing about them. The tension in a scene where you are tied to a whipping post, or kneeling in a room where you are going to be caned, lies in the difference between the gruesomeness and terror that is there and the arousal you still feel.

This is no news for you, I know that, and many of you, I gather, have no problems with this. You know and embrace that thrill, that arousal and perhaps even see it as the main ingredient.

When I think of myself I can see that that I have a quite complicated view on this. On the one hand, I know well that the very reason to write and read about dropped knickers and smacked bottoms is because we find it arousing and exciting. Still I struggle a lot with the gruesomeness of it all. I tend to write about the negative side of it or use neutral terms, maybe to emphasise the tension between the outer harshness and the inner excitement. But this is also an expression of my own ambiguity.

I do feel ashamed of feeling excited about stories where women are treated badly by men, stories that contain abuse and cruelty. Still it is what I want, what I get excited about and want to write.

My point is, and this is a very personal point, that I am so caught up in this tension and the guilt I feel for writing about it, that I miss the very obvious. The truth is that when I stand in front of the guests of the manor house, slipping off my last item of clothing, preparing for a truly vicious horsewhip, I feel excited. I have to hide it but the main sensation is delight, although mixed with fear and dread. And it is damned sexy to be tied naked to some tree, having to be rescued by a hero, feeling completely vulnerable and exposed. What I feel when I climb the stairs to the platform of the slave market, to be displayed naked for all prospective buyers is arousal.

You know this. I know that and maybe you will find me unbelievably naïve to have to blog about it, but there is a difference between understanding something intellectually and even accepting it, and really knowing it in your heart and sometimes it is the most obvious that you do your best to deny.

In the Desert

Sometimes you start with just an image in your head. You want to write it, to do something with it. A story emerges, you decide on a point of view, a way of telling your story, the image that has become a story, or at least a part of something bigger. You have to limit yourself, you can't write a book about every idea in your head.

So, here it is, an image that has become the merest minimum of a story. Something I just wrote, writing without thinking too much.

When I saw their wagon I had been alone in the wasteland for five days and had begun to despair. I wasn't sure I would reach the river in time, having lost my way in the endless desert. I was apprehensive, of course, but seeing their horses and their fire gave me hope.

They greeted me with some suspicion as I approached their camp. I wasn't surprised, I was suspicious too. I explained my situation and they saw the importance of welcoming me. It took a while before we all relaxed but when I took from my bags the food I had brought they smiled and I think they then saw my honest intentions.

I had food but not much water and although they were well supplied with both, the fresh meat I had hunted and brought made them far more friendly than before.

They were two rowdy men, unshaven and weather worn. They had travelled a lot through the wasteland, I could tell, and seemed to belong to the hardy stock of men who inhabited these trails.

As I tied my horse to the wheel of their wagon, I saw that there were one more companion in their group. Suddenly I stood face to face with a girl.

She had blond hair that was cropped short, like that of a boy. She was slender and at least a head shorter than me. She stood by the wagon, leaning against it, her hands behind her back. She was almost completely naked. The only garment she wore was a loincloth, like a pair of knickers that looked to be made of chamois leather. It consisted of just a triangle in front, that hugged her body, and was tied with thin strings in the sides.

The girl regarded me but said nothing. She looked sullen and glared at me.

'Hi, there,' I said, a little surprise to find her there.

I looked at her body, that was on full display. It was delicate, young and slender. Her belly was smooth and flat and her legs long and shapely. She had narrow shoulders and narrow hips and her breasts were small and round with rosy nipples. Her skin was fair but was a little tanned.

It was a surprise to suddenly stand face to face with a so naked girl. I looked at her face and then at her body, then at her face again. I wondered who she was and what she was doing there. Why was she naked?

She didn't reply. She just stared at me and I couldn't tell what I saw in her face. She looked sullen, almost angry and I felt a sudden pang of annoyance with her for being so silent and so untalkative.

I took a look at her breasts and let my eyes linger on her nipples, then glide down her belly and then further down her lower belly and onto the chamois leather cloth. Her sullenness made me think I had the right to ogle her, as if her refusal to greet me gave me the right to enjoy her nakedness, as if she didn't deserve my respect.

'Isn't she pretty?' One of the men said.

'Quite a catch,' the other one said.

I didn't reply.

The girl moved a little and I saw the reason why she held her hands behind her back. A leather strap was tied around her wrists. I knew then that the other man's use of the word 'catch' was not a manner of speaking.

'Who is she?' I asked as I returned to the men.

'She won't say, we found her in the desert.'

'We call her Cathy,' the other one said, smiling.

We sat down by the fire and one of the men, the one who was called Bart, stirred a pot of stew he had made from the their supplies and the fresh meat I had brought. He scooped the stew onto tin plates and handed them to me and to his friend, Matt.

'The girl, won't she eat?'

'We use to feed her after we have eaten, we don't want her to get ideas.'

I nodded.

'But if you want,' Matt continued, 'we can give her some now.'

'If she is as hungry as I am,' I said.

'Bart, get her.'

The man called Bart, who was a little burlier than the other got to his feet and returned with the girl in tow. He conduced her with a grip on her arm and she seemed reluctant to move.

'Knees,' Matt commanded and she gave him a surly look and dropped to her knees.

'You know what I mean,' he said, sighing, 'do you wan to go naked tomorrow?'

The girl awkwardly moved her knees apart. Matt looked at her but said nothing. The girl glared at him and moved her knees further apart.

'Untie her now,' he ordered his friend.

Bart then untied her wrists and gave her a plate of stew. She smelled it suspiciously but then she begun to eat.

I had my own stew and thought it delicious, at least as delicious as food ever become in the desert. It was fresh meat and I was hungry.

I looked at the girl, they called Cathy, and enjoyed the sight of her naked body by my side. She ate and moved and in the light from the fire her body had taken on another hue. The sun was sinking and the world became darker.

'Do you want to fuck her?' Matt said, turning to me.

It struck me that this was a great kindness. He wanted me to share her with them. A woman in a camp of men in the desert was a valuable thing and now he offered her to me, to share her with them.

I looked at Cathy and I felt deep in me that I wouldn't mind. She was young, almost a girl, but in many ways she was very much a woman.

'Or if you don't want it, you can whip her.'

This remark they both found hilarious. Both he and Bart began laughing.

'Whip her?'

I looked at Cathy but she seemed not to be upset or shocked. Maybe she was used to being whipped, or maybe she didn't understand what it meant.

'Yeah, isn't that what you do to women?'

Matt seemed to find this remark very witty, he looked at Bart who nodded consent.

'What has she done?'

'Nothing, we do it for fun.'

I looked at him, then at Bart, then at Matt again and then at Cathy.

'Don't worry, we don't use a proper whip on her, just a martinet, show him, Bart.'

Bart turned to his saddle that was lying beside him and produced a martinet with thin leather strands with knots on. He gave it to me to hold and I felt it was heavy enough to make an impact, especially if the girl was naked.

I looked at Cathy who was still eating her stew and wondered what it would be like to whip her with the martinet. I found the thought both cruel and exciting and wondered if I should do it, just because I could, just because the opportunity had presented itself.

'I am tired,' I said as I handed the whip back to Bart. 'I don't want to cause her any misery.'

'Too tired to fuck her?' Bart asked me, a grin on his face.

'Yes, too tired to fuck her,' I said.

Cathy got to her feet and collected the plates. She poured a little water into a bowl and washed them. She worked with just the tiniest amount of water as one does in the desert. I looked at her while I rolled out my blanket and prepared my bed.

She turned her back towards me and in the light from the fire I saw that her buttocks were marked by darker patches. I wondered if the two men really whipped her with their martinet.

I curled up under my blanket. Matt and Bart was still rummaging through the wagon, rearranging things, as it seemed. Cathy stood to the side, regarding them.

I was really tired and nodded off. I woke up again, a little later and found that the others were still up. I heard some groaning and moaning some distance away. I heard the murmuring of deep voices and thought that Matt and Bart were talking to each other.

I heard another voice, not talking but giving off tiny whimpers. I wondered if Matt and Bart were enjoying themselves with Cathy. Then I heard a swishing sound and a sharp report. Then the sounds was repeated. And again.

The whimpering grew to moans while the series of sounds kept on. I knew that this was the sound of the girl being whipped. The sharp reports were the sound of the martinet making contact with her skin.

She didn't scream of cry out. I heard only those whimpers. And the deeper sighs and mutterings of the men.

After a while the sounds stopped and a little later Matt and Bart made their beds with their blankets on the other side of the fire, from me. I didn't see Cathy anywhere.

In the morning, I woke up early. I rose and went to tend to my horse. My limbs were stiff after a night on the ground. The sun was rising slowly and was warming up the cold night air.

As I came round the wagon, I saw Cathy sitting on the ground. She had her hands behind her back and I saw that there was a rope tied round her ankle. She was leaning against the wheel. I thought she must be freezing. The air was still cold. I saw a blanket by her side and thought that her captors had been kind enough to provide her with at least some comfort.

'Morning,' I said.

'Morning,' she replied and I was surprised she had answered.

I patted my horse and made sure she was happy before I turned back to Cathy.

'Did they whip you last night?'

She didn't reply, instead she turned her body and showed me her bottom. In the morning sun I saw that there were new marks on her buttocks, a chaos of straight lines that shone red and blue in places.

I was surprised she wanted to sit by the wheel. Her bottom must be sore. I noticed she hadn't her chamois leather knickers on. They had been removed and I thought I knew the reason for that.

'Where are you from, Cathy?'

'I am not Cathy.'

'What is your name, then?'

'Amanda.'

'So, where are you from, Amanda?'

'From the east, a farm by the river.'

'How come you ended up here?'

'They stole me, not more than a hundred yards from my home.'

'Do you want to go back?'

'Of course I want to go back.'

'They are still sleeping...'

'Don't, don't even think of it. They will cut you down in seconds. I have seen it happen.'

'If I act now, while they are sleeping.'

'No, please, don't. You seem nice. I don't want to see you hurt. And you will have to kill them. They will hunt you as an outlaw.'

'But they stole you.'

'How will I prove that?'

'I have no money, I can't buy you.'

I know.'

Then Matt was awake. I knew I had been playing with options and possibilities but in the naked morning light, faced with Matt and Bart, all seemed so normal. Amanda was just a girl, a girl with no clothes on, who now belonged to these men. It was as it was.

We had breakfast and Amanda, or Cathy, served us and knelt to the side, this time she kept her knees apart without having to be threatened by Matt. She was still naked.

The temperature rose slowly and Amanda was cold. I could see goosebumps on her skin and thought that it made her look smoother and lovelier in a way.

Bart threw her the leather garment and she donned it eagerly. I looked at her and she looked up at me and our eyes met. She held my gaze for a second, then she turned away.

They were going west and I was going east so we departed in opposite directions. I knew now were I was and they had given me a small supply of water so I knew I would make it to my destination.

I turned around in the saddle and saw them leave. Matt and Bart on their horses, Amanda, or was it Cathy, really, on her feet, walking away.

I wondered what happened to her.

Thank You

Just a short blogpost about politeness. I do appreciate politeness, I really do. I see on some forums and blogs how people take any opportunity to be rude and seem to look for anything they can misconstrue as something they don't like. I don't understand this and I get a little upset when I am being attacked for trying to talk about something nicely.

My point with this post is to say that this never happens here. You are a very nice bunch of people who come here and read and comment. I never have to delete rude comments or nasty opinions. There is no meanness and no anger. I am sure you don't like everything I write and disagree with me quite often and with each other but still you are polite. Thank you, Dear Readers, for that.

Just to let you know. If you sometimes see comments disappear it is almost always because they try to use my blog for selling something. I think I once or twice, during all this time, have had to remove a comment because it was too personal or too rude. Sometimes someone post a comment and then correct it immediately, then I usually remove the first of them. But I don't see this as being rude.

Black or Red?

I can't say that I much fancy the kind of spanking stories that features an arrogant teenage girl or a sloppy wife or anyone who generally is at fault, the kind of person who gets her comeuppance and leaves you with the sense that this was the thing that was needed, the punishment that set things straight. There is a kind of moral I don't like at all, that some people deserve punishments, that it is somehow right to give them a whacking.

Don't get me wrong. I do understand that someone may think that they want to spank another person, even think they deserve it. It is when this assumption is taken for granted I don't like the story

I don't think that fantasy stories have to be politically correct. Far from it. If there is somewhere we should be allowed to form the world exactly how we want it, it should be in our imagination. Sometimes the very prejudices, the stuffy moral is what makes the fantasy a good one. It's not the misogyny in the Gor books I resent. These kind of things are often what drives a fantasy.

It is just that I don't much fancy those kind of stories. Regardless of this I thought I should try to write one, complete with a mean woman who has it coming and all that. I am not consistent, never accuse me of being consistent.

George was a friend from university, we had known each other for some time. I liked George, he was the kind of person you couldn't help liking. He was a very peaceful person, actually one of those who really didn't like conflicts. I never saw him as meek, though, kind and gentle and sometimes a little too cautious but not meek.

He had married a beautiful woman. Her name was Katherine. She was tall, had dark eyes and dark brown hair. She was an intelligent person, had an active mind and was one of those who got things done.

With George she was vicious. I don't know why she ever married him. He, on the other hand, adored her, he was devoted to her and did everything for her. It was hard not to be a little hostile to her the way she treated him.

She mocked him openly and told him, in front of others, what a useless nobody he was. It hurt to see it.

I don't want to judge, maybe he deserved it, maybe she had her reasons but to anyone watching she was vicious.

We had met up with a group of friends at a restaurant, a rather fancy one. Katherine and George were there and so was I. It was obvious that Katherine was in a foul mood. It didn't take long before she lashed out at George.

'You are not a man, George, you are a boy and boys don't get to kiss pretty girls.'

'Please, Katherine.'

'Don't 'please' me, why should I keep quiet? You let everyone walk all over you.'

'That's not true.'

'This Sasha woman, she is not even your boss, you let her order you around.'

'I am helping her, Katherine.'

'She is pretty and she lets you do all the job and she gets the credit.'

'You are being harsh.'

'I am not harsh, I am gentle. No real man would let someone, like this Sasha, use you like she does.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'In Russia, I have been told, a woman is not satisfied with her husband until he whips her.'

'Isn't that taking it too far?'

'You don't get it, do you, gentle George, you are just a boy.'

At this point some other friend butted in and directed the conversation away from George and onto something completely different.

I spoke with George later, when the conversations were not across the table but face to face.

'George,' I said, 'why do you let her talk to you, like that?'

'What can I do?' He looked miserable.

'Maybe she has a point?'

'What do you mean?'

'Maybe you are too gentle?'

'I don't know, I don't know. It makes me all frustrated.'

'And angry?'

'Yes, angry too.'

'Maybe that's a good thing.'

Some time later I was invited to a dinner at George and Katherine's house. They lived in a nice house that had a dining room that allowed rather nice dinners.

I was early, way too early. I know this is extremely impolite but I thought I may help them with the dinner or just be there for them. George was a good friend and he had seemed very stressed out about this dinner. It was Katherine's idea but it made George anxious.

As I walked up to the front door, I noticed it was open. I called out but no one answered. I peeked through and saw no one so I decided to walk in. I considered myself a very good friend of George's and I knew he liked me too. It wasn't according to protocol to enter like that but I dared it anyway.

I heard that they were busy on the first floor. I listened and found that they were very busy. I heard upset voices and realised a row was going on.

Curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to know what George and the delightful Katherine rowed about. I walked halfway up the stairs and prepared myself to look confused and surprised should any of them find me there.

Now I could hear what they said.

'No, you bastard, I am not going to wear the black dress. It makes me look like a prostitute.' Katherine was incensed.

'I don't think you look like a prostitute,' George said, his voice lower.

'It clings to my body, I don't like it, it's too short. And it isn't going to happen.'

'I think it is stylish...'

'It's vulgar.'

'...and sexy. You look great in it.'

I heard something new in his voice. I couldn't put my finger on it. His voice was low, almost purring but there was a tone of something else there, something a little menacing. And in combination with the trivial matter of which dress his wife was to wear I realised something unusual was happening.

'Why are you staring like that?' Katherine said, her voice sharp.

'Put on the black dress.'

'No.'

'Put it on.'

'Don't be ridiculous. Are you going to force me.'

'For the last time, put it on.'

The sharpness in George's voice made me prick up my ears.

'No.'

George didn't reply. I heard him walk across the room and open a door. He soon returned and I heard Katherine laugh.

'What are you doing with that thing?' Her voice was mocking him.

'You will soon find out.'

'I will soon find out,' she repeated, her voice cold as ice.

'Come here.'

'Why on earth would I do...'

There was commotion in the room. I heard someone move across the floor. Then silence. Through the silence came strange whimpering sounds, sounds of frustration, and perhaps struggle. Were they wrestling?

I had to get closer.

'You bastard!' Katherine cried.

'Long...time...coming.'

I sneaked up to the door to their bedroom. It was slightly ajar and I could peek through the opening. What I saw made me gasp.

In the bedroom was a comfy armchair. It was covered in green velvet and not stylish enough for the living room and I assume that is why it ended up in the bedroom instead. Across the armrest Katherine was lying, face down. She was dressed in a bright red satin dress. I had seen it before, it was a rather nice dress. Now it was in disarray.

George was standing beside her, leaning over her and as more and more details became clear, I saw that he was holding his wife down on the armchair with a grip on her arm, an arm that was twisted on her back.

I didn't see Katherine's head but I could clearly see her bottom. It was no longer covered by her dress. The skirt was ruthlessly pushed up over her back. Furthermore I noticed that she had no knickers on. I then saw that this was not completely true. They hung around her knees and looked very thin and black and lacy.

In his other hand, George held a long narrow object. I thought it could be a black riding crop. As I looked through the door he brought this vicious thing down on the very unprotected bottom of his wife. The sound was tremendous. I heard a short swishing sound that was followed by a sharp report when the leather of the crop hit the soft skin of Katherine's behind.

I flinched and gasped as I heard Katherine cry out, in anger and frustration more than anything.

'You bastard.'

Her protest was cut short by another sharp cut by the horsewhip. The effect was immediate and now there was agony in the unarticulated cry Katherine let out.

She kicked her legs and tried to wriggle free but this time, George was the stronger. She was rewarded with another lash by the crop.

I stared at the scene in front of my eyes. George let the whip fly through the air, time and time again only to land with devastating effect on the naked bottom of the proud Katherine. I saw red stripes form across her fair buttocks.

'Please, please,' she cried and George stopped suddenly.

'I will take the black one, George, I will, just stop it.'

'Good, I am pleased,' he said, a new confidence in his voice. 'Then there isn't much left.'

'What do you mean?' Katherine sounded worried.

'I mean, it is just the rest left.'

Then he whipped her again. She cried out in agony as the crop hit home. George delivered a set of hard blows and his wife wriggled pathetically under the lash.

I knew I had to leave. I had been transfixed by the scene before my eyes and as I tore myself from it, I felt my heart beating hard. I was shocked but there was also a strange thrill within me, a something that spoke of excitement.

I sneaked down the stairs and back outside. I walked out into the street and was happy for the chill in the air. It helped to cool me down. I stood in the dark for a while and waited.

Finally I saw a couple of other friends arrive and I pretended I had just got there and accompanied them to the front door. Now it was closed and we rang the bell.

George answered and he looked smart as always. Nothing in his face or behaviour seemed to betray what had just happened. As he ushered us into the dining room we were met by his wife. She smiled and sparkled as she always did and looked very lovely in her very short black dress, a dress that hugged her body tightly and was revealing but still very stylish.

Katherine looked admiringly at her George and I didn't at all see the tension in her mouth, that little movement that often came before some mocking remark. No, Katherine was very quiet and delightful and only once did I see her twitch her face, and that was when she sat down at the dinner table.

The Slaver

I know, when I talked about That Other Side you thought of something different than a silly story like this. See it as a gentle beginning.

Who said the life of a slaver would be easy? I didn't, I know better. Ah, when I was a boy I dreamt of being a slaver, thought of all the lovely merchandise I would come across. I know better now.

It is true that handling the goods is a pleasure but it isn't an easy life. So much to think about. Troubles and problems everywhere, all the time.

Well, I won't bother you with that, you will see. Where shall I start? Ah, my family. It always has to start with the family. What would I do without my lovely wives. I love them with all my heart, they are my joy and happiness. One is as beautiful as the other's tongue is sharp. She thinks she runs the household, that one. The other one? Oh, she is sweet, very beautiful and very nice. She often warms my bed. And she doesn't speak much. I like that.

I have two sons, a blessing and a curse. My oldest son, what a disappointment! He is a scoundrel and a drunk, not good for anything. He spends his time in the taverns by the port. He drinks and he plays with the dancers and waitresses. That is when he doesn't gets in his head to use my merchandise.

He is good with the whip, I will give him that, but otherwise, he is a useless bastard. He is good for nothing.

Oh, I remember once, when he made me happy. I had bought this redhaired little wildcat from the North. She was foulmouthed as a fishmonger and stubborn as a hungry monkey. She was pretty and if she had behaved she would have fetched me a good price. I tried everything, I kept her naked on a lead and had her whipped but she was as proud as a queen.

Then my eldest son wandered into the warehouse one night. I wasn't there, of course, but he got the key and went into the cages. I don't know what he did to the redhaired one but when I sold her the day after she was as gentle as a summer breeze. I am sure my bastard son made me a couple of gold coins that night.

My younger son, he is something different. He is hardworking and loyal. He is obedient and determined. He does what he is supposed to do and he is learning the trade. He is my pride. I think he will inherit my business when I am gone. Pity he is so dim.

I have two daughter, two lovely daughters. They are my pride and joy. Who wouldn't be delighted by having two such wonderful girls.

The oldest one, she has got her raven hair from her mother. She is beautiful as a queen and she is expensive. She has good taste, I have to admit that but it costs money. Does she thinks a poor slaver is made of money?

Some day, I hope, a very rich young man will decide that she will make a good wife. I am looking forward to it, although I pity him. She doesn't just look like a queen, she is haughty as one too. She is arrogant and proud and behaves as if she owned the world.

She would fetch a good price if I sold her though. In fact, I think a month or two naked in a slaver's cage and a closer acquaintance with a whip would be good for her.

My younger daughter is of another kind. She is not only cleverer than her sister, she is prettier too. She has blond hair, she got it from her mother. She is the sweetest child imaginable. She is gentle and obedient and walks with grace. There is not a grain of arrogance in her. A father has to be happy for such a daughter. She would make a lovely slave and I believe she would bring even a higher price than her sister.

A father shouldn't talk like that about his daughters. I would never sell them. Not even if I was offered twenty gold pieces for one of them. Although twenty gold pieces would allow me to replenish my stock and really get my business going...sigh.

Business has been bad, lately. There has been no major wars for three years and almost no raids to the northern lands. This makes slaves expensive. I can sell the ones I have for a higher price but I have to buy them for a higher price too. Business is slow.

I remember the Eastern Campaign. When was it? Seven years ago? Anyway, those were good times. The supply of girls was overflowing. And what beauties there were! Such lovely women that come from the East...sigh. Those were the days. Good supply and demand was still increasing. I made good money then.

Now my cages are half empty. I have even had to send my boys, not my sons, of course, the boys I have hired, I had to send my boys out in the night and look for girls in the streets. These are sad days, when a man has to revert to such methods to fill up his warehouses.

The problem with such slaves is that you can't sell them here, they may be recognised and that causes all sorts problems.

I have even considered stealing some of the daughters of the nobility. The upside is that they won't be recognised, they are often kept away from the public eye. The downside is that the actual acquiring of them is a bit tricky. Either you have to bribe their guards or you have to break into their houses, which can be quite dangerous at times.

When I was young, I used to love those things. We were reckless and thought that getting a nobleman's daughter was a great adventure. Those were the days. Made you feel strong. The girls didn't like it, protested and cried a lot but when you got the clothes off them and tied them up in the cage they came to their senses and some of them made very good slaves.

I prefer the legal ways of getting girls, I have to say that. They are less adventurous but safer and better for business.

A couple of years ago there were quite a lot of volunteers. There are always volunteers but they make no steady flow of goods. Some years ago it was different, we had a couple a week coming and asking to be enslaved.

Some of them had ridiculous demands, that I should give so and so many gold pieces to this temple or that person. You have to be hard, even if the woman was lovely and you knew you could get a good price for her, even make some profit. If it became known that you were too generous it would just make them increase their demands.

I had to turn away some really pretty ones but it paid off. Some of them didn't want anything but a prayer in the right temple and then you could have them. Strange thing, really. I don't understand why a girl would want to be a slave. The strangest thing of it all is that it is often the wealthy ones that want it most.

But as I said, you have to rely on the proper ways of getting your wares. War and plunder are the best ways of getting girls cheaply. There are some that fall in debt but they are often more expensive. It is nice, thought, with local girls.

Some girls you don't ask where they come from. I mean, if there is a gang of youngsters turning up at your doorstep with a girl, who look like a local farm girl, who is gagged and stripped and tied up and the young men want a quick sell and are happy with peanuts you knew she is stolen goods. Best to ship such a girl away from the city as quickly as possible.

I am boring you with details of my trade. I love my work but it is hard work and not easy to make a living from. Come back if you have something to sell, I give a good price. Or even better if you want to buy. Buy two and I'll give reduction...eh?

Janice v. Gor

Whenever you talk about a world where men hold women as slaves, a fantasy world that is suitably ancient and exotic, someone will tell you it is Gorean. I find this a bit annoying. I will immediately apologise to the one (see the comments on my last entry) who triggered this, this time. I am not having a go at you, this happens all the time.

So, am I inspired by John Lange, aka John Norman, and his Gor books? Yes, of course. I have read a fair share of them and how could you not be inspired? Everything I see and read and experience inspire me. But my fantasy world is not Gorean, full stop. Unless you mean Gorean in the same sense as USA is Roman because they have an empire or Barbara Cartland is Austen because people marry at the end.

Does it matter? Not really. I just want to make clear that where I go, in my mind, where I have my fantasies play out is not Lange's counter earth, the slave owners in my stories and imagination are not Gorean.

I do find Lange's books fascinating, and inspiring, but only up to a point. And now I am going to rant about what I don't like about his creation.

Life on Gor is highly formalised, at least social relationships. People are organised in castes if they are free and if they are slaves they are property. The main character, Tarl Cabot, is a member of the warrior caste but betrays the code of the warriors and becomes and outcast. Free women on Gor have to have their faces covered and removing the veil from a woman is about the most degrading thing you can do to her, short of enslaving her. It is a world that reminds me more of the Vatican or Medieval Japan than the Wild West or Europe during the Barbarian Invasions.

In addition, Gorean men seem to be scared of women. The relationship between everybody, including free men and owned women, is ritualised and very strict. A slave who speaks in the wrong way or doesn't show enough willingness to serve or in any way doesn't adhere to protocol is severely punished. A slave's life is full of the treatment that is meant to demean her and show her, not just that she is property but also worth nothing. This, to me, speaks of anxiety, not about self confidence and real power.

I can go there, I do occasionally. There is an appeal in this ritualised, formal and very degrading treatment of women. It is strange but part of me wants to be humiliated in fantasies. But I never stay there for long. In my world, my fantasy world, when ruthless men captures women and keep them as slaves, I like to think of them as confident enough to know that a slave is a human, although an owned one, and that there is no need to assert your power during every single second of every single day. The world won't collapse if the owner sits down and laughs with the slave. (If you now want to prove me wrong by finding quotations from the Gor novels where slave owners are friendly with their slaves, please, don't. This is about my overall impression of Gorean society as anxious and regulated rather than wild and relaxed and you are free to disagree.)

Yes, I do have many worlds in my head, some that clash if they would be put side by side. What I am saying is that I do find slave fantasies rather nice but mine are not Gorean, not that often any way, but they are still full of deserts, slave markets, chains, whips, nakedness and ruthlessness.

I can see that this seems superficial and why bother about details? And is there really a difference? I don't know and I will not try to analyse and argue it any further. Call it what you want. But if my world is Gorean, it is as much Hyborian, Barsoomian and of Arabian Nights. I am just tired of the label, as if John Lange is the only one who has imagined how fascinating it can be with a world where slaves are kept for the pleasures of their owners.

That Other Side

Before I write about that other side I will talk about this side, the one that is here, on the blog, the one I usually write about.

In many ways I came to this kind of fantasies as an observer. There are so many damsels in distress out there, in stories and films, and I couldn't help being fascinated by it. Films sometimes depict scenes of abuse, even rape. There are book covers with muscular heroes battling fierce monsters while a scantily clad woman struggles in her bonds, hoping for the hero to succeed.

I have been fascinated by those themes, wondering what it would be like to be chained to the wall, clad in almost nothing and having to rely on some barbarian prince to rescue me. Or being the subject of abuse and horrors from villains and criminals. The crucial point is, of course, that it didn't just scare me, it attracted me. I felt a kind of thrill thinking of those situations.

Being as I am, I had to try to understand why a scene from A Clockwork Orange, where a girl is stripped naked to be raped, only to be rescued by accident by the protagonist of the film, why such a scene gave me this thrill and not just the horror one would expect.

Lots of things pop up, it's about not being responsible, being vulnerable, allowed to be sexual without guilt. But I will not go further down that road, at the moment. What I am trying to say is that it has been a gradual process, from being scared and fascinated to identifying and even trying to find some kind of beauty in being subject to abuse.

On this blog I have tried to explore this side of me, the Yin side. It has been a great relief to accept this side, the side that isn't what you are supposed to be, at least not where I live.

There is another side, however, albeit less dominant. Maybe that is the spot of Yang in the Yin and only goes to show that it is the balance between the sides that matters, not just expecting one to reign supreme.

He is there, of course, in my stories, like a shadow, or rather a dark undefined force. In my very strict division of things, in my fantasies, he tend to be male. I am of course talking about That Other Side now.

I am immensely fascinated by that side too. In my fantasies he takes the form of the arrogant man, the ruler, the conqueror, the one with confidence and power. Sometimes it is a woman, although she tends to be more balanced, more like a real person, balancing a desire to be cruel with a care about the other.

I have done a bit of writing, trying to see things from the other side, allowing myself to be fascinated by that sense of power. What is it like to be cruel and ruthless? What is it like to feel that power and enjoy it for yourself and care little about the other.

I have been reluctant to post any of those scriblings, since they are so completely different and strange compared to what I usually put here.

Sometimes this person is a young man, who discovers that he gets away with spanking his girlfriends. In fact, they like him to do it. He gains in confidence and may discover that he doesn't even have to limit himself to one girlfriend. He finds he can do what he pleases and in this strange, twisted world, the women allow him that, they are as fascinated as I am by his ruthlessness and confidence.

He may be a slaver, a man who deals in women as commodities. He loves women, in his own way, they bring him profit and are generally pleasing for him, as long as they are in chains, belong to him and obedient enough to do his biddings.

I think this slaver comes from my fascination by and love of those strange and exotic lands were women are slaves and can be bought and sold for gold. I am fascinated by being a slave there.

But as it happens, I get this image of the man who is the owner, the slave trader. I wonder what motivates him, why did he become a slaver? Does he have to be this swine, this villain, this evil creature? Isn't it far more interesting if he is a man with a heart, who loves his family, who has friends he cherish and who have loyalties and values? It is just that his world is a man's world, where women are there to please men, for the simple reason that men rule that world. And that there is no contradiction for him to be loyal to his friends and at the same time, completely disregard the wishes of a woman he has put his chains on.

How is it to be that man who actually enjoys spanking a woman, his woman, the woman he loves and cares about? How is it to be the man who feels elated and happy when he uses his power over someone to cause them to suffer, not out of hatred but out of sheer love for that power, being selfish and ruthless enough to admit to himself that he really enjoys it.

As you can see, I do have a lot of thoughts about this and they are, of course, as far removed from reality as my submission fantasies and as close to it as they are. What I mean is that they happen in a world that doesn't exist but are still concerned with real life emotions and thoughts.

A little disclaimer here. Please don't think that this discussion about a more dominant side of my thinking means that I have opinions about those of you who consider yourselves as being dominant. I know there are a lot of other things going on and that you regard trust and care and love as being crucial as much as any submissive person. These are aspects of my mind, thoughts about how people behave and do in fantasies, not a statement about real life people.