Surrender, part 21

Here it is, the end of the story. There will be two more parts but then it is over. We'll see what you will think of the end but at least I have written a longer story to the end. This is, actually, an achievement for me. I usually lose interest somewhere in the middle and go off to start another story...or two...or three.

'Will you come to Italy with me?' He said, a week later.

'To Italy, is it some conference or meeting?' I said, trying to figure out what I really felt, trying to overcome my surprise.

'No, just you and me, no duties.'

'Why do you ask me?'

'Because I want you to come.'

'No, I wondered why'd you ask me, why don't you just order me.'

'Who said I wasn't interested in your opinion?'

'No, why,' I said and felt bewildered.

He scrutinised me for a while.

'What is it that bothers you?'

'Why do you suddenly care about what I think, you didn't care when you let Jonathon touch me.' My cheeks became red and hot at the memory.

'I didn't say I would respect your opinion. I may still be interested in it.'

'Of course,' I said.

'Don't be grumpy, and you haven't said if you want to go to Italy with me.'

I looked up at him and saw him smile. There was no way I was to change his mind about anything. He was a force of nature and if he didn't want to budge he wouldn't. I could stand my ground but I would have to take the consequences of that.

'I'd love to go to Italy with you.' I smiled at him.

'Are you sure?'

'Yes, I am absolutely sure.'

'You will come as my woman, sit at my feet.'

'I'll kneel at your feet by Fontana di Trevi, if that is what you want.'

'Then we are going to Italy.'

'Yes.'

'And from now on, you will address me as Sir.'

'Sir?'

'Yes, I like that. And you will do it in public.'

'No one will think of me as your partner, I will be like your PA or secretary or something.'

'Do you mind?'

'Yes, Sir, I do mind.'

'But you will do it.'

'Yes, Sir.'

'Good.'

The sense of pride that filled me surprised me. I had begun to be proud of my achievements but it was still surprising that I should be so happy putting my own person to the side and accept whatever humiliation he chose for me.

I was warm and tired as we arrived at the airport of the small town he had chosen for our trip. The sun stood high on a clear blue sky and despite the fierce traffic and ugly suburb, Italy managed to smile at us.

He had insisted on shopping for me before leaving so my bag was full of new clothes and shoes. I wore a light summer dress and a hat that made me look as if I was on the Grand Tour sometime around the beginning of the 20th century rather than living in the contemporary world. I knew it was quite deliberate since he had chosen a very timeless suit that well matched my outfit.

The city centre was ancient and hadn't it been for the advertising boards and the youngsters on their scooters, it could have been a hundred years ago.

The hotel was small and the interior did nothing to bring us back to the 21th century. We got our key and went to our room. I was tired, it had been a long journey. I had been true to his command and called him 'Sir' but I had made my utmost to not address him in public. He knew this and seemed to find it amusing.

'Now I need something to drink,' he said as I put my bag on the bed to unpack. 'I think I'll go down to the bar.'

'You want me to change?'

He stopped short, waited.

'...Sir,' I said.

'No, I don't want you to change and I want you to stay in the room.'

'Yes, Sir,' I said, a little bewildered and quite disappointed.

He opened his bag and rummaged through it. He smiled as he pulled something from it. It looked like a narrow belt or a leather strap but as he held it out I saw that it was fitted on a metal ring. The strap was threaded through the ring so that the leather formed three loops, like the petals of a flower.

'Strip,' he said in a soft voice.

It was easy. He told me to strip and I obeyed him. It was a hot day and it was quite nice to slip out of my clothes. The French window was slightly ajar so the sounds of the street below filled the room. This made my undressing seem a bit more public.

I enjoyed taking my clothes off for him. He looked at me and I knew he wasn't looking at the Doctor of History but at an obedient woman, a woman who was exposing her body at his command. I felt attractive as he stared at me, attractive and excited.

He made me sit on the floor, quite close to the window. I could feel the soft breeze on my body as I sat down. He knelt in front of me and now it became clear what he wanted with the leather strap.

He put two of the loops around my legs and moved them up to just above my knees. The third loop contained the buckle which he opened. I leaned forward and leaned my upper body against my knees as he buckled the strap shut around my neck. When he was

done I sat folded forward, with my chest on my thighs and my neck strapped to my the leather around my knees.

He then took another strap out of his bag and applied them around my wrists behind my back. When he was done I was quite bound. Two quite short leather straps made sure I wouldn't go anywhere.

'I'll go down for a drink. Stay there,' he said and chuckled to himself.

'But if anyone comes?'

'Yes, what if anyone comes?' he said and smiled.

'Will you be long?'

'As long as it takes.'

He turned to me when he had got to the door.

'This is not a good place for whippings, the walls are too thin. We will have to do without them for a while.'

Then he left and shut and locked the door. I was left on the floor, naked and bound.

I struggled with the sense of humiliation he had left me with. I was different from him and nothing could show that more clearly than him sitting in the bar, enjoying a nice something to drink and me, naked and left on my own in the room.

I was disappointed and wanted my freedom to explore and experience this new place. I was even angry.

Maybe it was the soft air coming in through the door, the sounds from the street that made me feel close to the world outside, the place itself, the fact that it was different and new to me, maybe it was all of that which made me suddenly very calm. I took a deep breath and I knew that this wasn't an ordinary trip. I wasn't there to study Italian culture and life. I was still inside a bubble, his bubble. I was his woman, the woman who was sitting by his feet.

This was who I was. This was me with him, naked on the floor, bound and helpless. I was at his mercy. This was the life I had chosen and it was petty to be disappointed that I couldn't sit in the bar or go walking outside. I was here because of him and with him and I had to accept where he put me. Or rather I chose to accept it, not in that very moment, but as the basis of our relationship.

There was meaning with my nudity, my bonds and my being left alone. It was what he had chosen for me and in binding me, he had touched me and the leather around my limbs were his touch. He was there with me.

I felt childishly happy at that thought. I wasn't sitting there because he was superior to me by nature, not because he had the right to do so, but because he wanted it that way, and I wanted it that way, and because I loved him.

I felt sexy. I wasn't used to that. I felt suddenly very soft and vulnerable, all those things I had been scared of, things that had threaten to expose me to danger. Now, inside his bubble, they seemed attractive and something sought after, asked for and wanted.

The Descent

Hello, again. I am glad that my last post inspired some discussion. That's what it is all about, isn't it?

I have always been fascinated by dreams and the dreamy side of fantasies. I wrote this piece when thinking about those things. Those of you who have been with me for a while will recognise a little from earlier posts. But this is me, and my fantasies tend to return to the same themes.

It was a worried night, a night when the clouds chased each others across a dark sky, when the moon peeked through, now and then, as the veil was lifted. It was a night of winds and cold air. It was a night when it was hard to sleep, the kind of night that brings up nightmares and horrid thoughts.

She was lying in her bed, turning from one side to the other, slipping in and out of sleep. When she finally opened her eyes, the room was flooded with moonlight and she had thrown off the duvet, despite the cold air.

She stared at her room but she couldn't recognise it. It looked strange and twisted in the cold white light. She systematically looked at each and every detail of it, the chair, the mirror, the cupboard, to make sure it was her room.

She found every detail of her room to be as she expected and was somewhat calmer, thinking that the sense of unreal dream was just a trick of the night and the moon.

She wasn't scared, more curious, when she saw that she had been mistaken. There was one thing that wasn't as usual. She knew she had never seen the door in the wall, opposite the window before. She stared at it and realised that it would open up on the stairwell, some distance above the stairs. A silly door.

She left the bed and walked on bare feet to it. Her mind was absolutely clear and awake but yet she knew she had to be in the middle of a dream. She felt the chilly air against her skin, the thin nightgown being poor protection against the cold. Curiosity drove away discomfort.

She was surprised when she felt the door against her fingers as she touched it. It was real. She knew she had to open it.

There was nothing strange about the door, except that it shouldn't exist. She opened it with ease, there wasn't even a sound as it swung open.

She expected to see the stairs below and the landing to her left. She wasn't prepared to see what was before her. There was a stair but it started by the door and led downwards inside a tunnel. The walls were stone and this fact unsettled her more than the existence of the door and the stairs.

She stepped through the doorway. She had to, it was a dream and in dreams you have to explore what lays ahead. At least in this dream

The steps were made of stone and the walls were made of stone and a few steps down she felt as if she was inside an old castle or a dungeon, rather than her house. She would have expected the stairs in a castle to twist and turn and go round and round but this one was straight.

She continued down the steps, one by one, cold against her feet. She walked further down into darkness and soon she felt lost in the dark. She had to touch the cold stone and feel her way with her feet.

She walked cautiously and slowly, still she almost banged her head against the door ahead. She felt it with her hands and thought it a very different door from the one in her room. This one seemed heavy and old, like something in a medieval castle.

The door opened silently as she pushed it. Behind it she was met with light. She looked into a room lit by a great fireplace and a multitude of candles. She saw high backed chairs in front of the fire and a bearskin on the floor. A heavy table and a chest to the side.

'Welcome my dear.'

She hadn't seen the person in the chair. Now he seemed to appear from nowhere, standing in front of her, smiling.

'Welcome,' he continued, 'do you know where you are?'

'No,' she whispered, overcome with the suddenness of his appearance.

He was dressed in black trousers, a long black jacket, elegant but simple. He wore black boots. He seemed to be tall and slim, black haired and pale faced. His lips were red and his chin was narrow. He was smiling and he looked pleased with seeing her, although she felt no warmth in him.

'You should know,' he said, 'you created it.'

'Did I?'

'Yes, this is your imagination. This is your creation.'

'I can't remember it.'

'Don't you? I am sure you do.'

She blushed. She knew this place. She felt caught out. She gasped and looked down to make sure she was still wearing her nightgown. Images flashed through her mind. When she had been in this room before she had been naked.

'It seems so real.'

'It is real, my dear, you are in your imagination now and everything around you is as real as you are.'

'Oh.'

'Do you know why you are here?'

'No.'

'You are ready for the tour.'

'What tour?'

'The tour of your mind.'

'I am not sure...'

'There is a lot to see, many places to visit.'

'I don't think I want to.'

'This for example,' the man said and made a gesture with his hand.

The room was suddenly full of smoke. She felt fear in her heart and turned around to look for the door. The smoke turned to impenetrable fog and she felt, somehow, that the room wasn't there around her any more.

She tried to penetrate the white mist and thought that she could see the outline of the naked branches of a dead tree. She heard a thunderous noise and knew that she was on the run. Her heart was full of fear as she knew that she would perish and die should the hunters get her. She couldn't remember who they were, just that they must not catch her.

She began to run. She stumbled on the uneven ground. She didn't fall but knew she couldn't keep on running. She was exhausted already and she could hardly see the ground.

Then she saw him. In front of her loomed a shadow. She felt his presence more than saw it. Her eyes tried to penetrate the fog and could only discern his silhouette. He was on a horse, a gigantic horse and the man himself seemed to tower over her head.

Somehow she knew that her only hope rested with this dark stranger, this demon on his terrible horse.

As she stood there he approached her and came out of the mist. He was black and terrifying, his horse a monster.

He scooper her up and sat her in front of him in the saddle and took off. She held her breath as they rode on at a breathtaking speed. The misty landscape around them seemed to rush by and she wondered how the rider could know where to go.

She heard how the hunters were left behind but knew that they must not stop running. The black demon was her rescuer but he had to let his horse keep on running.

It was in that moment of complete dependence, when she knew she was at his mercy, her strange and terrifying rescuer told her to take her clothes off. It was in the exact moment when hope had been lit in her heart, when the terror had ceased to be the only element in her thoughts. It was then he had ordered her to strip.

It was awkward for her, shifting her body, still holding on to him, scared of falling, trying to move her flimsy nightgown down her shoulders, over her hips and down her legs.

It seemed to float in the air for a while and then it was gone. She was still wearing some kind of breech cloth, tied round her hips with a leather thong. She undid the knot at her hip and shifted her body to let this last garment disappear in the night.

She was clinging on to the black demon, now nude and exposed. She felt vulnerable and helpless but the colour of the dream had changed, from black and grey to include red.

Then the mist and the horse and the man seemed to begin to evaporate. She felt a sudden dizziness and then she was back in the room with the black clad pale man.

'I can't show you more,' he said, 'the image disappears. I know you wonder what the black demon will do to you, but you have no images of that.'

'I remember this fantasy,' she said, 'I felt so vulnerable.'

'But that's not all.'

'No.'

'You felt excited too.'

'That's true,' she blushed and looked down to make sure she was, indeed, still dressed in the nightgown.

'I have to leave,' she said, 'can I go back up the stairs?'

'Yes, you can, thank you for visiting.'

'Bye.'

'You will come back.'

'Will I?'

'Yes, you will.'

She hurried up the stairs and was back in her room. She got into bed and pulled the duvet over her. She lay staring, trying to fall asleep, but the memory of the strange room and the strange man, her guide, was too vivid, too frightening.

She seemed to be staring into nothingness for an eternity but as it often happens she dosed off.

The moment she dosed off she awoke again but this time in a changed room. Sun was shining and the room was back to normal. She looked at the wall and saw no door. She was back.

Hello

I am back. Hope you have had a nice time while I was away. It is a strange experience coming back from a holiday like this. I am not at all in the mood for everyday life. This will be a short blog post. Anyway, I am glad to be back.

I read a book while on holiday. It's called Sexual Deviation by Anthony Storr and was published in 1964. Kind of interesting to read about the view on those things, 45 years ago.

It is so easy to be superior and laugh at a book like that. Homosexuality is a deviation and is analysed, the author trying to find the reasons for it. I assume you agree with me when I am thinking that the question is the wrong one. Considering the behaviour of our closest relatives, the Bonobos, the question should not be, 'why are some homosexual?' but rather 'why are so many exclusively hetero- and homosexual?'

There was an interesting part about Sadism and Masochism. Thing is with this book that although it was very old fashioned and PC for that time, some of the observations are interesting. There is this thought that being a Masochist you long for being a child again, when you were cared for and had no power over what happened to you. This rings true to some extent.

I know there is a reluctance about explaining or discussing reasons for various kinks within the 'community'. I think that is a little short sighted. I know analysing the reasons, may open up for the thought that there is something wrong with enjoying spanking or being submissive, but not doing it, is burying your head in the sand. I think there are reasons for the way we behave but that doesn't mean it has to be wrong and should be explained away.

I think, at least for me, there is a kind of truth in the idea that being submissive is, partly, longing for being as helpless as a child. Enough analysis now, just wanted to say that although that book was prejudiced and old fashioned I couldn't just dismiss it.

Maybe that is the reason why, in fantasies, the longing for submission is total, maybe that is the reason why I, sometimes, have this desire for being completely and utterly submitted and even degraded and humiliated. Maybe they are signs of that utter helplessness you may experience as a child, a vulnerability that isn't a bad thing, but something you enjoy. Are you with me, still?

When it comes to blogging and writing I feel more and more that I am not so interested in writing yet another spanking story. I have lost my heart for it, at least for the moment. When it comes to fantasies and kink, I feel that I am drawn to more darker sides. And having written that, I become uncertain, because there are lots of more romantic stories in my head too and some about more subtle things.

Anyway, we'll see what will happen. I am a little disappointed, though, that no one commented on the picture in the last post. I think it is very nice. There is a kind of everyday sense to it, just an ordinary person lowering their trousers feeling the touch of a stick, waiting to be whipped. Something about that lack of glamour and stylishness that appeals to me.

Kink?

What does it mean? The word, what does it mean to you and what does it mean to me?

But before I say anything about that I will say sorry for not blogging so much. My mind seem to have been occupied with other things and I have not really known what to blog about. I guess that such is life, but I do feel a little bad if some of you have been waiting for something to appear here.

And I will be disappearing again at the end of this week and won't be able to blog until August. The upside is that I think it is good to stay away from computers at times and I think I need that. I have found sitting by a monitor all day long quite stressful lately. Just to let you know.

So, back to kink. The dictionary speaks of knots or bends in a rope, something that is no longer straight. I suppose it is that meaning that leads to the idea of the sexual perverse. Yes, I use that expression because so does Oxford English Dictionary. Furthermore it mentions homosexuality. I am not saying this to rant about stuffy old lexicographers. It is just that it seems as if the meaning changes and most likely is quite individual.

No one in their right mind would say that being gay is kinky. Not in this day and age. So the focus changes. But what does it mean? Is it kinky to be aroused by push-bikes? I don't know.

I think, for me, there has to be this edge to it, the addition to if being bad. When someone says kink I think of spankings and being tied up, dominance and submission, arrogance and cruelty. (No this is not the time for the discussion whether submission and dominance as such have to be bad...it can be bad and that is enough for me at the moment.)

Kink for me doesn't just mean the 'sexually deviant' (had to put the quotation marks there...smiles) but it means something that is bad and, thus, problematic.

Hope you are with me still. I am not saying people who spank each other for mutual pleasure are bad. I am saying that spankings, originally had a place in a society that oppressed people and that it was used for that purpose. Same with slavery. I am sure you see the pattern, none here would say that slavery is good but still we can find the idea of slave markets, being chained on a podium, put up for sale, to be immensely exciting.

I guess, for you, as for me, the word has taken on a more positive value than it had originally. I think people in general proudly speak of their kink when they embrace their lifestyle.

This brings me to another thing I wanted to write about. I feel, sometimes there is a kind of cosiness about kink, that people who have admitted to themselves they are aroused by things that some others would consider perverse, seem to work hard to normalise their kink. There is, almost, a political, perhaps even personal need to make kink acceptable.

Believe me, I am all for that. I really think that anyone should have the right to indulge their love for push-bikes or whips as long as they don't harm anyone. I agree completely with the politics in it.

The reason why I rant about it here is that I still, after all this time, find it problematic to admit that I do find the idea of being humiliated or whipped arousing. To me it still stands for something bad, something I don't really want happen. I can't just say: 'Hi, I am Janice and I am spanko, I would really like you to smack my bottom'. Simply because I would most likely not want it. It hurts, after all, and I am not that keen on pain.

Had I found it just an expression of my personality, a part of my own sexuality I was truly happy about I wouldn't be blogging. It is the very fact that I have mixed feelings that makes me write. I think.

So, thank you for listening and if I don't blog again this week, see you in August. Take care and be kind to yourself. Embrace your kinks and be proud of who you are. I am trying to do that myself.

Yet Another Spanking Story

Hello, I am back. It was nice to be away from computers but I would have wanted it to be more relaxing. I still need a holiday. Just a short spanking story. This one is written from the point of view of the spanker, not usual in my stories, nothing special though, just some smacking of bottoms.

'You know what this means?'

'No, please,' she said. She looked scared.

'Get the strap.'

'No, please, I didn't mean to, it was really out of my control.'

'I don't care.'

'Please.'

'Get the strap.'

Sophie sighed and rose to her feet. I watched her as she walked over to the cupboard and got the strap. It was made of thick, heavy leather, four inches wide and half a metre in length. It had a wooden handle which made it easier to swing with good effect.

Sophie moved softly as she returned to me and gave me the strap.

'That strap hurts.'

'I know,' I replied, 'I know.'

I pointed to the armrest of the sofa as I rose to my feet. Sophie took a step closer to it and leaned forward.

'Sophie!'

'Yes?'

'Trousers.'

'You didn't say.'

'I didn't say you could keep them on.'

She sighed and unbuttoned her jeans and wriggled them down from her hips. She turned to the sofa.

'Knickers.'

'Please, it hurts enough as it is.'

'That is what I want.'

She pulled down her knickers to her knees as I watched her. She stood for a while regarding me, her jeans and knickers around her knees.

'Please, you don't have to do this.'

'I think I should.'

'It hurts.'

'It's supposed to hurt.'

'Please.'

'I will give you extras now.'

Sophie sighed and turned to the sofa. She draped her body across the armrest, knowing exactly where to put her bottom. She arranged herself so that her bottom was sticking up in a good angle, easy to reach with the strap.

The room had changed. It had been inhabited by two people, sitting in the sofa, talking. Now everything was different. One of them was lying, face down, over the armrest, jeans and knickers around her knees, quite bared. The other one was standing besides holding a tool of shame and pain.

I cherished this moment. There was something immensely cruel about it. The difference between us couldn't be greater. Sophie was lying down, bottom towards me, unable to protect herself. She was not just quite helpless, she was also exposed, her skin bared to make it even more vulnerable.

And there I was, standing, the threat of pain in my hand, intent on using it on her, letting the leather make painful contact with her exposed skin. I was in power, she was exposed to that power and the cruelty was that I was using it to make her suffer.

I enjoyed it. That was the naughty and cruel part of it. I enjoyed it, and relished the power I had, and the fact that I was going to use it.

Sophie jumped as I let the heavy leather strap hit her naked skin. The sound was tremendous, a sharp report that seemed to penetrate our ears.

I thought to myself: 'how can I be so immensely mean as to hit this sweetest of bottoms, this sensitive skin, with this hard leather?' I hit her again and this time I saw her body shiver as she tried to overcome the sensation of pain. 'How can I enjoy it?'

Sophie was moaning after the third smack had hit home. Her bottom was beginning to show signs of the spanking, pink against the fairer skin, the affected areas showing sharp and straight edges.

The mood had changed when the spanking began. Sophie was lying still, obedient. There was no pleading or protesting. There was no groaning and crying for shows. She was just lying there, shivering, breathing heavily, taking her spanking.

I knew there was no reason, no crime, no punishment. This was different. I wanted to spank her. Sophie knew that, I knew that. It was just me wanting to spank her, me wanting the pleasure of seeing my strap hit her tender flesh, seeing her jump with the impact, knowing she felt it in her body.

She was immensely sweet for me, lying there, vulnerable and beautiful. Spanking her was cruel but I wanted cruel. I wanted to see the impact, the effect it had on her. I wanted the power.

I gave her three quick ones and Sophie started to wriggle her body and turn in agony. I stopped and let her collect herself. Then I smacked her again. She jumped.

I began a long series of ten or twelve smacks, some seconds in between, but hard. She gasped and squirmed but kept her position. She indulged me.

I gave her a smack on her thighs and she squealed. She didn't protest or sound angry, just couldn't hold back.

I gave her a series of quick hard smacks and Sophie had a hard time staying down. She moaned and squirmed as the strap made contact with her now pink and red bottom.

I was done with the strap. Sophie was still, not daring to move. I went to the cupboard and got myself a stick, a bamboo stick. It was vicious.

'You remember I promised you extras?'

'Yes,' she replied, her voice muffled.

'Here they are.'

I let the stick fly through the air with a hissing sound and hit her across the buttocks. Sophie cried out and tensed her body as the stick drew a red line across her bottom.

The bamboo was mean. I knew that. Sophie felt that. Still I gave her five more.

The red marks of the stick stood out against the pink that was left by the strap. I was done.

'That's enough, on your feet.'

She rose and turned to me. Her face was flustered but she smiled.

I held out my arms and she came into my embrace. She kissed my cheek.

'You bastard,' she whispered softly.

'I wish I was.'

She moved her head back and looked me in the eyes. Then she kissed me.

Sense of Humour

Dear Readers, I am glad you got the meaning of my last piece. I used the image of a landscape to express the sense of reality that comes with imagination, at least with my imagination. It may lead you to think that this inner world is more consistent and less chaotic than it is. It can be wonderful but confusing to go there, believe me, but it is never boring.

Wystan called a manifesto and in a way he is right. I do want to tell you about how great it is to have an inner world to explore. I know it may seem sad to others, people more firmly living in reality. I do inhabit both worlds, though. Maybe I have my head in the clouds too much but I am old enough to stop worrying about that. This is how I am.

I haven't been very active on the blog lately and I blame work and being busy. Strange then that when I get time I come up with a rather silly and strange and perhaps quite cruel story. I think it is a little inspired by something I read somewhere about a poor woman who got stuck in a trap door or something.

I will go on holiday tomorrow, far away from broadband and that sort of things. I will be back in June and wish you all a happy time. Take care of yourselves.

The stories about Sir Henry, 11th Earl of Tructon, are numerous. It would take more than one short tale to record his deeds and misdeeds, how he came to keep his wealth, what he did with the young widows and the source of the strange sounds that was heard from his estate during night time.

One of the many peculiarities concerning him, and this is without mentioning his appearance, his table manners and his interest in strange animals, was his sense of humour. He liked to play pranks on his friends and foes and not all of them were considered to be within the boundaries of what is called appropriate.

Perhaps the cruellest prank was played on the young and wilful lady Stephanie, 7th Duchess of Sprot. I don't know why he chose her and that particular prank but the nature of it may suggest that the Earl felt he had a score to settle.

It all happened at the Counter Dance at Tructon Hall, as he insisted on calling it. All other referred to it as The Ball. Anybody who was anybody in Society was invited and it was one of the cornerstones of the summer season.

The young Duchess had been summoned to Sir Henry's estate at noon and arrived in her chase and four. This is the only part of the story that is a real mystery. How did the Earl manage to get the noblewoman to leave her home and visit him on the day of The Ball? I don't know and perhaps only the Duchess herself knows this.

She was greeted with due respect but after that Sir Henry didn't waste any time and called on his servants, or at least a selection of the most reliable ones. Without further ado, the servants took hold of Lady Stephanie and conducted her to the Ball Room.

It is easy to understand that she was much vexed with being treated this way. This didn't cause Sir Henry or his servants any problems as they both outnumbered and out muscled the Duchess many times.

From the ceiling in the Ballroom there were usually five great chandeliers hanging but at this time the central one, the most imposing one, was substituted for a strange looking wooden box with a hinged door. The ugly looking thing was hanging in four sturdy chains. Below the box stood a heavy wooden chair, crafted in a style that didn't, at all, fit the grandeur of the room.

To this box the Duchess was taken and there she was very unceremoniously bundled into it. Or rather half of the Duchess was put in the box and the other half left outside of it. It turned out that the bottom of the box was cut out to form a semi circle that very conveniently fitted quite snugly around Lady Stephanie's waist. In this way, the poor woman found herself standing on the chair with her upper body inside the box and the lower part of it below it and outside of it.

I wasn't there so I can't say for sure but it seems likely that the Lady didn't see eye to eye with this treatment. To add to her humiliation, her rather elaborate skirts were lifted and bundled into the box and draped around her person, thus shamefully exposing the part that was sticking out.

The box was then closed and locked and the situation was now that the upper part of the Duchess along with her beautiful dress was inside the box while the lower part, from the midriff down, was standing below it, devoid of skirts.

'Ah, knickers, such novelty,' the Earl is reported to have said when he spotted the Lady's underwear.

'Off wit it all' he then continued and the, without doubt, quite excited servants soon proceeded with their task.

It is not reported with what language Lady Stephanie expressed her dismay at the removal of her shoes, stockings and those infamous knickers but it was without doubt not of the gentler kind. She was surely in great distress when she found that her nether body was left quite bare.

It was still some time until the Ball was due but the cruel Earl left the young Duchess standing on the chair in her exposed condition during the rest of the preparations.

There is not much to be said about the young woman's ordeal during this time but at last the hour of the Ball drew near. The room was ready and the Earl decided it was time to put the finishing touches to the decoration. This meant removing the ugly chair, leaving the poor Duchess hanging from the box. He then had the whole thing covered in a great white blanket. This made it appear as the centre of the room was occupied by a covered statue or something similar.

To cut to the final chapter of this strange event, the guests arrived in their best gowns and suits and there was an abundance of jewellery and beauty and a shameless display of richness and power. Everyone was, of course curious about the strange display in the middle of the room but no one was allowed to come near it, as it was guarded by four sturdy man servants.

No sound came from it either, the Duchess was clever enough to know when it was a good strategy to keep her voice down.

When all the guests had been greeted and been allowed to chat and mingle for a while the Earl, himself, addressed the crowd, standing in the middle of the room. No one really heard what he said but all agree that he looked well pleased when he finally removed the blanket and exposed the box and what was visible of the Duchess of Sprot.

The lack of clothing on the visible parts of the Duchess caused much comments and some of the guests were quite scandalised but everyone assumed that it was a well deserving servant girl or some other lowly subject of the Earl in the box and soon began to see the upside of the arrangement.

The Earl was holding a vicious looking horsewhip in his hand and with this he delivered two or three swift cuts to the unprotected backside of the young Duchess. This caused the guests much amusement and they seemed to find the wild movements of the hanging legs particularly entertaining.

The four guards where now, as it seemed, equipped with some tools: a horsewhip, a bunch of birch twigs, one of those short leather whips called a quirt and a sturdy looking wooden board. They were no longer ordered to keep the guests away but to supply them with their tools and in an ordered fashion let them approach the Duchess and have a swing at her.

The crowd found much pleasure in this and soon there was a great gathering of guests around the Lady and much debate about which tool was best to use. There was much speculation about the identity of the girl in the box and some listened intently at the rather muffled sounds coming from the box when the tools made contact with the exposed flesh.

Some assumed that it was an unknown maid the Earl wanted to amuse the guests with, a girl who had erred in some way, thus earning this treatment. Others pointed to the soft and unblemished skin of the half body that was on display and draw the conclusion that it may be a noblewoman. Who it was they tried to conclude using deduction, figuring out who was not present.

A group of men stood by the side with their heads together, nodding and smirking. They looked at the legs and looked back and nodded and seemed to agree.

This caused one of the younger men in the group to draw himself up and stare wildly at the visible part of the Duchess. Suddenly he walked over to the box with determined steps, red in his face. He then grabbed the horsewhip from a servant and pushed the man with the quirt out of the way.

Without a word and with a wild and quite terrifying expression on his face he deliver two dozen quite vicious lashes to the dancing legs, across bottom and thighs and it wasn't until he was done his smile returned.

During this intense onslaught the howls from the box became louder and some people around seemed to get an idea of the identity of the girl inside it. Soon the crowd was whispering 'Lady Stephanie' and 'the Duchess of Sprot'.

At first there was a little bit of shock and a gasp. There was a short hesitation but soon the crowd stormed forward and struggled to lay their hands on the tools.

The poor Duchess was soon the centre of a flurry of activities that all had in common some quite painful contact between her exposed skin and some mean tool for punishment.

The guests showed real ingenuity in their attempts to cover every little inch of the visible parts of the Duchess' skin with marks of the whips. The fair lady turned rather pink and later red.

It was Sir Henry, himself, who put an end to her ordeal by ordering the chair to be put back under the box and the box itself opened. The guests could then make sure that it was really Lady Stephanie who was inside it.

It is said that the Duchess stepped down from the chair and walked through the room with some dignity, although somewhat gingerly. She was, of course, covered by her skirts as she walked from the room but to her great shame she was wearing a day dress while all of the others where wearing ball gowns.

The Ball was a success and Sir Henry was much admired for his boldness and audacity. Some of the guests were, of course, sympathetic to Lady Stephanie but they kept quiet.

The Duchess was never seen again in Society. She tried many times to get her revenge on the Earl but failed miserably every time. It was not for her to arrange his both untimely and shameful death but that is an entirely different story.

This story has a sting in the tail, though. The Duchess went abroad and married the Archprince of Ostburg. Not many years later a war ensued and after some fierce fighting the Archprince found himself the conqueror of the Kingdom. It is not hard to imagine the influence of his beautiful wife when he then had the entire nobility of the subdued realm shot on the spot.

My Imagination

My imagination is a lush forest, a clear blue sky, sparkling stars and sweet water. It is a land, a continent, a whole world or several worlds where I travel when I want to.

I can let myself fly through the lands and look down on emerald forests, and gleaming rivers running through the land, and endless blue seas. It is a world of beauty and grandeur, pristine and primeval in places, where thoughts grow freely and in abundance.

Imagination is a place of immense beauty but also of passion and terror and lust and desire. There are people there, of course, and people can be both sweet and cruel.

Between the green canopies of gigantic trees you may spot a woman walking, a proud and beautiful redhead, naked and with her hands tied in front of her. She is leashed to a horse where a man is riding. He is the hero and she the heroine and in this world she is his captive. She is his woman, bound and naked, and all is well.

On the coasts there are splendid cities with gleaming spires and shining pagodas where ancient and strange gods are worshipped by delightful women with glittering dark eyes. In those cities slavers and warriors sit in taverns and brag and revel, staring with desire at the servant girls hurrying between the tables, clad in almost nothing, all there for the pleasure of those brutes.

Imagination is not a place of eternal happiness. No, passion and pain fill the lives of brutes and slaves and not every woman is happy about being captured and not every man is a good man.

It is a brutal world where a woman may find herself stripped and in chains on the slaver's market before she knows it. And although she knows she belongs there, and longs to be there she has to endure the unfairness of it all.

It is a world of passion and pain as well as desire and lust and love and compassion. It is not a dead world. They are all alive. And despite the hardship and the cruelty they are all living and breathing and being alive. In their hearts they know that living is good and there is beauty in all aspects of life.

But this land is greater than that. There are modern cities too, where people live lives that look like ours, they work and commute and go to restaurants and watch telly. It is just an illusion, because those people know too, in their hearts, that this world is a good place to live, and they can live without fear. And when passion takes them, they can say yes to that which may seem cruel and unpleasant but really touches their souls.

The girl who follows the arrogant bastard to his place, having been touched and groped by him, may fear him when he takes out his whip and demands her to undress, but she never fears life. She may be terrified by the pain and the humiliation but in the end it makes her feel alive.

It is an honest world. When people love, they love with passion and truth and they trust the love they get and give. In this world you may want to hurt the one you love without ever ceasing to love. A lash with a whip may be a sign of affection and a rope around someone's wrists may indicate belonging.

But there are dark places in this world of imagination. Places that are not as easy to spot as the sun drenched vistas of endless forests and rivers. There are dark alleys and ruined castles and derelict buildings. And there are perfectly beautiful places but were cruelty lives. In those dark places strange things happen. Things that are hard to explain and understand.

To those places people go to be humiliated, shamed and hurt and they go without knowing why. They are drawn there, like moths to the fire, and they want to turn their heads but still they return.

In those dark places a whip can be wielded with the intent of hurting, really hurting and someone may take pleasure in someone else's fear or shame. A girl can be raped and abused and used and although she hates it she cannot avoid it, doesn't want to avoid it.

Imagination stretches into space, where the awe of eternity boggles your mind and the distance between the stars are so immense that the mind cannot grasp it.

But the endless vistas of space aren't empty. No, there travels ships of different shapes and sizes and empires are created and lost and passion makes people fight and love.

Scantily clad space empresses and princesses look upon the travellers with sparkling eyes where the cold eternity of space lies and men fight with swords and rayguns to do their biddings.

In the world of imagination there is also immense sweetness. The lovers lie in each others arms, looking out over the sea while the mild breeze ruffles their hair. There is true love and true passion, not hindered by jealousy and fear. In this world you can love with all your heart and all your body and know that you are alive.

Imagination is a place of contradiction, life and passion, cruelty and sweetness. It is all I want it to be but also much more. There lies my fears and my desires and things I don't want to see but are there all the same.

I cannot describe it, not fathom it. I can only glimpse it, get a fleeting vision of it. And what I can't do, is to describe it, not all of it. What I know is this: I would be nothing without it.