The Party, part 1

Alright, this is a blog about fantasies. I don't think this is one of my best stories but there are a lot of things from fantasies in it. I thought I would try to be a little less held back and just write and try to overcome my prudishness and be a little vulgar. Don't expect too much orgies, though! Remember it is a very prudish person writing this!

Don't worry, the second part is already written so you don't have to wait months for it.

I was standing in the kitchen adding the finishing touches to the sauce that was to be served with the roast. I had everything under control. I had worked all day preparing for the party. Some of his, our, best friends were coming to visit and he wanted it to be perfect. I had cleaned the house, shopped for all the food and I had spent hours in the kitchen preparing. I had planned it well so I had time to slip into the shower and make myself presentable.

I was part of the party in his mind and I had to be clean and sparkling like the furniture. I spent a good hour in the bathroom, showering and preening myself, making myself look the best. I had donned my best dress, a black, very clinging thing, shorter than made me feel comfortable. The kind of dress that showed off every curve, every little part of my body, the kind you had to wear string knickers to. I had no bra and was concerned that my nipples would be on full display whenever they decided they had to stand to attention.

I was in full control of the situation, still my heart beat a double beat when I heard him open the door. I greeted him in the hallway and he looked pleased with me. I told him about all my preparations and he smiled approvingly. I loved that smile. I needed that smile.

He went into to the bathroom and had a shower. There was still time for that. I hummed a tune while I was checking everything for the dinner. The wine was there, the cutlery was there, the food was prepared or ready to be cooked. Everything was in order. I liked it to be like that. He liked it that way. I knew he would show me if he was displeased with anything.

When there was just some fifteen to ten minutes before the guests were to arrive he came into the kitchen. He was dressed in a shining white shirt and looked ever so smart. I gave him a kiss. He deserved it. I wanted him to know how gorgeous I found him.

Then he turned to me and said:

'Guest will soon be here, you'd better go change!'

'I thought I would take this dress.'

'No, I have changed my mind. Put on the Girdle and the ankle chain and the big bangle!'

I gave him a look. My heart was beating faster.

'If not the dress to that, what then?'

I anticipated the answer but I wanted him to say it. I didn't want to get such a thing wrong.

'Nothing,' he said, and smiled, 'nothing at all.'

'Knickers?'

'When I say nothing, I mean nothing.'

'But the Warwicks don't know us that well.'

'They know me.'

'They don't know me.'

'Go now!'

I sighed and went into the bedroom. I quickly stripped off the dress, the dress I had found to be too revealing, to exposing. How I missed it now that it lay on the bed. I kept my knickers on while I put on the bangle on my left wrist and the ankle chain on my right. The Girdle was a girdle in the ancient meaning of the word, really a kind of belt consisting of a gilded chain with golden disks, half an inch wide, some two inches in between. I wore it on my hips or, rather below my hips.

I always thought it made me look like some Egyptian dancer or the like. It was something very exotic and strange about wearing a chain low on your hips like that.

The moment of truth had come. He had said 'nothing' and he meant 'nothing.' I took a deep breath and slipped the knickers from me. I felt bereaved as they slipped down my thighs and left me naked. The Girdle and the bangle and the ankle chain didn't cover me. I was in all aspects naked, stark naked. And the guest would soon be here.

'Hurry up!' he shouted and I hurried from the bedroom.

'Marvellous,' he said smiling, 'they will be here any minute now. Just one thing to attend to.'

I saw that he was holding the riding crop in his hand.

'What have I done?' I gasped hearing the panic in my voice.

'Questioning my judgement.'

'You can't think it strange that I wonder.'

'Don't argue now, we don't have time for that. Lean over!'

Leaning over meant me standing with me hands on my knees, sticking my bottom out. It was the quickest and easiest punishment position.

I took my position and braced myself for the whip. I wished it wouldn't be too bad. I wasn't prepared for it. I wasn't sure I could cope with it.

The horsewhip was bad. It was harsh, designed to sting through the thick hide of a horse. Now it was going to be used on my sensitive skin, on my exposed bottom. And the marks would be fresh and visible as the guests arrived.

I almost cried out as the first blow hit me across the buttocks. I wasn't prepared for the pain. How could you prepare for something like that?

The second blow had me struggling to keep my hands on my knees. I knew that letting go meant more whipping, immediately or later.

I was given eight in all and I had tears in my eyes as he was done. But I had manage to take it without letting go of my knees. I was proud.

My bottom was still smarting as the doorbell rang. I knew I had to answer it. I was still flustered and affected when I rushed into the hallway. The good thing with the quick whipping was that I didn't have time to fret about being naked as I went to answer the door.

Meeting the Warwicks in the door, who were dressed in very smart clothes, taking their coats, brought home to me with all too much clarity how naked I was. The man smiled broadly and let his gaze linger on me. I assessed me, let his eyes stay on my bosom, taking in the fact that my nipples were standing to attention. He then let his gaze sweep over my body and I saw his eyebrows rise, just a little as he realised I was naked, completely naked.

I blushed as I was assessed this openly. Mrs Warwick was an auburn woman, good looking and dressed in a knee long, satin dress. How I had wished I could have been allowed something like that.

She was beautiful and she looked happy as she saw my nudity. Something glimmered in her eyes as she looked me over and tried to decide if I was more or less beautiful than she was. She smiled, so I assume she thought me less worthy. She gave her husband a worried look, however, and that pleased me somewhat.

My husband came out in the hallway and greeted the guests.

'Welcome, good to see you again. Say hi to my wife.'

Mr Warwick gave him a strange gaze and my husband nodded.

'It is allowed,' he said.

Mr Warwick then turned to me, put his left hand on my right breast, kneaded it, felt my hard nipple in his palm before he let his hand slip to my shoulder. He leaned forward and kissed my cheek and I gasped as I felt his right hand touch my sex, stay there for a second and then quickly slip into me.

I held my breath as his fingers quickly moved inside me and then, as causally as they had entered withdrew. He smiled at me and then turned to his wife.

'say hi to Kate you too!'

Mrs Warwick leaned forward and touched her cheek to my cheek while she too slipped her fingers into my sex. I gasped again as her quite cold fingers slipped in and out of me.

My husband looked a little annoyed and I knew that my gasping and showing surprise at the unexpected intrusions didn't please him.

'My wife doesn't show my guests the proper respect they deserve. I can whip her if it pleases you.'

He then looked at me.

'Please forgive me for being disrespectful,' I said and curtsied.

'Don't worry dear,' Mr Warwick said.

'No need to whip her more,' he continued, turning to my husband, 'I can see she has already displeased you.'

I saw an expression of disappointment flicker through the face of Mrs Warwick. I was sure she would have enjoyed seeing me get the whip.

I showed the Warwicks into the living room and offered them something to drink. They smiled and accepted a glass of port.

Two more coupled arrived, the Collins and the Jones. All of them greeted me the same way but now I was prepared and endured the touch without giving any sounds of distress.

However prepared I was, I couldn't avoid the strange and unwelcome sensation of arousal that already Mr Warwick had evoked with his touch and each consecutive intrusion only added to the heat and ache I experienced.

As I walked among the seated guests, offering port and other refreshments I knew I was flustered and I knew my nipples were erect and I felt their eyes upon my body.

The men seemed pleased with my nudity and seemed to find some satisfaction in letting their eyes linger on my exposed body as I moved among them. Their eyes burned me and I knew myself beheld. But it has to be admitted that this kind of attention was in all its humiliation also a source of some pride. Their smiles told me that my appearance was pleasing to them.

The women, however, seemed to enjoy my nudity for completely different reasons. Their expressions spoke of a satisfaction that seemed to stem from the humiliation they imagined I must experience. They looked at my face, tried to assess my reactions and when I blushed or showed signs of being ashamed they seemed pleased and satisfied.

The women also looked at my body and I imagined they wondered how they compared to me, smiling when they realised their bosom was bigger and seemed displeased if they thought that my frame was more slender or the like.

Dinner came and the guests sat down to eat. I served the appetiser and watched them eat. I then served the soup and then I was allowed to sit down to eat myself. I was not allowed at the table but had to kneel on the floor by a sideboard.

I had hardly time to kneel down before I had to rush up to fetch this or that or arrange for something other.

Soon it was time for the main course, the roast and I served that too. I cut the roast and put the meat on the plates and I had to lean in over the table, my naked body brushing against their clothes, my breasts hanging close to the table, being vulnerable to their touches should any of them desire that.

I wasn't spared. Many of them couldn't resist the temptation to pinch my nipple as it came close and more than once I felt a hand slide up between my thighs from behind. I got many a slap on my buttocks as I moved between the guests and my fresh whip marks never ceased to amaze them.

All this attention, all this focus on my naked body, and the fact that I was different, naked and the servant, the one who had no right to be respected only heightened my sense of vulnerability and made me more and more aroused. I wanted desperately to suppress this reaction, feeling that my nudity was enough exposure for the moment. I didn't want to offer them my arousal too. I was too shy for that.

Dinner was over and I cleared the table as the guests sat down in sofas and armchairs. As soon as I was done with the table I had to serve tea and biscuits and sherry and whisky.

As they all had been supplied with something to munch on and something to drink I was ordered to kneel on the floor among them.

The order was given by my husband without a sound. He just pointed to the floor and I knew I should kneel. He pointed with two fingers that he suddenly parted. I blushed as I understood the order. It meant I was to kneel with my knees apart.

I had never done that before, except with my husband, never among others. There was no disobeying so I turned to the guests, fell to my knees and obediently opened my thighs as I sat down.

I knew I had to do it properly and no modesty was allowed so I did my best to open up my knees real wide. Suddenly I sat there, on my knees, my sex wide open and exposed, facing the guests.

I think that sitting down among them, still naked, and with knees apart made me fully aware of how utterly naked and exposed I was.

As appropriate for this kind of kneeling, I pushed my breasts forward, straightened my back and let my hands hang loosely by my sides. I felt how my breasts were heaving, my nipples were hard and how my open and exposed sex was aching. In all this serving and shame and naked humiliation I could not deny that my body was reacting to all that happened around me. And sitting down after rushing around gave me time to think about it and experience all the mixed emotions.

'Do you whip her often?' Mr Jones asked.

'Yes,' my husband replied, 'she needs to be shown her place, quite regularly.'

'What do you use on her?' Mr Collins wondered.

'The horsewhip, the belt and the fish slice. Anything, really, that can be used on her.'

'I like to use the cane on my dear Elaine,' said Mr Warwick.

I saw how his wife, suddenly blushed.

'Isn't that so, my love?'

'Yes, that is true,' Mrs Warwick had to admit.

'I have found something interesting,' Mr Jones, said, 'I find it interesting that my Claire seems to be happier and more cheerful when I have whipped her. And more so when I have whipped her good. It is almost as if the harder I whip her the calmer and more content she becomes.'

'I have noticed that too,' Mr Warwick admitted, 'my Elaine seems happier when I use the cane on her, than when I just smack her with the hairbrush.'

'Kate is like that too,' my husband said, 'and I have found that she needs a real good thrashing now and then, the kind that makes her cry.'

I blushed as I heard him talk about me like that.

'What do you say, Eric,' Mr Warwick asked.

Mr Collins seemed a little confused.

'I haven't been married to my Sarah, that long. I haven't noticed that, really.'

'It will come,' my husband said.

'In fact,' Mr Collins said, 'Sarah is in for a spanking when we get home. She was late to work this morning. Can't have it like that. Any suggestions?'

'So many ways of punishing a woman,' my husband said looking quite pleased with himself, 'but late to work is serious so nothing too easy. The martinet perhaps.'

'Yes, the martinet is good,' said Mr Warwick, 'that will get her attention.'

'The martinet or the horsewhip,' Mr Jones said.

I shuddered at the mentioning of the horsewhip and my eight lashes earlier started to burn on my skin.

'The martinet sounds good,' replied Mr Collins, 'that is good. What do you say, Sarah?

He turned to his wife, a cute blond woman with her hair in a ponytail, dressed in a light summer dress. She blushed and lowered her gaze.

'I think it is good,' she mumbled.

'If you want you could do it now,' my husband said, that will cheer us all up.

'That is a brilliant idea!' exclaimed Mr Warwick.

Mr Jones nodded.

'Why not?' said Mr Collins and smiled with relief. 'What do you say, Sarah?'

'It is not for me to say,' she whispered, her cheeks red with embarrassment.

'Good reply,' said my husband, 'but you should get rid of that habit of asking her. Get used to just telling her.'

'I'll do it!' Mr Collins said, 'do you have a martinet?'

'Sure I have! Kate, go and get the martinet.'

'Which one, Sir?'

'The blue one.'

I rose to my feet and hurried to the cupboard where we kept all the instruments for my discipline and got the blue martinet. It was the more vicious one, the one that would hurt the most.

I knelt again, spread my knees, straightened my back, pushed my breasts forward, bowed my head and presented the martinet to Mr Collins. He took it with an expression of delight and surprise.

I glanced at his wife and saw her face turn white. She stared at her husband and the martinet in his hand.

The Island

I am back. Being away was good, being away from the Web was good although I missed my blog and you my dear readers. So I have returned with a story I have just written. I am not used to present tense so this may be a little awkward but it is good to try something new.

Sun is shining from a blue sky. The air is hot, the cool breeze brings a whiff of life to the Island. The vast ocean is stretching to the horizon.

There I am, standing on the cliff, looking at the sea, wind in my hair. My body is still aching, still stiff after the Festival. My head is still humming with the sound of the drums and piping of the flutes.

I turn around and walk up the steps to the pavilion. My head is still full of images from the temple. I remember the priestesses and the dancers, how they twisted and turned their bodies, how the light from the torches was reflected in the skin of their dancing bodies.

I remember the red haired girl, standing before the altar, in front of the priestesses, a wreath in her hair, naked as the day she was born. I can still see how the shadows danced on her body, leaving it dark, letting it show and how beautiful she was, beautiful because she was naked.

I reach the pavilion but no one is there. Maybe we have no lectures on days after the Festival. I am alone. I stand there, waiting, not daring to sit down, sensing it a show of disrespect to sit down before she is here.

I am sad that we will not do any readings, any studies. I am sad that she is not here. I am sad that I may not behold her in her delight. She is a queen, a ruler of poetry, a master of words and no one can make my thoughts fly like she can.

She is like the Goddess taken flesh and her beauty is strange. I have never seen a woman like her. She walks with pride, her stride is that of confidence. There is no hesitation in her. How I admire her confidence, her strength and her passion.

There is nothing strange with that. She is the Goddess taken flesh and why shouldn't a goddess be confident?

Her body is that of a woman and like no other woman I have seen. Her lips are sharp as steel and full as a flower. Her neck is like a pillar. Her eyes are old as the ocean but lively as a fire that lives and dies in a fleeting moment. The curve of her bosom is as sweet as a wave and there is a strength in that breast that surpasses the bravest of soldiers but is still as soft and gentle as the mother of all things living.

And her hips are like music, slender and light as the feather but sensitive like the music she plays and the poems she recites.

And I tremble as I think of her body and the way my heart beats faster and my cheeks are flustered as I look upon her. I am ashamed that my thoughts are on her bosom and not solely on her words.

'You alone have come,' says a voice behind me.

I spin round and suddenly I look upon her, my teacher, my goddess.

'I have come for the reading and the studies,' I reply, my voice thin, trembling.

'You alone have come for that, the other girls are sleeping. I let them sleep after the Festival but you have come. Why have you come?'

'I have come for the reading.'

'For the reading alone?'

'No, Teacher,' I say, my voice trembling, 'I have come for You.'

'For me? Why have you come for me?'

'I wouldn't miss a day of studies with You.'

'Such devotion but I wonder what really brought you here. Come and sit down and tell me about the Festival!'

I walk on trembling legs on the cold marble and sit down on the bench beside her, but not too close. The stone is cold against my thighs, bared in the short tunic I wear.

'Tell me, my child, what did you like the most?'

'I liked the drums and the pipes and the dancing in the temple.'

'The invocation of the Goddess?'

'Yes, Teacher, the invocation.'

'Tell me, little one, what did you like the most!'

'I liked the little girl.'

'Innocence? The red haired girl at the altar?'

'Yes, Teacher, Innocence.'

'Tell me about her!'

'You were there, Teacher, you saw her.'

'Yes, I was there, but did we see the same? Please, tell me about her!'

'She was so beautiful. She was so, very, naked.'

'She is Innocence, she is Beauty, she is Love.'

'Yes, Teacher, she is.'

I sit in silence for a while, lost for words.

'You are lost in thoughts, little one, tell me what bothers you!'

'Teacher, I don't know why, but I envy her, I envy her standing there in front of everyone.'

'Being naked?'

'Yes, Teacher, being naked.'

'Would you wish to stand in front of us all, naked, as the day you were born?'

'I am too old, I am seventeen.'

'Innocence, Beauty and Love has not left you. You are precious, little one. Know that! Never forget that!'

She rises to her feet and walks over to the side of the pavilion that overlooks the sea.

'Come, my child! Stand by my side. I want to show you something.'

I rise to my feet and stand beside her.

'Look at the Sea! Look at the waves. They continue their dance forever. We live but a short while. We are human. We blossom and we die. The Goddesses and Gods, the waves and the Earth, live forever. We are just specks of dust compared to them and we can do nothing but worship them, worship that which is eternal. We get a glimpse of that which is eternal by looking at the Sea, burn incense to the Goddess and enjoy the life we have been given. The girl you saw yesterday, she is just a human, with a human body and she symbolises Innocence, Beauty and Love but she was more than that. She was Innocence, Beauty and Love, because she carries in her, in her body some of that which is eternal and we all do. You do, I do and being who you are is a celebration of the Goddess. The love you feel, the desire you feel, the joy and elation, even the sorrow and pain you feel, are all parts of the Divine, that which the Goddess shows us and gives to us. By living, breathing, loving and desiring to be you, naked or clothed, alone or looked upon is a celebration of that which the Goddess bestowed upon us.'

I stand in silence looking at her and in that moment she is more beautiful than I have ever seen her. She is like the Sea, like the Wind and the Sun and I can do anything for her, do anything just to be with her.

'Teacher,' I say, 'are you a Goddess?'

'Yes, my child, I am a Goddess. I am of the Goddess. But so are you.'

She takes a step towards me and I turn to her. I sense the marble of the pillar against my back.

She is close now. I have never been this close to her before. I draw my breath. I cannot breathe. I am lost. I look at her but lower my gaze. I look at her bosom. It is heaving.

Then she touches me. I gasp. I hold my breath. She touches me. I lean back against the pillar. I close my eyes. I sense her hand on my hip, how it slides under my tunic, how it glides over my skin.

'Little one, you are blessed.'

I feel her hand slide in between my legs and I feel my heart beating violently in my chest. I lean my head against the hard marble as she lets her fingers slide into me.

I open my eyes and look out over the Sea. The waves are beating at the shore, relentlessly and in this moment I feel as if those waves reaches the pavilion, and the pillar I am leaning against. She is the Goddess and she is the Sea and they all touch me. I can but worship that which is eternal. I can but offer myself to that which is older and will live longer than me. I can only do what I am able to do. And that is to let me be touched by the Goddess. Be touched and surrender.

I close my eyes as the red wave overtakes me and I hear my own voice cry out, as if in agony, as my knees buckle and I slide, slowly, down the pillar.

She, my Teacher, is smiling at me. She takes my hand and helps me to my feet. I am trembling. I have been touched and I am lost. My head is dizzy.

She sits me down on the marble bench and she sits herself down beside me. She looks at me and I look back. She has never been more beautiful.

'There are no words for this. It just is.'

I nod.

'But I want one more thing from you.'

I cannot speak. I have no words.

She reaches out her hand and unties the knot at my shoulder. My tunic falls down as she puts her hand on my neck. She touches me gently but I still gasp, my skin as sensitive as if I had no skin. Her hands traces a path over my shoulder, over my bosom, gently caressing my small breasts, touching my hard nipples, circling them before moving further down.

She reaches out her other hand, unties the rope around my waist, pulls my tunic down from my hips. I lift my body, helping her undressing me, letting my tunic slip away from my body, letting it glide away and down over my thighs. She strips me gently with a soft caressing movement.

I sit naked on the marble, the stone still cold and strong and unmovable. The stone is hard against my hot and soft skin and I feel naked against it, naked in the world, naked in the presence of the Goddess.

She looks at me, touches me, caresses me and lets her hands move over my body. There is no red wave but he joy of her sweet touch fills my body and it wants to burst. I want to sing, I want to dance. I want to scream. Is this what creates the songs and the dances and the Divine Poetry?

She touches my back and rests her hands on my lower back and moves down over my bottom.

'Oh, little one, these are marks of the whip, on your body. They are fresh. Have you been whipped?'

'Yes, Teacher, I was whipped yesterday morning.'

'Why were you whipped?'

'I was slow in bringing in the water.'

'It was well deserved then?'

'Yes, Teacher, it was.'

My mind goes back to that morning, when I had to take my tunic off and kneel to the whip and how one of the older girls had taken the Three Tongued Menace, as it was called and given me twelve hard strokes on my naked body. I remember how I screamed and how I cried.

'Little one,' she says, 'little one, I know it hurt. You had to strip naked and kneel to the whip. How many lashes did you get?'

'Twelve, Teacher, I got twelve.'

'How did it make you feel?'

'It hurt.'

'Was that all?'

'No, Teacher, that was not all,' I say blushing, 'I felt something else. I felt special. I could almost touch the sensation when they looked at me, when I knew they were all looking at me as I stripped off my tunic. It was as if they could see my fear, and touch my fear as I knelt for the whip. And when the whip fell I felt, almost, as if I was relieved that it hurt so much. I screamed and I cried and I knew they were watching. All my friends were watching and they heard my screams and they saw my body as it was whipped. And, Teacher, I liked it.'

'Little one,' she says and looks at me, 'little one, my girl, you are blessed. Living is not just pleasure and your pain is worshipping the Goddess too. You are alive, my child. You are a blessing and you are blessed.'

She leans forward and kisses my forehead.

'You are one of us now, little one, you are of this Island now.'

She rises to her feet and looks at me. I am still naked, still trembling, still overcome with emotions.

'This is enough reading for today, class is dismissed.'

She smiles and turns around and walks towards the stair.

At the stair she turns around and looks at me.

'It is a good thing, I think, a blessed thing, that you didn't stay in bed this morning, little one.'

She walks down the stairs and I sit alone in the pavilion, naked in the sun, bewildered and trembling, touched and blessed and shaken and happy beyond anything. I look at my tunic, lying by my side, on the marble and I don't want to dress. I want to stay naked. I want to celebrate the Goddess with my body, celebrate this life.

I sit for a while, looking at the Sea, the World, and I am still naked and I know that from this moment, I am of this Island, I am of the girls of this Island. And I am of the Goddess.

Picnic on Grass

What is this talk of a darker side? Where is this darker side? If you think it will be here, now, today, in this blogpost, I am sorry to disappoint you. I do feel braver and I will show you the cruel me...at least a little. But today you will see something completely different. Silly? yes, romantic? perhaps, if you like.

I will be off next week and won't be blogging until beginning of June. Take care and have fun!

It was a perfect day for a picnic. The sun was shining from a blue sky and there was a mild breeze blowing. It was early in the summer and the glory of lush and green canopies and fragrant flowers was still a novelty.

The friends had gathered with bicycles and picnic baskets to make the most of a hot afternoon. There was Kate, beautiful, black haired Kate, dressed in a revealing and very short red dress. And of course Kate's, on and off, boyfriend, Brian, tall and ginger and reminding you of an asparagus, despite the red hair. My favourite among the friends was there, dark and handsome Will, not as tall as Brian but gorgeous as few. My crush on Will was something I desperately tried to hide but Kate maintained it was obvious for anyone who saw me with him. But Kate was a girl and girls know those things. I prayed that Will didn't know.

Then there was John, the self assured, cocky and arrogant bastard John. He was a lovable bastard but a bastard still, handsome and blond and walking with a swagger that made you either weak in your knees or fuming with annoyance.

And then there was me, conservative as always, dressed in a light blue, thin but very unrevealing summer dress. Kate was always more flamboyant than me and always sexier. The boys didn't have to dress in a certain way to be attractive, we had our crushes anyway. Brian and Will sported shorts and t-shirts while John had chosen to look elegant in white linen trousers and a shirt.

We cycled to the meadows and made camp by the river. We knew a good spot, close to a ruined nunnery, on a green and lush lawn, by some trees, overlooking the river and the vast meadow behind it. It was not a secluded spot but a little off the main track. There was the occasional wanderer passing by on the path along the river but no other picnics within eyesight.

We sat down and feasted on the content of our to baskets. We had elderflower cordial, sandwiches with ham and cheese, fruit and some salad. There was salami and grapes and some brownies to complete it all. It was a delightful afternoon in good company and I managed, for a while, to forget how frustrating it was to be along someone as handsome and as unreachable as Will.

It was a hot afternoon and the shade from the trees was welcome, it made the day a pleasant one. After eating our food we reclined by the trees, gazed out on the river and talked lazily about the ducks and the passers by. We had not really anything interesting to talk about. The day was too perfect for serious matters and the meaningless chat we managed was exactly what we desired.

As we were reclining in the shade enjoying each other's company things suddenly changed. I wasn't prepared, Will wasn't prepared, no one was prepared, not even John was, although he started it.

It started with a seemingly casual remark from John. He was lying on his back with the sun dancing on his face, smiling, being just John.

He looked to the sky and said, in his lazy but self assured voice:

'The only thing that is needed to make the day perfect would be to see Elinor take off her dress.'

I immediately blushed, of course, but didn't say anything. I thought it better the remark was soon forgotten. It wasn't.

Will, of all people, replied, immediately:

'That is not such a bad idea.'

They both looked at me. I blushed to a deeper red.

'In your dreams,' I said trying to be as casual as they were.

'Come to think of it,' said John, 'it is in my dreams.'

'Can't deny a chap his dreams,' Will said and they both laughed.

They still looked at me.

'Don't be silly!' I said.

'Silly, yes,' John said, 'silly, but nice.'

'Very nice,' Will replied.

I could have killed him. My Will, or the Will I wanted was mine, how could he do this?

They just wouldn't let it go.

'Here we are,' said John, 'two chaps with a very modest request. Wouldn't it be nice if their dream would come true?'

'A dream, indeed,' said Will and smiled.

'Think of it, Elinor!' continued John, 'with a single and swift and, indeed, very feminine movement you can make our dream come true. Can you really deny us?'

'I certainly can,' I said, trying to sound stern.

This was strange, they seemed persistent, unusually persistent.

'Come on, Elinor!' said John, still a smile on his face, 'come on, don't be mean!'

'Yes,' said Will, 'we would be very pleased should you be so kind as to take your dress off.'

'It is just a dress,' said John.'

'A very thin dress,' replied Will and nodded, 'not much difference.'

It was a great difference, to me. I was bewildered. Of course I had no intention of complying but the way they talked about it made me worried, pointed to an unusual determination.

'What do you say, Brian?' said John turning to Brian, 'don't you think that Elinor should take off her dress?'

'Hm' he replied, 'I think, perhaps, she should.'

'There you have it, Elinor! Brian agrees.'

'What do you think, Kate?' said Will.

Kate would never let me down.

'Yes, why not?' replied Kate and I felt my cheeks flush and my heart beat harder. I was suddenly on my own. I still thought it was a silly game but they were all turning against me. I was to be the spoilsport and they knew it. It was a joke on my behalf. Silly and prudish Elinor, will always spoil the fun.

They all looked at me, they stared at me. And suddenly something dawned on me. With a sudden flash I realised that they were serious. They were having a laugh but they were serious. They really, really wanted me to take off my dress. I couldn't believe it.

'It is not going to happen, I said.

'Why not?' John replied.

'Because it won't.'

'It is only your friends.'

'In a very public space.'

'Ah, no one will notice.'

'But if they do?'

'Would it be so bad? A beautiful girl in a little less clothes.'

'I have no...' I bit my tongue. 'You don't do such a thing.'

'It happens all the time.'

This had turned out to be a power struggle between me and John. It was such a strange and intimidating feeling to argue with him, knowing that arguing with him brought me, inevitably, closer to losing. I had nothing to put up against John, He was flamboyant, verbal, handsome and self assured. I was nothing. I was privileged to have him as a friend, and a true friend he was, although a terrifying one.

Taking my clothes off was not to be done. It simply couldn't be done. On the beach in a swimsuit, that was possible. In the park, no dress, no bra, that was impossible. I blushed. My cheeks were flushed. I couldn't speak. I had nothing to say but it was not to be done.

They all looked at me. They all wanted it. I felt a sudden panic. They really wanted it. I knew they were not mocking me, meant no real harm. They wanted it, it amused them, they thought it would be good for me but they wanted it. I felt abandoned and lost.

It was not to be done. I would never ever take my dress off. I had no bra underneath it and I would never strip it off.

'But only the dress,' I heard my own voice.

They smiled at me. There were no anger, no menace in them.

I felt my hands tremble as I unbuttoned two buttons at the front. I was in a sort of detached state as I raised my body a little as I pulled my dress over my head.

I couldn't believe it. I was doing it. I was taking my dress off. I stared at it, my lovely light blue dress as I put it to the side. I felt the summer breeze against my skin and knew suddenly how naked I was.

I looked at my friends. They were all smiles. I felt strangely reassured by their friendly smiles. I should have hated them, making me do this but they smiled so kindly that I felt secure with them.

I looked down and saw how my nipples were standing to attention, having been brushed by the fabric of my dress. I blushed, knowing that I appeared as if I enjoyed it.

I didn't enjoy it. I definitely didn't enjoy it. Or was there a part in me that did? Wasn't there a very mean and naughty part of me that enjoyed it? A part that whispered in my ear that I was attractive, undressing like this. But another voice screamed about what a fool I was, what a silly girl I was, pretending to be sexy, imagining for even a second that I had a desirable body.

I couldn't believe what I had done. In one single movement, in one simple, everyday movement, I had turned into a very naked girl, a very topless girl, a very dressed only in her knickers girl. I had turned into a half naked, her nipples erect girl, like some stripper, like some of those self assured confident girls, the kind who could show off their bodies without feeling ashamed. But I wasn't self assured. I was ashamed. I was only pretending.

'To make things complete, I think,' John, then, said, 'I think Elinor should dispose of her knickers.'

'Agreed,' was the word that went round the company.

They sat there as some kind of jury, sentencing me to nudity and I could not resist them. Why couldn't I resist them? Somewhere inside of me, I knew, I had to do as they told me.

I looked around, saw their smiling faces, saw their determination, saw how certain they were. How could they be so certain? How could they know I was to do as they told me? I didn't want it.

It was with a surreal sensation, I slowly slipped my knickers from me. I felt them slide over my skin, move down from my bottom, over my thighs, down my legs, get entangled in my feet and then slip away. I put them on top of my dress. Now I was naked.

John snatched up my clothes and removed them from my side. I was startled by this and felt my heart beat harder at the sight of my clothes disappearing from me.

'We can't have these things tempting, dear Elinor, to dress again,' he said, 'now when we have managed to get her naked.'

Then something strange happened. They seemed to act on a signal. They all started to chat, as if nothing had happened. They acted as if they wanted to make clear that nothing extraordinary had happened, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, having their friend strip naked at a picnic.

I decided to grin and bear it. The best way to get through this humiliating ordeal was to pretend I wasn't bothered, as if I didn't care that I was now stark naked in a public place among a group of dressed people.

I pretended I could participate in the conversation and tried to act naturally. No one seemed to care that I was naked and although I knew they thought about it, they managed to pretend it wasn't true.

I didn't forget, however. I was constantly aware of my nudity. I tried to sit in a way so my private parts wasn't on display. It seemed silly to try to cover my breasts so I did my best to pretend that I was all unaware of knowing they were fully visible. I thought about that Manet painting, the one with a naked girl among some dressed men having a picnic. I felt like her, very naked and very exposed. I was scared someone may pass us by and see me like this. It couldn't be avoided. I knew someone would walk by.

When it finally happened I pretended to look away but stole a glance at them. The first visitors were a couple who walked by the river, some distance away. They looked at me but tried to make it look as they didn't. I blushed. Later some teenage boys cycled by. They didn't see me at first but as they passed they noticed me. They started cycling in circles on the lawn, not daring to come too close but tried their best to get a good view.

I was the spectacle, I was the sensation. I was the one who broke the convention. I was the one who was naked, the one who showed off her body. I hope they didn't think I believed myself beautiful.

Something strange happened with me. I can't say I came to terms with being naked in public but the embarrassment was mixed with an odd sensation, a sensation I couldn't describe. The sun was shining, I was among friends, I had given in to one of their whims, I had lost the power struggle but I felt no resentment, I felt no anger. I felt the wind on my body and for a fraction of a second I felt it was nice to be naked. It was good to sit there and be the naked one.

This sensation was mixed with utter embarrassment and shame and some very unwelcome stirring in my body.

'Can I please, have my clothes back?' I said to John as the company started to get ready to go back. The sun had started to sink and it was time to head home.

I talked with some authority, with a sense of telling them that this silly thing was coming to an end.

'Well, of course,' he said and handed me my dress.

I eagerly donned it and felt relief as I now was covered up.

'Knickers, please' I said.

John's reply was a silly looking smile.

'Don't think so, my dear. I think will keep them.'

I felt my cheeks blush again but didn't want to fight him, not for anything.

My heart was beating hard as I walked to my bicycle, knickerless but clad. I wanted to get home, get this strange and bewildering afternoon over with.

As I passed close to John, on my way to my bike he turned to me and whispered:

'You are brave, my beautiful Elinor.'

I felt my heart beat a double beat and I thought it must have shown. I was shocked. I was confused and shocked because I heard it in his voice that he meant it. He meant those words. I had dared the unthinkable. I was brave and beautiful.

Replies

So this blog post will be some kind of reply to the comments I got from my question in A Little Bit Darker. I am so chuffed that you took time to reply and here I will return some of that with my own thoughts.

Span King said that we exist in reality but live in fantasy. I really liked that reply and I can relate to it, very much. I often feel I live in my head more than my reality. He is right, I think, when he says that we may try out personas freely in our fantasies. I do think we learn from that process but it is, sometimes, I think, hard to come face to face with aspects of you that you don't appreciate, like we may find we have a cruel streak, or we can be very scared of things.

I am not sure what Paul means by racial memory but maybe it is something similar to Jung's archetypes (or the way we think of Jung's archetypes). But, although I don't believe in racial memories, as such, I think I like the idea of some of the imagery of our fantasies comes from something that is beyond our conscious desires and thoughts, something that is, perhaps, older, more hidden, and harder to reach and understand. Maybe fantasies function like myths, although very personal myths, some of which we share with others?

Wystan wonders if my question really was if you, dear readers, are ready to read some of my darker fantasies. I honestly believe my question was a honest one and that I am, really, curious about what you think about your own darker images. I think, maybe, Wystan, still is right. I always wonder if you would be put off if I was a tad more honest and showed something really dark. This blog is my blog and about my fantasies and I have shown you, I think, some of the nastier sides of me. I will try to continue to be honest, because I want to. And that may mean some weirder fantasies, some silly, perhaps, some romantic, for sure, and some cruel.

Wilhelmina points to the fact that fantasies are different when you are in the mood and when you are not. What may seem brutal and cruel can be exciting and arousing in one moment to be nothing but crude and boring the next. I notice this when I get carried away writing and later read it and wonder: 'did I really write this?' Often when I write the fantasy is a memory and a basis for a story, rather than anything else. I think the text works better as a story that way. Another thing she talks about is that desire to make everyone happy in a story. I am thinking of the characters in the story. It is hard to leave someone really in agony. I want happy endings and I want people to say yes to what happens to them. I try, sometimes, to disregard this and there are some stories on my blog that have something of that in them. Maybe that is the darker side, really, to be really cruel to the people involved?

Michael points out that I have no duty to be balanced in my writings. He is right, of course, and perhaps all this ranting is about me worrying about your reactions to my stories. But I can tell you, in earnest, that when I write silly and romantic stories, I don't do it because I feel obliged to do that. I do it because I am silly and romantic at heart.

Jim's comment is a little cryptic but I think he tries to tell me that fantasies are not necessary reflections of our desires but images that we have inside that we are working on and with and things that needs to be expressed. I am not completely sure I got it, though, but to continue on that thought: I agree, I think fantasies are part of who we are and not just something we do for fun. I think they are part of what we want, need and have to express. And that there may be knowledge to be had by looking at our dreams and fantasies.

Anonymous points, I believe, to the fact that the story is not a truth in itself, it is a story, a creation and different things affect the coming of life of a story. There is a connection, I think, to desires and hidden thoughts that may be explored through writing, and reading too. If that is part of what they wanted to say, then I am with them.

Your thoughts and insights really broaden my perspective and I love to read them and think about them. Thank you, ever so much, for taking your time and thank you for reading.

But, none of you, really, replied to the question...smiles.

Iconic Images 5

Some days ago a friend send me the link to this image. I had not seen it before but it immediately struck a chord with me. I looked at it and was fascinated by it. I realised that it was an iconic image.

What do I really mean by an iconic image? You know, by now, how self centred I am so the meaning is about how I look upon images. I think, that it mean that it represent or illustrates a fantasy or some important part of a fantasy, an idea or a sensation. Most iconic images I have written about are old favourites but I realised it didn't have to be like that. So here is a very new iconic image. The painting is old, no doubt about that but it is new to me.

When you look at an image you are an observer, you don't necessary identify with the people in it. So I will start there. This is an image of a woman, a very white woman standing naked in front of two reclining men. There is a clad woman behind them, standing and a half naked to her side, sitting. This is a very simple description.

But it is so much more. Perhaps she is a slave that is new to the harem and she is assessed by the master of the house. Or maybe one of the men owns her and is trying to sell her to the other.

I don't know for certain but that doesn't matter. I think she is a slave or soon to be slave. She stands naked before the reclining men. She is property, a thing and she can be bought and sold like an animal. She is naked and they are clothed, they have the power she is helpless, they give nothing, she everything, even her body, her person. When she is sold, someone else gets the profit. She gets nothing. What could be more degrading? And why is it still exciting?

Depending on who you are you may identify with different people in the image. I identify with her. She is the main character so this is not strange, I think. What would it be like, standing there, naked and vulnerable like that? Being watched and scrutinised, being seen and not allowed to cover up. Everything is visible, the whole you is visible. Why is it so exciting?

There is something immensely sweet and delightful in it. Watching from the outside everyone can see she is beautiful. Who doesn't want to be beautiful? She is exposed and in this situation it seems appropriate that she is being looked at. There is no shame in ogling her, that is what she is there for. Could that be part of the appeal for those of you who identify with the men?

Isn't there also a sense that being this beautiful and deserving to be at the centre of attention is nice, being seen as something lovely and knowing that you are lovely, just the way you are? Being naked is about being uncovered, being seen as who you are, not what you do or perform but who you are. Being beautiful as you are.

Being naked is also being attractive, being sexual, the promise of arousal and pleasure. Being that slave is being beautiful, sexual and desirable. And, perhaps, being forced, being at someone's command makes you free of guilt and free of responsibility. Being forced to be something that is good and delightful and pleasant.

These are just thoughts about some of the mixed feelings involved, how something that undoubtedly must be degrading and shameful on one level is desirable and sweet on another. And the strangest thing of all, in this mix the shameful and degrading becomes something desirable and the analysis breaks down. An image is an image and everything is there at the same time.

Fantasies are powerful and images that feed those fantasies are blessings. I am glad I was shown this image.

A Little Bit Darker

Don't worry, I am not going to tell you I am depressed or unhappy. No, I was thinking about fantasies and what this blog is about. And about talking to you, dear readers, about fantasies.

Many people who are into spanking, who practice it or want to practice it seem to be pretty clear about what it is all about, or rather, they are happy with not knowing exactly but accept that they want it and that it is ok to want it. I am not going to give you another of those rants about me being uncertain what I want and all that. No, I was thinking about the role of fantasies.

It seems like many people have fantasies about things like getting your bottom smacked or smacking someone else's bottom and seem to be fairly happy with imagining this. Fantasies are about enjoying yourself and I wouldn't want to pretend anything else. And I hope I don't seem judgemental when speaking of how I perceive others to be or think.

But - there is always a but - I can't help feeling that my fantasies are a bit more unruly than that. They seem always to want to go places where I am not comfortable, shock me with things that I really don't like. I have touched about this when speaking of being aroused by the almost rape scene in Clockwork Orange.

They are not always like that. I do find, that when I am writing, I tend to focus on relationships, on interaction and mutuality. I want people to be happy and I don't want people to be really cruel to each other. I try to write it like that (cruel and brutal) sometimes but I can't really pull it off. I tend to be concerned with the emotions between people and I do want that certain sweetness that goes with a good relationship. I think there are a lot of excitement in that, in scenes where people realise they have a mutual interest or how they work their way from a polite conversation to a more hands on approach to things.

Still there is this other path, the darker and more sinister path, where spankers are not really lovers and when the ones getting their bottoms smacked don't really enjoy it. There seems always to be something that catches my eye, that makes me think 'ouch, that is bad!' or 'oh, how cruel!' In that scene in Clockwork Orange where the girl gets her clothes torn off and she is about to be raped, I truly think it is horrible to see her struggle and really horrible to think that she doesn't want it. Still there is this forbidden excitement. I can't rationalise it although I should. After all, it is not for real and we should be able to allow ourselves to have fantasies about non mutual things, about abuse and cruelty. There is nothing wrong with that. We are in control in our heads so there is no real cruelty being done.

I am not – I repeat, I am not – being judgemental. It is just that I feel I have concentrated on the softer side of fantasies in my blog, making you think I am all kind and nice, with a little naughtiness thrown in. I think a blog about fantasies should touch on all sorts of fantasies. Not that I am prepared to tell you everything but in all honesty, I think I should allow myself to show that fantasy land is not all cosy and happiness.

So, here is a kind of question to you, dear readers; is for you as it is for me, that your fantasy worlds sometimes show you things you are not comfortable with, things that excites you but you can't really accept, or that even scare you a little?

I Am Back

I am sure you didn't have time to miss me. I have had a busy but lovely time. Now, I am back. I will have to apologise for this blog entry will be very short. I have not had time to prepare anything for the blog, so I will just have to say hello, dear readers, it is good to be back and I haven't lost my desire for writing.

I don't regularly feature things by others, selfish, as I am but this time I would want to direct your attention to one of the most brilliant musicians of today. This artist is not just a cracking composer but also a good poet. Read the lyrics to a song called Time and listen to it here! The artist is of course David Bowie.

Time - He's waiting in the wings
He speaks of senseless things
His script is you and me boys

Time - He flexes like a whore
Falls wanking to the floor
His trick is you and me, boy

Time - In Quaaludes and red wine
Demanding Billy Dolls
And other friends of mine
Take your time

The sniper in the brain, regurgitating drain
Incestuous and vain,
and many other last names
I look at my watch it say 9:25 and I think
"Oh God I'm still alive"

We should be on by now [x2]
La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la [repeat]

You - are not a victim
You - just scream with boredom
You - are not evicting time

Chimes - Goddamn, you're looking old
You'll freeze and catch a cold
'Cause you've left your coat behind
Take your time

Breaking up is hard, but keeping dark is hateful
I had so many dreams,
I had so many breakthroughs
But you, my love, were kind, but love has left you
dreamless
The door to dreams was closed.
Your park was real dreamless
Perhaps you're smiling now,
smiling through this darkness
But all I had to give was the guilt for dreaming

We should be on by now [x5]
La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la [repeat]

Yeah, time!