Slave Story, part 2

Someone wished for my story not to be too similar to John Norman's Gor stories. I hope it will not be, although it owes a lot of its inspiration from those stories. I hope this will view fantasy slavery from a slightly different perspective.

Anyway, here is the second part. Nothing exciting happens yet but it is part of the story.

'Stand up!'

I obeyed him.

He didn't say anything but took my leash and led me away from the market square. Everyone was watching me and I knew that this would be the topic of most conversations for a long period of time. I marched behind him, bound and naked and everyone in the square could see me in my shame and humiliation. I cried and lowered my gaze. I couldn't bear to see them watch me.

My mind couldn't grasp what was happening. I had been enslaved but I couldn't believe it was true. My father had sold me to Firul. But why? Did he hate me or were we poor? I didn't knew we were poor.

It was a long walk of shame for me, through the streets of our town. We left the square and suddenly I was not news any more. Someone looked up and saw me but there was nothing unusual in a slave girl being led through the streets like this. Some of the men looked me over and smiled at what they saw and others were not concerned at all. Some women looked with contempt and others with pity.

It felt slightly easier being unknown and not noticed but I was still crying, I was still in turmoil. At one occasion we passed some older women from my village and they looked at me intensely and pointed and I heard them talking. They would surely report this to the village. I felt even more humiliated then.

At last we came to the pens. It was a big grey building encircled by a high wall and although I had often seen it and even seen the slave girls being marched in and out of it, I had never seen it from the inside. Now I was admitted through a small door and taken across the courtyard to a flanking building. The courtyard was empty except for a long row of sturdy poles set along the wall of the main building. From the poles hung heavy chains and collars. I had heard of how the pens sometimes put slaves up for sale on this courtyard and I assumed the girls then was fastened to the poles for display.

We went into the smaller building and the darkness of the room felt cool against my hot skin. I was told to kneel in front of a pulpit like piece of furniture at one end of the room and I obeyed. I remembered to spread my knees although it made me blush again. In some ways I was more humiliated by kneeling in this room in front of the men from the pen than in the open. I felt more naked and vulnerable here alone with them than in the square.

I knelt there for a long time and the man left with one of the servants leaving the other to keep an eye on me. I shivered. I was scared that the young man would take advantage of the situation and try to touch me or even worse. He didn't. He just sat on a bench looking bored.

For some reason I found this a bit humiliating and in my mind I wondered if there were many far more prettier girls that he thought of as he was guarding me, girls he rather fondled than me. The thought made me feel even more horrible although I was happy he didn't touch me.

At last an old man came in and sat down behind the pulpit. He came together with the man who had taken me from the square. He handed a bunch of papers to the old man who started reading them and taking notes on another scroll. The old man looked kind.

'What have we here, Calissa, the daughter of the blacksmith Cajol from Motilya, sold to master Firul for...' He didn't finish the sentence. It was not customary to tell an enslaved girl her price. The only ones who got to know their value was the ones sold at an auction or those who heard the men bargaining for her.

I froze. I realised that I might be sold at an auction. Everyone from the village would be there and they would see me in my shame and see me sold. My friends would take pity on me but most of the girls and boys would love to see me being sold. And if I brought a low price they would talk about it and say that I was not worth more. My heart started pounding again as I thought about being sold and how slave girls often were sold in the nude or even worse, were stripped in the presence of everyone.

'You are Calissa, aren't you?' he said in his soft voice.

'Yes, master,' I answered.

'Good,' he said, 'take her to pen 13!'

I was taken through a door and marched down a long corridor. I felt lonely and exposed and very scared as I hurried on bare feet behind the guard who lead me through the building.

We passed many doors, some guarded by men with whips in their belts. I shivered at the sight of those men and the thought that I was at their mercy now. I had seen slave girls being whipped and knew how they reacted. I had been young and stupid and enjoyed the sight with my friends although I had been scared and horrified by the brutality. Now I realised that it might happen to me and the thought was unbearable.

We went through doors and gates and down winding stairs and at last we came to the pens. We went through a big door and suddenly the sound of the pens assaulted my ears. I felt the presence of many people although it took a while for me to see where they were. The big room had pillars and aisles and parts of it was sealed off by iron bars. This was the pens. Behind the bars were the slaves. I saw dozens and dozens of women and girls, sitting and lying on the floors of the pens. Only a few of them had the skimpiest of clothes. Most of them were naked. They looked dirty and exhausted but I could see that many of them were beautiful. They were mostly young women, some of them just girls, some as young as ten, maybe. Some of them wore chains and some were bound but most of them were just naked.

My guard handed a note to another guard and then a door made of iron bars was opened and I was led through that door. My leash was removed and my bounds around my hands were cut. Then the door was slammed behind me. I was now confined in the pens.

The other girls looked at me. No one spoke. I shivered as I looked for a place to sit. I found an empty spot by a stone pillar that formed part of the wall and sat down. I crouched and hid my face in my arms and cried. I was a prisoner. I was a slave. I was property.

An hour ago I had been a young, happy girl sitting with her friends at the fountain after having run my errands and now I was naked and locked up in the slave pens. I couldn't understand it. I had been sold by my father to master Firul and now I was property. I had been the daughter of a blacksmith. I had been the daughter of a honourable man, a wealthy man. Now I was nothing, an animal, someone who could be bought and sold. I was owned. I was property. I was young and now my life was destroyed, at least the life I knew. It was gone forever. There is no way back if you once have been enslaved. You can't own anything as a slave. Everything that is yours, your clothes, your things and your body and soul belong to your owner. You are property and property may be given to someone but nothing can be given to you so you can never get your freedom back.

The Dungeon

This is an experiment. It began with a description of a fantasy I had with a man and a woman in an old castle. I sent this descripton to a friend who suggested I should add the woman's voice to it, what she felt and thought. Then he added the man's voice. So this is a cooperation between me and this friend from the other side of the pond (you may notice the strange spelling of it certain words...).

This piece has three voices. The first one is the narrator who casually tells about a fantasy. This part is in basic, ordinary text. Then there is the woman's voice, in italics. The third voice is the man and his text is in bolds (what else?).

A man and a woman. He is older than her, middle age to a little older, perhaps. He is dressed in dinner jacket or something of that kind, very elegantly anyway. He is the perfect gentleman. She is younger than him, smaller, more delicate in everything. She is dressed in a short, black dress, the kind that hugs her body, low cut, revealing but not vulgar, short but not without style. She is lightly dressed, shows a lot of skin but she is not tarty.

She is everything I hoped for. Wide-eyed, seeing everything. Wanting everything. She wears her clothes as if they are new. She wobbles a bit on her heels. Do I disappoint? I must play the wizened courtier, I think.

I am too lightly dressed, I am too naked compared to his elegance. I am too tarty, too revealing, to vulnerable. He must think I am such a vulgar girl.

But I thought I was dressing up, thought that I was trying to look nice. He must see how impressed I am by him...how attracted I am. He is older and so much a stranger but there is something.

Maybe it is all wrong. I am impressed and he is such a very special person but I have no reason to think that he is interested. Am I interested? He is too old. He is such a strange man. He must think I am interested. Maybe I am and maybe I am showing him that. But if I am not. I should have dressed more conservatively.

She blushes exquisitely. At what? At something she wishes, something she sees, or senses? Is she embarrassed by her charming naivete, or sorry for me? But there are three paths to seduction: make her laugh, make her blush, make her feel her desirability. She has blushed. She is on the path. It is up to me to lead her on…

They are at his castle (and for this fantasy it has to be a real, great, old castle). He has treated her to dinner and he has dismissed the servants and now he is showing her his castle. They walk from room to room and he tells her about his ancestors and the history of the castle. She is amused and interested but he is not sure if she is polite, attracted to him or just impressed. After all, she is far younger than him.

Her eyes glitter. She is like a lucid sleepwalker. So delicate… She takes my lead, like a sensitive dance partner. Such attentiveness to my every word. But am I her gallant cavalier, or just a garrulous old fossil? Does she even notice how we descend, floor under floor? How the passages meander, how many doors are closed behind her? Does she sense how lost she will be, how lost she already is?

This castle is like a dream. It is like something from a horror film, so sinister, so old and haunted, so magical. It is a magical castle and he is such an elegant man. He is far too old for me but he is such a gentleman. He is proud of his castle and arrogant but I am not put off. Why is that? He is not handsome, he is too old but I feel like a princess in a fairytale. I am impressed. I am overwhelmed. He overwhelms me and why shouldn't I allow myself to be swept away. I am walking in a dream but why can't I have it?

The tour takes them to the dungeon and this is a real dungeon, the castle prison with heavy pillars and heavy doors of oak and iron. A really grim place and she is really out of place there, too lightly dressed, too exposed and too vulnerable.

Surely she is beginning to see. And yet she takes my arm all the more firmly. But will she, seeing, shy away? How to reassure her, despite appearances, that she is safe in a dream, a fairytale.

She is intrigued, flattered. She is intent, intense. Her questions are genuine. Is this bravado, courage. or ...is she elect ?

The tingle, that strange tingling in my body. How come I am so excited by this. It is like walking into a nightmare but a hauntingly beautiful nightmare. I am like a tiny mouse, like a kitten or something soft and vulnerable here in his castle, in his domain, in his home of power and strength. A strength that goes back beyond anything I can imagine and he just stands there, inviting me, asks me to be a part of it. And this strange tingling sensation. He is such a man. He is old and not handsome but there is something that is older, stronger than anything I have ever felt before.

The dungeon is grim but well kept, no mildew or mould Everything is clean but, still, there are stone walls and heavy doors and well trodden stairs.

It is so old but this is not a neglected part of the castle. It is almost as if it was still in use. As if people still were held here, prisoners of that hideous strength, that iron hard will that seem to glow in his eyes. That strength that overwhelms me and makes me feel very small, very tiny, very vulnerable. But still I am invited, still I am here by his will. I am entering into his domain and I have no power here. But do I want power?

No battering ram could breach these iron doors. And no cries can escape these walls. Rather, in these hard walls, the cries, shrieks, groans reverberated. Sometimes I think they echo still.

They reach the cells of the prison and he shows her the walls where heavy chains and shackles are hanging. She walks through the cells in silence, stops to touch the chains, the shackles.

She is either bold, or trying successfully to appear casual. Does she not understand, can she not feel, the meaning of these artifacts? Is she deaf to the cries of despair? Cannot she feel the palpable pain, the agony of anticipation, the hopelessness? Doesn't she – doesn't she KNOW?

Look how tiny her hands are, her wrists. The contrast -- does she feel it, as I do? The weight, the size, the strength. Once in these chains, she would be like a hare in a bear trap...

The irons are heavy, rough but well kept. They are heavy and grim but not rusty. He looks at her and sees the contrast between her soft person and the grim surroundings and thinks about how she is kept in the heavy iron.

She blushes as he looks at her and maybe she is thinking the same.

How pretty she is when she blushes. Such a privilege to have even this small window into her mind. What voluptuous pleasure would it be to see other her responses: her eyes widen, her first precious tear, her trembling, her words of entreaty -- and these would be appetizers, the cold soup... The main course, the game, to follow.

So here he keeps his prisoners. Here are they kept, his maidens and virgins. The girls he carries off on his raids to the villages around his castle. I can see his ancestors carrying the screaming girls to this cell, chaining them, ripping their clothes off, leaving them naked and exposed, scared and vulnerable. There are no raids and no captures any more and he is a civilised man. There is only a girl who enters of her own free will.

I can feel the iron collar around my neck, its cold and hard surface. How heavy it would be, how completely helpless I would be. I feel naked, standing here. I am just a silly girl, dressing up and showing how weak I am. And he seems so self assured, so confident. I am entering into his old age dream of capture and imprisonment, of dark cruel lust and power and being overpowered and I am just a silly girl impressed by his power.

I no longer hear the screams, but rather, I hear the calm, commanding voice, giving the order that elicits the screams.

They reach the torture chamber and this is the real thing. It is kept like a museum but the pieces are real and well kept, functioning. There is nothing of the toys and gadgets of a toy dungeon. These are real devices.

He shows her the rack, a device capable of tearing a man in two. He shows her the iron that may be heated white for branding and torture. He shows her the horse with a sharp back where the victim may be sat.

I know what he is thinking. I know why he is doing this. I know he is talking about me. I know that I am thinking what he is thinking. How painful that rack would be. How helpless I would be in its clutches. I can see it now, how the torches flicker, how I am strapped to the rack, helpless and, perhaps, naked. How he stands there, his hand on the lever, how he can make me scream by just pulling it.

The man explains every device in detail and watches her reactions. She is affected, blushes and trembles.

She reacts as she imagines she should react, or rather, she responds automatically but superficially. Will she ask more questions? Does she understand there is only one way to truly answer them?

Oh the bliss, the possibility... must not frighten the dove. And must not
break her too soon .. patience ... patience is the hardest part.

The rack fascinates her. I wonder, if I suggested she lie on it, just to experience more vividly – what would she do? Laugh it off? Take offense? Or ... once bound, I would turn the ratchet ever so slowly, slightly. Then inspect her, from her coiffure to her toes. Reality might come to her then. Or not? How long could I keep up the charade of providing an "educational" experience -- if a naughty one? Such bliss to bind her, then to kiss her fears away – temporarily.

....

But even as she lies, helpless but expecting release, I heat the brazier. So many opportunities. A small, glowing tip, waved close -- she becomes keenly aware, as never before, of the potential for agony in her delicate whorled ear lobe, her underarm, the hollow of her knee, her delicate arch. How long might she harbor the hope these teasing are merely jokes in bad taste?

He tells her how the pain is created and how the different parts of the devices are applied to the body.

The hot iron is too horrible. I can't think of that. His eyes are glimmering. I hope he is not thinking about the iron. The horse is magnificent. I can almost feel how it would be, sitting on it.

I would save the horse ... must not break her too quickly … but she must be well subdued before I could place her there. But, once on, hands tied behind her, weights on her ankles... a charcoal brazier, perhaps, heated, smoking, directly under the saddle? I will pretend to leave. Watch from the chink in the wall. How voluptuous...

He puts me there, naked, my exposed sex touching the harsh sharp edge, biting into my flesh. The tingling sensation, the warmth, the horrible excitement. It is a dark and dangerous dream but he enjoys it, he enjoys telling me about it. How could I ever have mistaken him, his intentions? But I am not someone he respects. I am not a woman to love and to care for. I am just a girl impressed by his power, his castle and his devices.

I am impressed and I do not care. This dream is too powerful.

His words become more explicit and he talks about the prospective victim as 'she' and 'her body'. She shivers as if cold and looks at him and his devices with awe. He becomes more and more agitated and his eyes are shining. He is like a child.

She is like a bird hypnotized by a snake. If she runs now, how far will I let her run before I catch her? Should we pretend to leave, be almost out the door -- be out the door -- before I drag her back? Or might she willingly place her hands in the cuffs of the flogging frame, just for the experience? To tell her friends how brave she was? How odd, if harmless, was that old man?

He is like a child. This is his dream, his fascination, and I am just a part of it. I know he wants to do this to me. I know he wants to use his devices on me. I am just one of the girls that his robber baron ancestors have captured. I am just some stupid young person who walks into his dream.

This tingling, this strange excitement. His words touches my ears like vinegar on a wound, like something bitter and yet sweet touches your tongue. It is his play, his dream and I have a part in it. How sweet is not that part. How sensational is not my surrender to his childish delight.

She walks around, touches the devices, almost caresses them, thinking that it is her body that will be fastened and tortured there. It is still a tour and he is just talking about his castle but both of them know that they are talking about her being tortured by him.

I shudder to think of her in this place. Yet I exalt. I see that she, too, feels the unspeakable horror and irresistible attraction of this place, of these instruments that have been waiting, so many centuries, to taste her.

They both know it and they both know that he will do it to her. She knows but she does not run.

Perhaps this iron will hold my body. How will it be to be held, to be captured by unyielding iron? Iron that won't let me go. I will lose my freedom and I will be just a captive. I will have to trust him. I will have to hope that he will not harm me, that he will not injure me.

I have always done what I want but lying on that rack or sitting on that chair, in iron I will no longer be free. I will change, have to trust, have to be where I am put. I will have to endure.

I know that he will not just keep me there. I know he will make me suffer. I know I will suffer. I know he will grant me pain.

What will it be like? Will I endure? Is there, really, room for my tingling sex in his dream. Will I enjoy it?

Her destiny and my ancestry intersect here. Such a lovely girl, such a beautiful doom. I shall relish every sigh, groan I wring from her. I shall cherish her, even as… I shall honor her, as she honors me.

He sees her affect, her fear and her fascination. She sees his immense pleasure, his childish enthusiasm, his joy at the prospect of torturing her.

Should I ever hesitate I have only to look at his face. How could I deny him that pleasure. I am privileged to be allowed to enter his dream to, enter his dungeon. Come what may!

What is this?

Is it possible?

All things are possible....

Slave Story, part 1

I posted a part of a longer story about a girl who was enslaved earlier. Perhaps it is time to return to the theme again and return to what I do best; stories (I am not saying I am good just that it is what I do best).

This is the story from the beginning. I have written quite a lot but it is far from finished. You have to imagine the setting yourself, an ancient looking fantasy land with people and places with silly names. And yes, it is very inspired by the Gor stories by John Lange (aka John Norman). I think my world is a little less brutal, though, but we'll see.

It was a beautiful day, the day I was taken. I had gone to the market with my friends as we often did in the morning. I knew nothing about what would occur, everything was decided without me knowing anything. It was nothing unusual in that. This kind of matters were never discussed with girls like me. Even if it would affect you profoundly.

I was together with my friends sitting by the fountain relaxing a little after having finished the shopping. As always we had lots of things to carry home and the road was long so we thought we deserved a short break with our feet in the cool water. We talked and giggled and sang as young girls always do when together. I was happy at that moment. Not a worry in the world.

I didn't notice the men who walked up to us. I didn't notice until I herd a harsh voice calling my name.

'Calissa! For you are Calissa, the daughter of the blacksmith Cajol?'

I stood up as a young girl should do in the presence of men.

'I am, master' I answered sensing my heart beating in my chest. The fact that this man addressed me indicated something bad, I knew that. I wondered what I was accused of doing. I took for granted that there was some wrongdoing being done and that I had been accused of it. I could not imagine the real reason for this man talking to me.

I was soon to be told the grim reason for his address. He didn't give me much time for preparations.

'Strip!' he ordered with his stern voice.

I was bewildered.

'But, why, master?' I managed to ask.

'You are to be taken to the slave pens.'

'No, master, that must be some mistake, I am free.'

I felt my cheeks blush.

'You are the property of master Firul and will be taken to the slave pens on his behalf.'

'I am not the property of master Firul, master, that is a mistake.'

'Will you strip or shall I order my men to strip you?'

'But, please, master, I do not understand.'

'The papers are in order,' he replied.

He didn't prove it by showing me the papers. I could read, it was not that. It was, simply not done.

'But, master, who could have...?'

'Strip now, girl!'

'My father can't have. Please, master, do not tell me, my father has sold me!'

'I think he has. Will you strip now?'

I was overwhelmed, distraught. I sat down on the fountain and covered my face in my hands, weeping. I couldn't believe what was happening. My mind was in turmoil.

I heard the men in the company of the master who had addressed me, obviously his servants, approach me. I immediately stood up. I realised I had to comply. Nothing could be more embarrassing than having those men strip me there in the street.

'Please, master, wait, I will do as you wish.'

The man held back his servants with a gesture of his hand.

I looked up at the man in despair. My fingers fumbled with the cord around my waist. I felt numb.

'Please, master, can't I take my clothes off later?'

'It is not customary,' he answered and I knew he was right.

I looked around and my friends watched in horror. I felt their sympathy to be another burden for me.

I untied the cord around my waist and hesitated. The man looked annoyed but he didn't say anything.

'Please, master.'

The man didn't answer but gestured with his hand and his servants started to move.

'Wait, wait, please, master, I will obey.'

He held them back.

My hands trembled as I slipped the dress from my shoulders. There was a sense of loss as I felt it slide over my body. I held it as it slipped from me and then I stepped out of it. The man held out his hand and I gave him my dress and the cord that used to hold it in place.

For a while I just stood there, feeling utterly naked, blushing, my heart pounding in my chest, full of shame and anguish.

The man didn't say anything, he just pointed at my hip. For some reason I didn't dare to protest. My fumbling fingers untied the knot at my hip and I slipped off my minimal breech cloth. Now I was naked.

'Now, girl, kneel!'

I fell to my knees and hunched my back, trying to cover up, overcome with shame and embarrassment.

'Straighten your back!'

I did as I was told. I sat up and suddenly I saw all the people who had gathered around us. It was a bit of entertainment to see a girl being enslaved like this. I wiped the tears from my eyes and tried to look calm.

'Knees apart.'

My heart beat and extra beat at hearing this. This was the ultimate shame, having to kneel like a slave.

I obeyed him while my whole body trembled.

'Wider!'

I cried as I obeyed him.

My head swirled and my cheeks were hot as I knelt on the cobbled street in front of the fountain, naked and with knees apart like a slave girl.

The man knelt behind me and took my arms and crossed them behind my back. He then bound me and put a rope around my neck as a leash.

Iconic Images 3

Dear Reader, if you have read my blog you may find this iconic image a little different from the ones I usually post here, a little more brutal, a little more degrading, perhaps. Maybe you will find the earlier ones more stylish and lighter than this. Still there is something about this image that draws me in.

It is made by a person who call themselves Gnarly Thotep. This character has come and gone, reappeared and gone again on the Web. There is still a gallery of their work, here.

The name sounds a little ancient Egyptian to me and perhaps this is intentional. Although it should, really, have been Gnarlyt Hotep to be Egyptian, ''hotep' being a common element in names, meaning an offering to a god or a goddess.

Enough of that. Why have I decided to put this image on my blog? It is a horrible image in many ways. A naked woman is hung upside down, her arms tied behind her back. She is not only suspended in the air but hanging in her toes. That must be excruciatingly painful. She seem to react accordingly, her face contorted in pain and agony.

There is a man, clad in what seems like a leather jacket crouching by her side. He seems calm and composed. The impression I get is that he is responsible for her ordeal. He seem to relish the situation in a way she does not.

This is really a common theme, not only in the fantasy world of bondage and torture but also in mainstream media. A person in peril in the hands of another. The one in peril is often a woman and the one in control a man (but there are many varieties).

I do find this image both exciting and intriguing. It is something about the contrast between their situations. He is in control, clothed, calm and at ease. She is bound naked, in agony and very much not in control. He has everything and she has nothing. She is totally in the hands of the man.

It is exciting to see this contrast even if I would never ever consider hanging in my toes without clothes, head down in the presence of a man in a leather jacket.

And there is something in the way the artist has rendered her. The lines of her body, the composition of the picture that is, actually, quite beautiful.

Have you noticed one thing? I am very distanced in my way of talking about this image. It may have to do with the fact that I am embarrassed that I find this cruel image both beautiful and sexy. Analysing and being intellectual about it is a way of keeping the distance.

The image is both horrible and sexy, cruel and beautiful. That is the truth. And I dared say it.

Oh, dear!!!

All work and no play, makes Janice a dull girl. Anyway, this silly variety of the famous proverb is the gentle introduction to more frivolities. Yes, more silliness from me. This time it is about Second Life. I guess you know what it is. Otherwise you may read about it here. I can say this: it is a virtual world where you can go, create your own avatar and wander around meeting people and indulge in all sorts of activities.

It is not such a bad place for someone like me who, at least, is interested in things that cannot be called vanilla (to use the popular term). Anyway, I have created myself a persona that does not, really, look like me but represent me in Second Life. I have met some lovely people and I have experienced a lot of interesting things.

I choose to illustrate this blog entry with an image from Second Life where yours truly gets her bottom tanned by another resident of Second Life who had the kindness of not asking whether I had been naughty. I hadn't of course, since I am a good girl.

I have met this woman who has promised to teach me about submission and I spend my lessons with her kneeling at her feet. I wonder why it is so much easier to be obedient and polite and well behaved in Second Life than in real life.

I bet you didn't think me that kind of person to indulge in virtual experiences but I am. And if anyone of you reading this also has a second life then feel free to email me with your name and I may, just may, come visit you when in Second Life.

The Story of Miranda, part 4

So here it is, the fourth instalment of the Story of Miranda. What seemed like a spanking story turned into a girly romantic story. I am like that. There is no continuation. It might turn into pornography should I continue or a serious relationship drama. Perhaps, sometime in the future. There are some snippets and situations from their life together that I might post here but no real continuation.

I changed during that summer and much thanks to Felicia. We went shopping together and she insisted on me getting clothes I never would have dreamt of buying. I got a brand new red bikini, even smaller than the blue one. The top was not considerable smaller but the bottom was minimal. I only partly covered my bum and its front was minimal. Seeing me from the side one could think I was naked. Felicia insisted on me tying the cords at the sides with bows that could easily be slipped. Most girls tie stout knots and make them look like bows but mine were real. This made me feel vulnerable. I had to buy a very short, wide skirt. It fell only to halfway down my thighs and was very revealing. Adding to that was the fact that it hung very low on my hips. Felicia told me to wear a shirt together with the skirt and knot it in front so that it left my belly exposed. It was nothing unusual about that but it was most shocking for tiny Miranda to be dressed like that. I had the tiniest of shorts and only the red bikini top when we went walking in town on hot summer afternoons.

She took an interest in dressing me so that I had to reveal my body in public. Nothing I wore was shocking or strange, many girls wore less but they were hip, they were sexy. I was the unassuming Miranda and was embarrassed to have to walk through town with exposed belly. It was very exciting at the same time. I often blushed when we passed people and I thought that they looked at me and my body. Sometimes they did. I was very much aware of boys and men watching me.

I felt ashamed at the same time as I enjoyed being so naked. I felt a special tingling in my body when I saw men turning their heads looking at me. I wondered if it was like this for other girls. Maybe this was what it was all about, this dressing up and showing off that the girls did?

That summer was exciting and arousing and the best thing was that Felicia was in command. I felt happy not having to be responsible for this. She commanded and I went along. The downside with all this exposure was that I couldn't get spanked as much as we wanted. It was hard to spank me without leaving some traces. During the spring semester one of the girls had commented on some marks on my bum during gym class. I had been whipped three days before and the marks still showed. I said something plausible and I don't think someone realised what had happened but we felt the need for being more cautious.

I was happy during that summer although I was sad about the spankings. I missed them or rather I missed the opportunity they gave me of losing myself in it. I have described it as being dragged to the edge of a terrifying void and almost pushed over it and that I longed for to be pushed. Although we experimented a lot I didn't seem to get any closer to that void that I so much lusted for and feared. I was eager to be pushed even further, to really lose control although I knew it meant that I would have to submit, for real, to the pain. I imagined it as pain beyond endurance and something I couldn't cope with and that it would make me fall into that void. Pain was always pain and it hurt so. I couldn't thing of anything more horrible than unbearable pain but the longing for what it might do to me was undiminished.

There was another theme that seemed to dominate that summer and it was connected to the incidents with our hugging each other and Felicia's hand in my jeans. Felicia took an interest in my body or exposing it. It seemed that these incidents had changed Felicia too and that she was more keen on looking at me and exposing me and making me feel ashamed of being exposed. I caught her regarding me sometimes when I was walking from the water, wet and in my bikini or laying in the sun.

Nothing was said but there was something, concerning my body, that went on underneath the surface. It was about her gaze and the lust for being touched and maybe the lust to touch as well. In some ways I was in love with her. I wanted her to watch me and I wanted her to touch me but I could not admit it. Felicia didn't say anything either but there was this air of something nice and powerful going on.

This changed suddenly one afternoon by the lake. It was late in the summer and the air was hot. We stayed on when most people started to leave and after some time we were alone. We often choose spots that were almost deserted even when the lake was crowded and this afternoon we were alone.

We were lying in the setting sun feeling warm and lazy. Suddenly I felt Felicia's eyes on me. I turned around and looked at her. She looked back and smiled as strange kind of smile.

'Take your top off!' she said.

'Ok,' I answered.

It happened now and then that she commanded me to take my top off. I don't know why but this time I sat up and stretched and made quite a show of it. I felt a bit ashamed, but nice in a way, doing that. It wasn't a big show, nothing spectacular but I stretched my body, arched my back a little and undid my top and slipped it off. I felt like a stripper but if anyone could have seen me it was nothing out of the ordinary, I guess.

My performance was not lost on Felicia, though. She watched me intensely and I sat on the beach for a while enjoying the sun. I wanted to stay in that moment because it felt good, daring to take off my bikini top while she watched.

'Take off your knickers!' she said and my heart took a leap and started pounding. This was new. I had showed off my breasts before but I had never been naked in a public place like this. No one was there so there was not much risk being seen but it was still shocking.

'Here?' I asked feeling stupid.

'Yeah,' she answered and didn't stop looking at me.

I looked around to see if anyone could see me and then I decided that I dared risking it. The sense was not if I dared doing it rather how hard it would be doing it, because I couldn't resist her demands. I slipped down my hands and quickly pulled off my knickers. I was shaking. I was naked. She watched me and I was embarrassed. At the same time it felt nice in a kind of warm and sexy way to strip for her.

'Lay down now!' she said and I did.

'No, as before, on your back!'

My cheeks were probably very red when I awkwardly rolled over and lay on my back. I felt terrible exposed and was hoping no one would see me, no one besides Felicia. I wanted her to see me and I think she did. I didn't look at her but I sensed her eyes upon me. I took up my book and started to read again. I felt the urge to do something ordinary just to stop the beating of my heart and the scary, dreadful sense of being aroused by the whole thing.

Then she touched me. I felt her hand on my belly. Her fingers were cool against my warm skin when she lightly touched the area around my navel. I was shocked but it felt ever so good. I held my breath not daring to do or say anything. I was afraid that the slightest reaction from me would break the spell and she would withdraw her hand. I was embarrassed but it was so good to sense her touch and I didn't want it to stop.

Her hand moved around, stroking my belly, moving down to my lower belly. I was terrible aroused and couldn't' breath. I was scared she would touch my sex at the same time as I longed for it. I was helpless in her hands. I was vulnerable and exposed.

She did move down to my sex. I almost exploded when she carefully placed her hand on my sex. She stroked me a little and I felt the tingling between my legs. I tried to be still but I think I shivered and maybe moved a little. When she slipped her fingers into me I let go of a tiny, pathetic, little sound. I held my breath again and tried to control my trembling body. I didn't want her to leave me as she had did the time before but I was equally afraid that she would satisfy me.

Her fingers burnt in me and I felt even more vulnerable with her presence there, in my most intimate spot. She moved around a little and I felt waves of heat running through my body. I almost fainted with the sensation and I didn't want her to stop. I almost forgot that we were laying on a public beach and I was completely naked.

The heat seemed to focus on my sex and with a great deal of fear I realised that I was close to coming. I believe Felicia felt that too but she didn't seem to mind. She kept her fingers moving in me and the inevitable happened. I came with a vengeance. I can't describe the tingling and heat that soared through my body. I think I sighed and moved but it was beyond anything I had ever experienced.

I didn't notice Felicia removing her hand. I recall rolling over on my side, overcome with emotions and the physical reaction, burying my face in my hands, being both happy and ashamed.

When I came around I felt Felicia's hand on my shoulder. I rose to my knees, looking at her.

'I am so ashamed,' I said.

'Didn't you like it?' she asked suddenly looking scared and concerned.

'It was the best.' I said and almost started to cry. Felicia took me in her arms and I hugged her violently. I pressed my naked body against her and I felt her close to me. I hugged her and cried at her shoulder and felt happy. It was good sensing her body against mine and her arms around me and my arms around her.

After a while she looked me in the eyes with a serious face. She regarded me for a second or two and then she kissed me. She kissed me on the lips. A sweet, soft kiss. A kiss that didn't demand anything but was the sweetest thing imaginable. I eagerly kissed her back and we were suddenly full of passion. We kissed for a long time and my head swirled. I was kissing a girl and I liked it. I loved her and she was a girl.

We came to our senses and realised that we didn't want to be seen. It was a forbidden thing and we would have to hide it. We knew that. We looked at each other in bewilderment and then we smiled. It was good but we had to go back now. We could not stay. I didn't know what this would lead to but I loved her and I didn't care too much at that moment.

The Conqueror

No more silliness, at least for a while. This is a story I wrote yesterday and it is unusual for this blog in the sense that it is not a fantasy. It is just a story, a story I wanted to tell.

This is story is about something and I am not sure I have managed to tell it the right way. Is it too obvious what it is about? Or is it not obvious at all? I wouldn't mind to hear from you, Dear Reader.

Here I am, in your study, entering your domain. It is almost dark, just one single light. You are sitting in your armchair, enthroned, like a king, a ruler of your land. Here am I, standing before you, exactly where you want me.

Your head is in darkness, I don't see the sparkle in your eyes. I don't see the eyes that behold me, standing before you. I don't see the eyes that lingers on my frame, caresses my body.

I am dressed in black, the fabric of my dress hugs my body, reveals more than it hides. And there are you, knowing that I have dressed for you, showing myself for you. The way you want it.

I picked you out at the party. It was a flippant remark you made, a line you dropped for to provoke. 'Most women secretly desire a good spanking.' A remark designed to annoy, to offend.

I was provoked, I was offended. I told you what a chauvinist pig you are and that you know nothing of women. I gave you it all, in the face. You took it with your arrogant smile, waiting for to play the gentleman, trying to placate me.

Some drinks later you told me that I wanted a good spanking, yes, needed a good spanking. I blushed and looked away. You knew, then, that I was coming with you. I saw the smile on your face, the hunter's smile.

So, here I am, in my short, black dress, standing before you, were you want me, beheld by you, controlled by you, in your domain. You look at me but I can't see your face. You can see me. That is how you want it.

You like what you see. I know that. I can sense that. I hear it in your breathing. You like what you see of me. You like me in my short black dress, put on for you.

You start the inquiry. You take control. I wait and answer, standing there, beheld, in the only light in the room.

'Yes, I am naughty.'

'Yes, I feel guilty about being a woman.'

'Yes, I need a strong man.'

'Yes, I deserve to be punished.'

Exactly how you want it. I need to be punished, I want to be punished. You are doing me a favour, doing what I want. You are kind to punish me. That is how you want it. That is what you need.

I get you the cane, the instrument, the tool. That is how I show my submission, how I show you that you are in command.

Again you talk, your voice coming from the darkness, the cane, the instrument for my punishment, resting on your lap. Again I tell you how I deserve to be punished, how I need to be punished. I tell you that I need you to punish me, the gallant knight, armed with a cane.

We both know what is next. We both wait for it. You are still for a while, silent. Then, you tell me to prepare.

I move slowly, aware of your eyes on me, caressing my hips as I pull up my dress. A tiny gasp from you as I reveal the black silk that was hidden. My hands gently slip the silk knickers down my from my hips, revealing my body. The soft fabric touches my skin like a lover's hand. I am preparing for my punishment.

At your command I lean over your desk, turning my back towards you, turning my face away from you, giving you a full view of me from where you are sitting. I hear you rising from your armchair. I hear you breathing.

'Yes, I deserve to be punished.'

'Please, punish me now, let me taste the cane.'

The sound is tremendous, sharp and cold as ice. The pain is red, hot and red. And overwhelming. The pain is more than I can endure. Exactly how you want it. Exactly how I want it.

I cry out in pain, in agony. You like that. I can feel it, hear it. You enjoy this. I move in discomfort, showing you how brutal you are, how in total command you are, how at your mercy I am. Exactly how you want it.

'Yes, it hurt more than I was prepared for.'

'No, I think I deserved it.'

'Yes, we need to be caned.'

Then you lean on me, slumping on top of me. I sense your body against mine, your heavy breath in my ear. You are quick and eager. You don't wait for me. But I am quicker. I was prepared.

Later, you sit in your armchair, your head hidden in the shadows again. I know your smile is back on your face. I rise from my position, pull down my dress. My knickers are gone, you will keep them, as a trophy, as a sign of my submission.

Without a word I leave your study, leave your dark room. In silence, I leave your domain, with you still sitting on your throne, a king of your realm, the realm I conquered.