The Sweetest Moment

It is the sweetest moment. A moment like that can be complete. From then on it is life, life with its commitments, loyalties, determination and struggle. But a moment, a moment that covers no distance in time, have no space, can be true.

Does he have to be handsome? I don't think he has. He has to be possible, the animal has to be there, lurking.

My friend brought him and told me who he was, where he came from, whom he knew and what he did. He turned his eyes at me and looked at me.

This was what he did. He looked at me and he saw me. He saw me but not in the sense when the Goddess or her angels look into your soul and see all of you. He was no magician, he couldn't know me, couldn't see more than what was there.

He saw me in the way a baby sees a bright shining thing and wants it, not because they know what it is, but because it shines.

He looked me in the eyes and he saw me, selfishly. His eyes told me that he wanted me. They told me he wanted to rule me, do things to me, take me and have me for himself.

I looked back. I looked into his eyes and saw what he wanted. And in that moment, the sweetest of moments, he could have me.

*

This land is mine but I’ll let you rule
I let you navigate and demand
Just as long as you know…this land is mine

('This Land is Mine', Dido Armstrong, 2003)

Frank Frazetta, 1928 – 2010

The Grand Old Master is dead. It is sad, indeed.

I have always been fascinated by the different, the exotic. I read everything I could find about old and forgotten civilisations, about the Aztecs, The Egyptians, Sumerians, Ancient China and that sort of thing. There is a very special thrill I feel when I come across something that awakens this fascination, this sense of awe.

Good Fantasy can do that. (Notice, I use Fantasy with a capital F, meaning the genre (or genres) in art and writing and film.) A good Fantasy story, or picture, evokes that kind of excitement. I don't mind the heroes, the monsters, the beautiful damsels in distress, I love it. But one thing that really gets me hooked is if I get that thrill of the exotic and different.

There is so much mainstream Fantasy that has lost it, that only repeats what has gone before, that are repetitions of old themes. It is nice, beautiful and even exciting at times but it never gives that impression of peeking through to another world.

The undisputed master of Fantasy art was, in my opinion, Frank Frazetta. He had that ability to transport you to strange places, primeval forests or enchanted lands. His heroes weren't necessarily the strongest and his damsels not always the most beautiful but he always had a unique style that gave me that sense of awe.

I guess that is why his style was so widely copied. Some did it through and through, while others picked out details, some did it well others not so well.

Modern Fantasy art owes a lot to Pre-Raphaelites and Symbolists, and, like some of those styles, it is not accepted as Art, generally, but seen as illustrations and poster art. I truly believe there is a lot of powerful imagery and symbols in commercial art, in illustrations and that sort of thing. It is not deliberately put there as in High Art but it is there, all the same, and sometimes in a very rough and unpolished way.

I will stop this rant and just say that it is sad that the one true Master of Fantasy Art has left us.

(Frank Frazetta, 9/2 1928 – 10/5 2010)

What is it About?

I got some really nice and interesting comments on my last blogpost, In Denial?. My initial though with that post was to talk about and perhaps confess to a kind of being short sighted and not really accepting the obvious, that is, that fantasies are sexual (although they are much more than that). The comments, however, raised another issue and that has to do with guilt.

Despite the header for this post, I am not trying to explain what this thing is all about. No, just talk a little about it and perhaps start a discussion with you, Dear Readers.

Since I am not participating in any kind of real life activities concerned with BDSM, Spanking or D/s or that sort of thing (let's call it Kink, just to have a good word for it) I can only talk about what happens in my own mind when I think and fantasise about these things.

I do believe that even if you really are into it, really live it, and experience all of the physical sensations that go with it, there is a lot of fantasising going on, that many real and enjoyable floggings are, a kind of, living out of fantasies. What I am trying to say is that the mind thing is central, even for those of you live it in your real lives. Please, tell me if I am wrong or misunderstand things, which I am bound to do.

For me fantasies are a lot about consent and mutuality. But, and this is the brilliant thing with stories and fantasies, sometimes the consent is outside the story. I can let myself be enslaved in a fantasy, I can let it happen against my own will and I can be subject to, what is really, abuse. Even of the worst kind. My consent is outside the scene that is played out in my head or in my story. I am in full control even if I am helpless in the story.

Although I don't write much about the 'scene' I do love stories where there is consent, stories about love that contains submission and control. In these stories the consent is inside the story. And so is the trust. With the first kind there is no trust, rather the opposite, the other kind is based on it, the very essence of it. Those are really stories about love and friendship and being accepted for who you are with your mind, twisted and warped, as you may feel it is, at times.

To return to the issue of guilt, I think it is more prominent in the first kind of stories, the one that depict some kind of abuse, those where you are raped or enslaved or forced to do things. A story makes things more real, makes it seem as if it has happened in real life, you begin to think of the events and what it looks like, what it smells like and how it feels. I think the guilt is made more more prominent by this almost reality that is in fantasies and stories. How can you desire to be hurt or hurt someone, especially someone or by someone you love or loves you? Why do I find this thought of humiliation so delightful? That sort of thing.

For me there is guilt in the others as well; facing up to the fact that I have these thoughts, is hard, and the thought of living them with someone who wants the same is compelling but frightening. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I don't, that I do prioritise love in the form I have encountered it and the fact that I think my dreams and fantasies would shatter if faced with too much reality. This is really besides the point, only to show how I feel about it.

So, to get back to your comments. Lea talks about the contrast between the desire and the form, that reminds her of bad things, abuse and violence and that sort of thing. I think that is really why I feel guilty too, that it I don't want to promote abuse while I find it immensely exciting to be abused in my fantasies.

Lily said something which I found very beautiful, 'the “beauty” inherent within the acts which involve consent and trust'. For me this opens up a new vista of thoughts, thoughts that have to do with what I truly believe fantasies and my writing are about, a longing for trust and love, the kind that goes to the core of your being. It is too much to go deeper into here and I admit that this paragraph may appear a little cryptic but I do hope I may come back to this later, sometime.

Z said something which I liked, that it is because Kink is immoral that we enjoy it. I agree to a certain point, I do think it is part of the appeal although other emotions are involved as well. There is absolutely something of the joy of breaking the rules, doing what is not allowed there.

I honestly think fantasies about Kink are fantasies about very basic human needs, and that trust is not just a prerequisite for indulging in Kinky activities but really a fundamental driving force behind them. It is the sense of being safe that is at the core of it. But to end this with a disclaimer, this is how I feel about it and I really don't want to try to explain away anyone's experience or take on it, I really don't. I invite you to give your view on these matters and I hope I will come back to it and elaborate on it.

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.