More About the Dark Angel...

A friend of mine, Jackie, sent me this as a response to my story, My Dark Angel. I am deeply honoured that someone reading my work takes her time to respond and add to it. And although a continuation, really, defeats the purpose of the original story, I am proud to present Jackie's addition. It is her story in italics below. Read and enjoy!

I picture you being tied with your clothes on for your horsewhipping but once restrained the dreamy boy unfastened your skirt and took your panties completely off. He then teased you about your predicament and threatened you with the worst beating you could imagine. He relished in your fear and helplessness but then whipped you somewhat "considerately," although you didn't realize it with the searing stings that made you dance and scream and feel like your skin was being stripped from you. A mild horsewhipping can leave one in a sobbing sorry state as yours did for you, until the next day when you yearned for another one.

You had the feeling that the Dark Angel was not doing this for the first time. He was too adept and too efficient.

Your wrists were tied with a very thin almost twine like rope which made the binding very snug without being painfully tight. A second long rope with a weight on the end was thrown over the beam and one end was tied to the string on your wrists. The other end was then gradually pulled downward as your arms were hoisted up and your heels left the floor and you were standing on your tiptoes. You were in the most vulnerable position and completely at the mercy of the boy who loved to punish girls.

Without a word your skirt was undone and cast to the floor. His hands slid inside the waistband of your panties and they were dragged down over your buttocks and on down to your ankles and left there. The angel knew all too well that you would soon be toe dancing out of them.

His choice of whips was one used to train ponies with. It had a long handle and a whipcord lash which dangled from the end. The lash was known for its incredible sting and the angel did explain that if it got the attention of a horse it was surely going to make an impression on your fluffy white bum.

As he approached you with the devilish instrument he explained that he was going to whip your ass to a point where it was questionable as to whether you had a white ass with red stripes or a red ass with white stripes. This was somewhere around 40 - 50 lashes depending on the girl, he commented.

Nothing in the world had prepared you for the hot, searing, stinging, biting ,burning lines of fire that the angel laid across your fair derrière. A horsewhipping made a hair brush spanking seem like a baby punishment and you had only received about ten lashes.

After the whipping it was time to go home. Janice could tolerate the loose skirt but the angel offered to put her panties in the pocket for her. She rode home kneeling on the front seat and leaning over it with her tenderized bottom sticking out. She could have endured a painful sit down but she wanted her punisher to be proud of his labors.

"Are we going to do it when we get back?" she asked him.

"If your tattered ass is up to it," he replied.

''You can put some cream on me to get me ready. That's the least you can do for whipping me like a bad pony," she joked.

"I'll tell you how I felt about being whipped by you while we're "engaged". You may be surprised to hear some of what I have to say," she continued.

The end

Two Slaves

This is a short excerpt from a longer text about a girl who finds herself enslaved. I don't know why I choose this part but it seemed like a good one. The whole story is too long for one entry. Perhaps, I should put it up as more than one part.

...

I was led into a room lit by candles and lamps hanging from the walls. It was a nice room with carpets on the floor and some cushions at one end around a low table. A slave girl was standing to one side carrying a tray with glasses and a tea pot. She was magnificent. She was clad only in a kind of breechcloth with a glimmering golden chain around her hips, way below her navel. From this chain hung a long thin red silken cloth at the front. It was fairly narrow and covered only her sex although I saw that it continued between her legs and hung down behind her as well. She had a golden arm ring and a thin necklace. Her hair was arranged with pearls and gold. She was blond and tall and extremely beautiful. She had round and proud breasts that were not heavy but far larger than mine. Her rosy nipples were erect and she stood like a statue.

I was placed on my knees in the middle of the room and although I spread my legs wide the guard was not satisfied until he had gently kicked them further apart. I was completely opened up as I sat and I envied the other slave her clothes.

I lowered my gaze as the guards left the room and when I was alone with the girl I dared look at her again. She ignored me but I could not stop admiring her. She was fantastic. I knew she was a slave but she looked so proud, so beautiful. Her body was perfect in every sense. Her proud breasts looked perfect on her slim and tall body.

At last two men came in. One was the old man that had received me the first day and the other was a fairly fat man that was far younger. He was 40, maybe 50, years old and had eaten too much good food. He wasn't enormous but still you could call him fat. He was dressed in a red and golden robe and had a kind of elaborate turban on his head. He looked like a merchant or a landlord of a wealthy tavern.

He placed his body on the cushions and the old man sat down cross legged by his side. The old man signalled for the slave girl to serve the tea. She obliged with very sensuous and graceful movements. She was the perfect girl in every sense and I couldn't understand what I was doing there. I was nothing compared to her, although I knew I was the one they had come to discuss.

I lowered my gaze as I knew was expected of a slave girl. I knew very little about how slaves were to conduct themselves but I wanted to appear obedient knowing that I would most probably be punished if I was not. I didn't want to be punished. I had seen slave girls taste the whip.

The two men proceeded to talk in a friendly way as I sat there. They completely ignored me as they had their tea. They talked about politics and commerce and exchanged news. I heard and understood what they were talking about but the information seemed to mean nothing to me. Four weeks ago I would have been eager to listen and learn but now I belonged to another world. The things the men talked about was for free persons not for slaves.

Suddenly the old man addressed me. He called me slave but something in his voice told me he meant me rather than the beautiful girl standing in the corner. I felt that if he had called for her he would have said something far more delicate and soft. I was an untrained girl and needed to be addressed in a stern voice.

I looked up and saw the old man wave me forward. I rose to my feet and hurried forward. He stopped me with his hand and I stood still. I wondered if I should kneel but he seemed pleased with having me there, standing.

'So this is the slave?' the fat man said.

'Yes, she is the one,' the old man answered.

'She is very young.'

...

I'm Amazed...

I am amazed that so many people have a hard time telling fantasies from real life. Or, I should rather say, the meaning of fantasies from real life. What I am thinking of is the assumption that since I write about fantasies, and especially, about spanking and submission fantasies I have to be a closet spankee and submissive (or whatever label is preferred). Most people assume that I am an unfulfilled spankee and my problem is, mainly, that I lack someone to tan my behind now and then.

As a true sceptic I can't dismiss such assumptions right away but I maintain that things are far more complex than that. Here are some of my thoughts about this. Firstly, there is no one-to-one relation between fantasies and reality. Fantasies are like dreams. What you dream, during the night, does not reflect real happenings all the time. It is the same with fantasies. Fantasies represent emotions and thoughts. The thoughts and emotions (desires, wishes, fears, anxieties) are real but the images are not. They stand for something and that something is not necessarily similar to the image. Wanting to be spanked in a fantasy does not, necessarily, mean you want it to happen in real life. It might mean that, I admit that (being the sceptic I am) but it might just stand for something else.

Secondly, I have come to realise that fantasies (at least in my case) often are in opposition to what my life is like. I am a quite independent person but in my fantasies I am, often, subject to others. It tells, I believe, something about a conflict in my mind but then if I am too independent in my real life, why can't it be that I am too submissive in my fantasies and that the desirable balance lies somewhere in between?

So, while the jury is out on the question whether I am an unfulfilled spankee or not I will blog about my fantasies, sharing them with anyone reading my scribblings. There must be plenty of people who are like me, fascinated by something, perhaps, at times, even obsessed with it but too shy to act upon it or thinking, like me, that the real action that the fantasies point to may be something completely alien to the fantasies themselves.

If there is someone I have spoken to and who feels targeted by this rant (most likely without intention from my side) then feel free to tell me that I am a very rude and insolent person! Perhaps you should dig deep into your minds and suggest some really nasty punishment for me. And, remember, punishments are supposed to be unpleasant!

Details

The secret lies in the details. The essence of fantasies is the details. Details are ever so important in a story as well but a story is different. You need a narrative, some kind of logic to it. There needs to be a how and a why and reasons and connections between the details, the whole and everything. My fantasies are often snippets, situations and emotions and there are not always a connecting story, a logic to them. I am not saying that fantasies are surreal all the time and not contain narrative. What I am trying to say, I think, is that fantasies are about sensations and emotions and that they, sometimes, are quite patchy, in a way that is not possible in a story.

Often in a fantasy there is a situation or a sensation that is the important thing, not the how and why of it. Often there is a tiny detail that makes it important. I often want to stay in the situation, the sensation and I am not always interested in the implications.

Let me give an example! Imagine there is a sturdy pole set in the ground. At that pole there is a woman. She is bound to it, her hands tied together behind the pole. She is naked (would you expect anything else?). There may be people there, regarding her or perhaps the risk of someone passing by is great.

It is not, always, important to think about why she is put there, who put her there and why she is naked. The sensation of imagining to be the naked woman is enough for a fantasy. What would it be like, standing there, naked and bound? Would I be embarrassed? Probably. Would I feel attractive? Yes, that is part of it. Why? I don't know, maybe because I am exposed to anyone who wants to look at me and I want to think of myself as being attractive.

And there are details that make the fantasy important. Perhaps the one who tied me to the pole put a rope around my throat, pressing it to the wood. Perhaps my feet are tied too. Perhaps someone put a note above my head stating the reason why I was tied to the pole. Perhaps there was a crime and a punishment. Perhaps the note tells the passer by to take advantage of me.

The details are not just things I want in reality, things that make me aroused or excited. No, they point to things, to questions, to meanings. And I, for one, am curious about those meanings. I don't just think that being tied naked to a pole is something that I want happen to me in real life. No, I think it means something, but not necessarily a reflection of (possible) real life events. It seems more exciting and interesting to think of it as meaning a desire to bee seen, not being able to hide. Perhaps the tying of the arms means that someone else is responsible and I do not have to take the blame.

It is not always important to think about the before and the after. Often it is enough to stay in the sensation of the fantasy, just let it be there.

I know there are a lot of people interested in fantasies of this kind that care very little about analyses and underlying reasons, who are happy with their desire to spank, be spanked or maybe submit and serve. Everyone has their own way to happiness and I want to understand what moves in my own mind.

The Remedy

When I was younger the thought of spankings and punishment in general was always connected to a sense of guilt, something that had to be put right. This idea has lost much of its power over me of lately and now I can see that spankings stand for a lot of other things as well. Still I wrote this story. It was something that just happened and it is about that dreaded thing of older times, guilt.

My mind was in darkness. I had let the sun go down on my anger and I felt horrible. I had left my lover while I was angry and I had hurt him. I had been right, I think we both knew that and I had stood my ground. I had all the rights in the world to do that. No one could deny me that.

The thing I had seen on his face was hurt. I had hurt the love of my life deeply because I had stood my ground. He had been angry with me and we had argued. I was right and he was angry, angry and hurt.

The following day I lived in a kind of haze, thinking about what had passed and what to do about it. I could not say I was wrong because I wasn't and that was the problem. At least I thought it was the problem. But as the day went on I saw the face of my lover clearly in my mind and I saw his hurt.

I realised that it was not important if I had been right or not. The important thing was that I had hurt him and I had not hurt him by being right. I had all the right in the world to my opinion. That was not the point. I had hurt him by wanting to hurt him by being right and I realised that that was the cause of my misery.

I walked through town trying to delay going back to my empty flat. I went in and out of shops looking for nothing or everything. I wanted time to pass quickly so that I could go to bed and sleep my time away.

It was then my eyes fell upon an innocent item on a shelf. A flash of insight sparkled through me and with embarrassment I saw clearly what should be done. I had struggled for a long time with a sense of guilt, feeling that I had no reason for guilt. I had the right to be right and that was it. Against my will I came to realise that my guilt was at the centre of my misery and I wanted to rid me of that and that need made me embarrassed.

As I laid my eyes upon the sturdy shape of a wooden brush I realised that I needed to be punished. I blushed as I saw that. My heart started beating and I felt ashamed. That was completely against my beliefs and against anything that my reasoning could come up with. Still I knew that I wanted to be punished.

My heart was still pounding in my breast as I knocked on his door. I knew he was still miserable, still angry and hurt. It didn't leave him that easily. I waited in fear for him to answer the door.

My heart stood still as he opened the door. He looked sad and miserable. He looked at me and I stared at him.

'Can I come in?' I asked.

'Sure,' he said and stepped aside. I saw that he was still angry.

I stood in his hallway for a while before I could say anything.

'Look,' I said, 'about yesterday.'

'I am sorry,' he replied quickly, 'you were right, I shouldn't have...'

'Wait,' I said with a strange new confidence, 'I have come about yesterday, but, please hear me out!'

He looked at me slightly puzzled.

'Do you want to sit down?'

I was sitting on the edge of his armchair, like a nervous school girl. He sat in the sofa regarding me. He looked strangely worried and sad, not at all the confident self he used to be.

'Now,' he said, all of a sudden, breaking the silence, 'you were right yesterday and I know that.'

'I was right,' I answered, 'that is true but that is not the point.'

'What is the point?' he said looking even more puzzled.

'The point is that I hurt you and I don't want to hurt you.'

'But you were right.'

'Don't you see? I don't care if I was right- I hurt you with it and I did it because I wanted to and that is why I feel guilty about it.'

'You have nothing to be guilty about,' he said sternly.

'Yes I have and I don't want to feel guilty.'

'Sorry, but what can I do about that?' he said a bit defensively.

I had heard that I had been pleading with him and maybe had I even sounded a bit demanding.

'I am sorry, it is not your fault and we both know that.'

'But?'

I stared at him and I felt anger well up in me. I had tears in my eyes. I couldn't explain and suddenly my bright idea was just silly.

I couldn't answer him so I opened my bag and produced the menacing looking wooden brush.

'What?' he looked at me in disbelief.

'Here,' I said holding out the brush for him.

Anger overtook me as I spoke.

'Take i!' I said, 'take it! I have hurt you and I can't make that hurt go away but I feel guilty and I want to be punished.'

'Punished?' he said, 'I don't understand.'

'I know I am completely mad, but I want to be punished and I think you should use this on me.'

'That brush?'

'Yes, this brush.'

'Like I should spank you or something?'

'Yes, just like that.'

'I can't do that,' he said almost as if he was pleading with me. He looked terrified.

'Please, spank me!' I said, 'please, punish me!'

I felt my cheeks blushing, I had never in a long time been that embarrassed.

We stared at each other. His eyes were wild. I could see that many thoughts and emotions passed through him as he stared at me.

'Give me the brush!' he said suddenly and held out his hand.

I presented the thing and I felt strange. I felt detached and removed from the whole situation and my head was buzzing.

He sat up in the sofa and I realised I had to come to him. I rose from my chair and suddenly I was standing in front of him. He looked at me but he seemed lost. He had accepted the implement but he didn't know how to proceed. I blushed as I realised I had to take command.

My fingers felt numb as I pulled up my dress. I wore a black, quite short and tight fitting outfit and it stuck to my waist as I had pulled it up. I took a deep breath as I took hold of my knickers and pulled them down to my knees.

I felt a strange tingling in my body but I could not possibly admit that it reminded me of another kind of tingling that I used to get with him. I approached him as he was sitting and I was about to place my body in his lap when he interrupted me.

'You like this, don't you?' he said with a tint of anger in his voice.

I stopped short, embarrassed.

'You get off on this and you are using me,' he continued.

There was a moment of silence.

I don't know if I like it or not,' I said trying to be as composed as was possible with my dress pulled up and my knickers around my knees.

'I only know that I am terrified and that I think you should do it,' I said.

He stared at me for a second, then he tapped his knee and I positioned myself in his lap. This was it. I was going to be spanked. I had asked for it and it was happening. I was scared.

I felt a strange sensation as he placed the cold wood on my bottom. It was a kind of excitement and at the same time determination and horror. The closest thing to this was sitting in a dentist chair. You are determined even if you know it will hurt and you feel a kind of excitement that may very well be fear.

Then he smacked me. He hit me on my right cheek and it hurt. I felt the pain and at the same time I realised that he had not used his full force. It was a meek tap compared to what a man like him was capable of. I knew that but still it hurt.

Then he hit my left cheek and I was surprised by the pain. He hesitated for a while and then he smacked me again and again. He took his time but he smacked me one cheek after the other but not very hard. It still hurt.

I felt I could cope although it was unpleasant. My bottom started to feel warm and tender but he continued smacking me. I felt my body move, instinctively trying to get away.

Then he stopped. I took a deep breath overcome with emotions.

'You asked me to spank you,' he said, 'do you regret that now?'

'No,' I said, hearing how weak my voice was.

'Do you want me to stop?'

There was something strange in his voice, a hint of triumph, maybe anger, I couldn't tell.

'It is not for me to decide that,' I said meekly.

'Right you are,' he said and now it was definitely something in his voice that seemed like triumph.

He started to smack me again and this time harder. I wasn't prepared and cried out. He smacked me harder and faster and I was not sure I could cope any more. It hurt too much and it was too horrible and I was too overcome by it all.

He didn't care and relentlessly he let the wood hit my tender bottom. I cried out and felt a bit of panic overtaking me. I didn't want this. It hurt too much.

He stopped for a while. I lay panting in his lap fearing he would continue. I almost started pleading with him.

Just as I was about to tell him that it was enough, that it hurt too much and I felt silly and embarrassed and in pain, a thought struck me. This is what it was like being punished. He spanked me and it hurt and that was right. It was supposed to hurt. I wanted to be punished and I was being punished and if it hurt that was my punishment. I had to go through with this.

Then he started spanking me again. He knew how to do it now. He used a lot of his strength now and he smacked me with vigour. It was far more painful than before and I started crying. I didn't plead but I moved around and squealed and cried. Still there was something that held me in place, a deep conviction that I had to do this. I couldn't go back now. I had to do it.

In my agony I heard him as he smacked me. He laughed. He enjoyed this. He was happy spanking me. I screamed now and was in pain. He spanked me relentlessly and it hurt.

Then it was over. He had spanked me enough. He was satisfied. He told me to rise and I complied. My knees were weak as I rose to my feet. He stood up too, facing me.

Suddenly we were there, facing each other, close. I saw that he was no longer angry. He looked content. I saw that through the tears in my eyes.

I was subdued, overcome with the whole matter but I felt that something had changed within me. I had subjected myself to this painful ordeal and something had changed.

He held out his arms and I pressed my body against him. He held me close not because he wanted to comfort me but because he loved me. I loved him too and felt safe in his arms.

His touch did not only made me feel safe. His body was close to mine and that made the tingle grew stronger. I remembered that I had not pulled up my knickers and that I was naked below my waist. I felt the fabric of his trousers against my belly and I was suddenly aware of a strange sense of vulnerability. That made me feel even more aroused.

Later he looked me in the eyes and I looked back. He was not angry and I was not angry and I felt no guilt any more. He smiled at me and I felt that things had changed.

'When you spank me next time,' I said.

'Will there be a next time?' he asked.

'When you spank me next time, will you grant me a wish?'

'What is that?'

'Don't make me have to ask for it!'

'How will I know, then?'

'You will know,' I said, 'it is for you to decide.'

Shirts

I have this thing about shirts...or rather the taking off of shirts. A shirt may be removed in many an exciting way. And it is the removal of the shirt from a woman that I am thinking of.

A shirt may be slowly unbuttoned, slowly and carefully, almost hesitantly, one button after another, revealing more and more of the body beneath it. Then when the buttons are undone, when still, nothing is really shown, then the shirt is opened, slowly revealing the body. In my mind there is never a bra under the shirt. Opening a shirt means revealing your breasts. Then it can be slid over your shoulders, revealing them...exposing you.

Oh, I am getting silly. This kind of things are important in my fantasies. It is often the details, the sense of fabric gliding over skin, the sense of cool air on your body, that make me tick.

Or a shirt may be removed in another way. It may be torn open. Someone pressing you into a corner or against a wall, taking hold of your shirt and tearing it open, suddenly, in one move exposing your breasts. Violently exposing you, driven by a wild desire, an urge to look at your body, to be able to touch it, to take command of it.

Venus de Milo

It may seem like a strange thing to write about in a blog like this but it is about how I think and I think about this statue now. I think Venus de Milo is a fantastic sculpture and I have always loved it. She has no arms, that is true but the rest makes up for that. It is something about her way of being half naked that is very alluring. Her body is beautiful, that is true, but she is not the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. No, the thing that attracts me, I think, is the way she wear what little clothes she is wearing. How the folds of her, what should I call it, piece of cloth is draped around her, how it hangs low on her hips. It is very exciting. In fact, I think it, really, hangs too low. It should fall down, exposing her. I have read somewhere that the theory is that she is actually holding her skirt (?) with one hand, stopping it from falling down. Since she has no arms this is strange...it should have fallen off many hundred years ago...never mind. Venus herself is very cool about it. She doesn't seem to be bothered. No, in fact, she seems to think that this is the way of wearing what little she wears. She just stands there, with her dress, almost, falling off, being extremely beautiful, alluring and sensual but she, herself, is not overly concerned. Well, after all, she is a goddess.