Going Out

A story is just a story and I should not be so embarrassed about it. Right? Well, I am. Can't help it.

'You need to be punished,' he said smiling at me.

I stood in the hallway, looking up into his face, newly kissed, still held in his arms.

'Have I done something bad?' I purred.

'You need to know your place,' he said, 'I am not sure you do.'

'What is my place, then?' I asked.

'Somewhere here,' he said, and smiled, this time a wicked smile, 'or down there.' He pointed to the floor.

I looked at him for a while, trying to understand what he was thinking. Then, out of nowhere, I sank to my knees. I slipped out of his grip and knelt before him, close to him.

I looked up at him, my face at the level of his crotch.

'Here?'

I sank down on the floor, leaned forward and touched my forehead to the floor, in between his feet, my hands still grasping his ankles.

'Or here?'

He knelt before me. He took my chin in his hand and lifted my head until I was looking into his eyes.

'I like this, I like you down here. But you still need to be punished.'

He leaned forward and I felt his hand grip the fabric of my dress and pull it up, over my bottom.

'You will still have to be punished. And you know how you punish a woman, don't you?'

'No, I don't. How do you punish a woman?'

'I am sure you know.'

'No, you will have to tell me.'

'Stand on your knees.'

He pulled at my skirt and I raised my body and stood straight, still kneeling. He held my skirt up, above my waist. He crumbled it in his hand and pressed it to my belly. I understood and took hold of it, holding it up.

He reached out his hands and put them on my hips. He caressed them slowly, holding my gaze fast.

'I am sure you know what is good for a woman. If she needs to be punished.'

'No, I don't.'

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of my knickers and with a swift tug pulled them down, down to my knees.

He took a firm grip on my buttock, his fingers digging into my flesh.

'You know, don't you?'

'I think I know,' said, and heard how I gasped.

'What is it then?'

'You want to hear me say it.'

'Yes, I want to hear you say it.'

'A spanking.'

'Say it properly.'

'How is properly?'

'What a woman needs when she is to be punished is a spanking.'

'Do you want me to be in earnest?'

'Just say it. And mean it.'

'What a woman needs when she is to be punished...is a spanking.'

'A good spanking.'

'To make me know my place?'

'To make you know your place. Come.'

He rose to his feet and took my hand, the one not holding my crumbled skirt against my belly. He rose me to my feet and led me into the living room.

I hadn't dropped my skirt and I hadn't pulled my knickers up. I stood in the centre of the dimly lit room. He took a heavy high backed chair that stood by the big old table and turned it around. He stood by the chair, his hand on its back and looked at me.

He seemed to scrutinise me, wonder about me, wonder what I would do, what would happen. I still stood before him, exposed as if he had ordered me to stay like that. It was unbearable to see him just look at me.

I saw at his crotch that punishing me was something that had awakening his desire. I didn't want him to spank me. I wanted him to do other things to me.

He took my hand and led me to the chair while he sat down on it. I knew what was expected of me and I submitted to him and placed my body across his knee, sensing his arousal as I lowered myself in place.

He placed his hand on my bottom. It was a mocking gesture, a false sweetness from the hand that soon would deal out pain. He seemed to hesitate.

'This, my love, is your place.'

He lifted his hand and the world seemed to be still. Then he smacked me. More than anything, I was surprised by the sheer force of it. He had let it descend on my naked skin with brutal force and my body seemed to explode from the sudden pain.

He smacked me again. My body rocked forward and my mind was overcome with panic, the fear that this was too much, that this was something I couldn't cope with.

He smacked me again.

'I am not sure...' I gasped, 'please.'

'Listen to me,' he said, his voice strained, 'I want it to hurt, I want it to be terrible, do you understand?'

'Yes,' I whimpered.

'You will be punished. I will give you time to take it, but there is no getting away from it, do you understand?'

'Yes.'

He smacked me again. I had to take it. The pain surged through me and I squirmed and whimpered but I had to take it, smack after smack.

He took his time, let me take a deep breath between smacks, but he didn't let up. He continued spanking me for a long time, smack after painful smack landing on my bottom.

This was what he wanted to do to me, this was what he wanted. He wanted it to hurt and it hurt. He chose this spanking for me and I took it. I took every blow of it.

When he was done, I heard him breathe heavily. I didn't know he was done, I was still waiting and wondering if he would give me more pain, if he would punish me more.

I felt his body under mine and I felt his arousal through the fabric of his trousers. I was aware of every detail, every sensation in my body. My bottom was warm and throbbing and tender as he placed his hand on it.

He gently began to caress my bottom, taking it into possession, gripping my buttocks. It was as if he wanted to tell me that my bottom was his, belonged to him and that he could do whatever he wanted with it.

My body was his. I wanted nothing else than to feel him touch and fondle my body. I belonged to him. He had punished me and I wanted it to be like this, like it was.

I held my breath, surprised when his fingers slipped in between my buttocks, into me. The sudden intrusion was intimidating in its intimacy. When I had thought that my body belonged to him, it seemed as if he wanted to prove it by invading it.

His fingers burned inside me as he slowly moved them, let them snake inside me, touching and arousing me.

'Do you like being punished?' he said, his voice low, smooth.

'No,' I gasped.

'It is good if it is true. A punishment should be bad. I want it to be bad. I want you to suffer.'

'It hurt.'

'But I think you are a liar. I think you liked it. I think you should be punished for lying to me.'

'More spankings?'

'No, not at the moment. I want your service. Stand up.'

I scrambled to my feet and felt how my body was trembling and how strange it was to become an independent person again, not a being attached to another, being touched and spanked.

'Take those knickers off.'

My knickers were still around my knees. The dress was tight and clung to my body and although the skirt had fallen down a little it barely covered me.

I slipped my knickers down and took them off.

'Give them here.'

I gave him my knickers. Seeing my underwear being held in his hand was strangely intimidating. It was as if some private and embarrassing part of me, of what my body was, had been exposed and held out for scrutiny.

He put them in his pocket.

'Take the dress off.'

I pulled it over my head and held it in my hand. I was naked.

'On the floor,' he said and I dropped the dress on the floor by my feet.

'On your knees.'

I sank to my knees.

'You may lie all you like about enjoying your punishment, I am completely honest when I tell you I like it. Come here.'

I moved closer to him, on my knees. When I approached him, he suddenly spread his legs.

'Maybe you should not think of this as a punishment. Maybe it is better that you think of this as your place, your proper place. When you think of your place, keep this image in your mind, you naked, kneeling between my legs. This is your proper place. Your punishment for lying will come later. There is plenty of time for that.'

He reached out his hand and placed it on my breast. He caressed it for a while, then began to knead it, then he gripped it. He moved from gentle to brutal, as if he wanted to show he could do this, that he had the right to touch me and grope me.

Then he let his hand slip down from my breast and down over my belly. This time he caressed my skin, let his palm and fingers glide over it, touching, arousing it.

I shivered and gasped as he let his hand continue down, over my belly, down over my lower belly, then, inevitable, as it seemed, in between my legs.

'No, you can't come. This moment is not for you. It is for me, only me.'

He sat back and regarded me.

'I want your service, your lip service.' He smiled at his own joke.

I slowly unzipped him. He drew his breath as my fingers dug into the opening, trying to reach for his sex. I moved with gentleness, not wishing to hurt him, not wanting to cause him any discomfort.

He gasped as his warrior was let out, as it sprung to attention. It was a beautiful thing. I looked at it and was torn between a sense that I was embarrassing him by exposing his sex and a strange desire to touch and to come close to it.

I heard him moan and I felt him react as my lips finally made contact. He leaned back and breathed heavily as my mouth touched his sex, as my lips caressed him.

Although every kiss, every touch, just put fuel on the fire inside me, I was overcome by a powerful urge to please him, to satisfy this man.

I did satisfy him, I did what he wanted and needed. I was not shy, I was bold as I pleased him.

I sat back on my heels, my back straight, my bosom a little forward, my head bowed, hands on my thighs. He was reclining, moving awkwardly, as if he finally remembered that he was sitting on a hard wooden chair.

His dress was back in order. He was again properly dressed. I was still naked, still waiting.

He leaned forward and took my chin in his hand, tilting my head up, looking into my eyes.

'Your punishment will have to wait.'

'Yes,' I said.

'I love you,' he said.

'Thank you.'

'Now, dress, we have a table booked for dinner. I am hungry.'

Blogging Again?

Long time no see, as they say. My only excuse for not blogging is that sometimes life goes through periods when your mind is occupied with things that make you think that blogging is not the most important thing. I know this is a little dismissive, as if I didn't think blogging was important, or that you, Dear Readers, weren't important. For whatever it is worth, I can tell you that starting blogging has been one of the most important things in my life and that it has helped me a lot with a lot of issues. So I hope you will forgive me for being absent for such a long time and don't feel too dismissed by my arrogance.

If you excuse me some more I am going to be a little academic. I am fascinated by those details in fantasies that seems so important, the ones you focus your mind on. I am sure you have the same. It struck me that they seem crucial and meaningful and that if you focus on them you will understand why they are so prominent.

I even came up with a fancy name for these fantasy elements. I thought they could be called fantasemes, in the same vein as mytheme and that sort of thing. Although I find it useful to think of it as an important element that tend to be similar in different settings, I couldn't think of a definition that was scholarly enough and it all seems to descend into some kind of pseudo academic chaos.

So, let's skip the silliness and focus on what I am talking about. What I mean are those details that you really like, perhaps triggers you, or at least seem crucial in a fantasy. They may be simple things or quite elaborate series of events and only you, yourself, know what they are.

One such detail in my world of fantasies is the taking off of knickers and pulling up of skirts and sitting on chairs and seats. It is shamelessly taken from The Story of O, but that is not a problem, we are inspired all the time by things we see and hear. The important thing is that it triggers something in us, and that we pick up on a detail. This 'fantaseme' of mine occurs in many different settings, it can happen on a bench in a part, on the bus, but most often it happens between a man and a woman seated in a restaurant. He tells her to take her knickers off, pull her skirt up and she does it, trying to cover it up as much as possible. It is this combination of being exposed and touching the world, and at the same time trying to act normally. She knows it, he knows it, and, hopefully, no one else knows is. It is often a symbol of giving yourself to someone, the fact that she does what she is told. It seldom happens if she is already submitted to him, but as a provocation from him, one she accepts and submits to.

Another such detail or 'fantaseme' in my world of fantasies, could be the sliding of knickers down from your hips. I often delve on the details here, the sensation of clothes touching the skin, moving down and away from the body, the baring, the crossing over a boundary, going from clothed to nude. In addition it is important when the knickers slip from your feet. It seems to be another crossing over. Before that you can always pull them up, but by removing them they become unreachable. You seem to accept being bared, being naked. There are some additional details that seem to crop up. If this is done in a semi public place, as a part of the 'fantaseme' above, the knickers can be given to the other person who then, perhaps, takes them and puts them in his pocket or even throws them in a rubbish bin. This is a powerful symbol. It is discarding of clothes, showing that they are not going to be put on again, they are irrelevant and useless, what is required of you is being naked.

I could go on and on and I could also become really, really boring. But I find it interesting to think about those details, those 'fantasemes' and wonder what they say about the fantasy, what they mean and why they are so powerful. I wouldn't mind getting a reaction. Do you have those details? Do you know what they mean? Do you even think of them as important details?

Cold

Thank you for your comments. It seems as if my latest post triggered something. I am glad to see that. I will try to reply quicker to the comments, in the future. I really like having a dialogue with you. Nikolai wrote about keeping the lookout on a ship in freezing weather and I think he hit the nail on the head, that it is the helplessness and vulnerability that are key and to some extent that makes it more easy to understand, I think. It seems as if something gruesome evokes this feeling of vulnerability that can be quite sensual. And maybe it is therefore it works...if you see what I mean.

And now a short something:

The night was falling and the thin layer of snow that had fallen that morning had almost melted away but now the cold air was descending again. He took me across the yard and to the stable. I could see in his eyes that he was in no mood for discussions.

The stable was not as cold as the outside but I still felt quite miserable standing in the dark. He switched the light on, but there was only one bare lightbulb hanging from a wire, spreading its gloomy light.

'There,' he said, and pointed on the sawhorse, 'you go on that.'

I shivered. The sawhorse meant he was angry.

'It is really cold here,' I tried.

'I know.'

I approached the dreaded device.

'Take your clothes off.'

'I can't do that, it's too cold.'

'Take your clothes off.'

I looked at him and I knew there was no room for anything but obedience.

I slipped off my jacket and trembled. I had to go on. I took off my shoes, my jeans, and my top. When he kept staring at me, I slipped off my socks and my knickers.

'Get on the horse, now.'

The concrete floor was ice cold against my bare feet and I shivered as I placed my hand on the rough wood of the horse. My fingers felt the coldness of the surface. I shook my head.

'I can't do it, it's too terrible.'

'On the horse, now!'

It was easier to do it when he was this determined, this harsh with me. I climbed the horse and gasped when my thighs and bottom touched the wood.

'Down over it.'

I laid myself down and held my breath as my belly and breasts came in contact with the coldness of the surface.

Without a word he took the ropes and tied my hands and my feet to the horse. When he was done, I did no longer have to do my best to stay on it. The ropes helped me.

'I feel cold, I will have a cup of tea,' he said and walked to the door.

'No,' I cried, 'you can't leave me here.'

'Can't I?'

He closed the door behind him.

When being tied naked to a icy wooden device in a stable seconds appear like minutes. I didn't know how long he stayed away. I was naked and helpless and shivering in the cold. I wanted him to come back, even if it brought me closer to what he had in mind.

It could have been hours, minutes, a lifetime, I didn't know, before he returned. I was happy to see him, even if he didn't speak a word as got the terrible horsewhip from its hook.

The horsewhip is fierce and horrible. It is brutal and bites into the flesh like few other things. And he was angry. He used it well on me and I could do nothing but cry and squirm and wriggle and pull at my ropes.

I was sweaty and aching when he was done. He seemed calmer, more content, but he took his time and decided to walk around the stable and look at all his gruesome tools. I stayed on the horse, naked, cold, and whipped.

Finally he untied me and we went back to the house. He carried my clothes and as we walked across the yard, towards the inviting light from our living room, snow had begun to fall.

Four Years and the Perils of Cold Weather

Today it is four years since I posted my first post on this blog. I just wanted to let you know and say that I am, after all that has happened, quite proud. I know it is slower now, but that doesn't mean I will close the blog.

I thought I should address another issue, while I am here. I have thought a lot about why I chose the picture for the last blogpost. Why did I take a picture of a naked woman in snow? The truth is that I have a thing about snow and cold weather.

Don't get me wrong. I don't like it. Snow can be beautiful and fun, but I don't enjoy freezing and being miserable in cold weather. What is it that attracts, then? I don't really know. But there is something fascinating about being forced into the cold, and especially when you are exposed and vulnerable. Being forced to pull down knickers in the outdoors and get a spanking, or being stripped naked and bound and marched in weather you would need a good jacket to endure, are things that crops up in my fantasies and stories.

There is something about the utter unpleasantness of it. If you walk out into the cold autumn and you feel the wind through your jacket and sweaters, it is a strange and terrifying, but yet exciting, thought that it would be so much worse to naked in that weather.

Maybe it is one of those things that you know you would survive, at least for some time, but that would be terribly unpleasant. And thus something that could be done to you, if someone had the power to punish you. Maybe it is the utter vulnerability, the sense of being outdoors, being exposed and unprotected. I don't really know.

I have had a hard time explaining this to myself. A lot of other things may be traced back to something pleasurable. Spanking includes intimacy, and there is a clear connection between pleasure and pain that gets exciting when you think about someone controlling that for you. All this about being bound and enslaved is not that strange to understand, after all (well I have been fretting about it on the blog, but I do see the logic in it). Being looked at, and being looked at without clothes, is something nice, at least if you are desired. And being a slave holds a lot of promises of pleasures, and without the burden of responsibility.

But being cold? Being marched naked into the snow? There are few things that are so utterly unarousing (new word) than freezing. It must have something to do with the utter helplessness and vulnerability.

I remember watching some film clip on the Web where some woman who was quite tied up and gagged and very naked was taken out into the snow and even pelted with snowballs. I remember feeling shocked at the sheer meanness of it all. But, then, there was this strange excitement. And when I had seen it I began to include it in my fantasies and I began to let it happen to me (in my mind, of course). I guess, though, that it ties in with older fantasies about being outdoors and risking being seen or, actually, being seen.

Never mind, I just wanted to write about this and welcome any input from you, Dear Readers.

No, I Haven't...

...abandoned my blog. I have been busy in Real Life, as they call it. There have been some illness in the family and a lot of worry. I am ok, but it has taken a lot of time and energy. I guess you don't really want to hear excuses, I still thought I owe you an explanation. It just hasn't felt right to be scampering off into fantasyland at the moment.

I just wanted to blog today, to say that I am still here, I still read emails, I still communicate with people, although not so much from the blog. And I hope I will be more active soon and I apologise to you Dear Readers for having being so absent from here.

It is slowly becoming winter here (although it is still autumn), so I thought I should post a picture to cheer you up, of a young lady in the snow, in the buff, so to speak. Take care!

The Crate

Early, at dawn, one chilly autumn morning, a car drove up to the kitchen entrance of the Manor. Two men jumped out and unloaded a crate from the back. They were strong men and the small crate didn't seem to bother them too much. They went back to the car and drove away. They never rang the doorbell.

'My Lord.'

'Yes, Pearson.'

The Lord was sitting at his table, being served his breakfast. He was a man in his late fifties, grey whiskers and broad face. He was impeccably dressed in grey tweed.

The Butler bowed his head.

'My Lord, there is a crate down at the entrance for you. I believe it is sent by Lord F.'

'Oh, that was quick. Have you brought it in?'

'Yes, of course, My Lord. It is in the kitchen.'

'I'll come down, immediately and we will open it.'

Pearson had a hard time keeping up with the Lord as he rushed down the stairs to the kitchen.

'Well, Pearson, open it, what are you waiting for?'

'Baines!' the Butler called and one of the footmen approached the crate with a crowbar in his hand. He forcefully opened it, removed the lid, and stepped back.

The Lord looked down into the crate and Pearson and the other staff craned their necks to get a glimpse of what it contained.

'It is a very small space,' the Lord said, 'I wonder how she fits in there.'

He was looking down at the bare skin of the back of the inhabitant of the crate. She was leaning forward, crammed into the minute space.

'Pearson, get her out of there, feed her, and clean her, or whatever is appropriate, and then bring her to me. I'll be in the Library. I won her on cards, the other day.'

The Lord went and Pearson and the footman reached down and lifted the girl from the crate. The crate was small so it took some effort to extract her from it.

When the ropes were removed from her body, she could stand up. She was naked. Pearson handed her over to the maids who cleaned her thoroughly. She was then fed in the kitchen, before she was placed across the main table, and Pearson delivered the appropriate dozen of stripes with his cane.

'My Lord, your gift is prepared.'

The Lord was in the Library. With him, dusting his books, was a maid, who had the good sense of moving within his sight, turning her back to him, and thus, giving him opportunity to rest his eyes on the parts of her that weren't covered by her apron, the only item of clothing she was wearing.

'Bring her in, Pearson.'

The naked girl was ushered into the room and stood before the Lord. She was fairly blond, quite delicate in her frame, a young woman.

'She is pretty,' the Lord said. 'Was there a note?'

'No, My Lord, nothing, except for a slip that says she was delivered from Lord F.'

'Very good.'

The Lord regarded the young woman. He let his gaze wander up and down her body, let it linger on her breasts, stayed for a while on her belly, slid down between her legs and followed the thighs and the calves down to her feet, only to return to her face, with its short nose and soft lips.

'Turn her around, Pearson.'

The Butler snapped his fingers and made a movement with his hands and the girl turned around.

'Nice bottom, don't you reckon, Pearson?'

'A very fine specimen, My Lord.'

'Are the stripes yours, Pearson?'

'Yes, My Lord, I thought it appropriate to get her acquainted with the ways of the Manor.'

'Very good, you are a Master with the cane.'

'Thank you, My Lord.'

'Pearson, I want to have her bring my elevenses.'

'My Lord, how shall I have her dress?'

'Nothing, I want her in the buff. Perhaps something to adorn her, something nice, but nothing that covers.'

'Very well, My Lord.'

Later the young woman returned, carrying a tray with the Lord's tea and scones and some toast and other nice snacks he enjoyed. She was dressed in nothing but a golden necklace, some discreet bangles and a golden chain around her hips, like a girdle, nothing that covered her body at all.

Sold

I was awakened by two slavegirls. They were dressed in their very short tunics, brazenly open in the side, showing too much of their flesh for my liking, for my inner calm.

They attended to me, but made no secret of my status, of what I was. They were attentive but cold, they showed me no affection. When we were done, they brought me through a long corridor to a room where I was greeted by the Slaver.

I had no reason to show him any respect but politeness made me bow my head in his presence. He smiled at me and bowed his head in mock courtesy. He looked me over, from head to toe. I was glad I was still in my robe.

All was lost, I knew that. My freedom gone, lost to some dreadful scheme, some plan I didn't even know about, a plan that would benefit someone other than me. I was a pawn, although a valuable pawn, but I had been sacrificed, sacrificed or utilised.

'It is time, my lady,' the Slaver said and bowed to me while making a gesture towards the door.

'Time for your triumph,' I replied, not wanting to give him the pleasure of seeing me humble myself, not before him, not yet.

I knew the time for him to triumph, for him to see me being degraded, was to come. There was no turning back, now, no way out, but I would keep my head as high as I could, for as long as I could.

He clapped his hands and, instead of the two slavegirls, two young men entered. They were dressed in tunics and sandals, but although they were servants those were the tunics of free men.

I was taken from the room, the two guards by my side and the Slaver in tow. We stopped at the foot of a stair. Sun was shining in through the doorway at the top and I could smell the day outside. It was a hot day.

I stood in the shadow awaiting my turn to climb those stairs. I heard the noise from the commotion outside, the people shouting, the growling and barking of angry men, eager men.

I heard my name being called. I heard a voice call 'the former...' before the roar drowned the announcer. I didn't know what title he had given me, but whichever one he had chosen, it was gone now, stolen from me, and could never be given back.

I climbed the stairs with my two young attendants. I was moving from the shade, into the sun, and it was as if this transition spelled my doom, signified my move from freedom to captivity.

The Slaver entered the stage with me and was greeted by the Auctioneer. He nodded at the Slaver and looked me over. Then he turned to the crowd.

We were standing on a platform that was built from stone, attached to the Slaver's house, his castle, where he kept his stock.

As I got used to the scorching sun, I saw the sea of heads below me. The square in front of the Slaver's castle was packed with people. Most of them were men, staring and smiling men. Some were women, but not many.

I had been at the square, myself, and I had been bidding on girls on this very platform. Never had I seen the place so crowded as now.

When I had been the buyer, I had looked at the girls, tried to assess their assets, tried to figure out if they were strong enough or lithe enough, what I could use them for. I had partly been a calm and collected buyer, but partly I had pitied them, thought they had looked miserable and scared as they stood in their nudity, being watched by the crowd.

'Strip,' the Auctioneer said, his voice authoritative but calm.

'No,' I replied.

He took a long and hard look at me. Then he turned to the crowd.

'The lady doesn't wish to show her assets to you. She prefers to keep her clothes on.'

The people laughed. He turned to me.

'But how will they know what they are buying, if you don't take your clothes off?'

'I will not take them off,' I replied.

'We are waiting.'

'No.'

'Strip,' he repeated, a lot more menace in his voice, this time.

'No.'

He made a gesture with his hand and I felt hands grip my arms. It was my two young attendants. I knew there was no point in resisting it. There was no way out.

I felt my robe being torn down from my shoulders, revealing my body. I felt the fabric of my dress slide over my skin, with a sense of disbelief.

I had never been naked in the presence of men. The only ones who had been allowed to see my body had been my mother and my maidens in waiting. It was unthinkable for a woman of my standing to reveal her body in public. Yet it was done to me.

The Auctioneer nodded again, and I felt my robe being pulled down from my hips and in an instant, I stood naked in front of the crowd.

My pride forbid me to try to cover up, although there was not much pride left for me. There is no pride allowed for a slave, there was none allowed for me. I had been stripped naked on the Slaver's platform. I was to be sold and the buyers had to be allowed to assess my assets.

The crowd went wild. They stared at me, leered at me, shouted and me and cheered. They cried out at the Auctioneer and I heard bids being given.

I wondered why they were so excited. Surely it couldn't be the sight of a naked woman, a naked me, that excited them. There were naked women on this platform, every day.

Was it because I was of noble birth, that I had lost my standing and now they could enjoy the sight of me being humiliated in public?

Another thought entered my mind. I heard the bids and knew I was selling for more than most slavegirls were sold for. I was valuable.

An unwelcome pride about being valuable struggled with the overwhelming shame of having to stand naked before the people, being auctioned off like an animal. I was valuable and it spoke to my vanity. Together with that sensation came the bitter pang of the knowledge that I had been stolen, that I would not gain from my sale. I was to be given nothing. It was the miserable and fat Slaver, who stood licking his lips, who would make a profit. I was the commodity.

When finally one bidder had outbid the rest, I went for a price at least ten times more than I had ever paid for a slave, even for a strong young man. I stood rooted to the spot, watching the proceedings as if they didn't concern me, as if it was someone else, not me, being sold.

When my buyer presented himself, I saw who he was. I knew him well. He was a man who had been a guest in our house, who had looked at me with lust in his eyes and a cruel smile on his lips, the man whom my father had rejected as my fiancé, who had undone my father's bid for power, and made it clear he would take his revenge. I knew, in my heart, that it was he who had planned my enslavement. I knew all to well that he had made this happen. And now he had bought me, now he owned me, and I was not even to be his wife, I was to be his slave, his property.