Just a Little Bit Faster Now...

Who am I? What am I doing here? What is this blogging about? Why is this so important? Is it important?

I've found a door which lets me out!
When you rock 'n' roll with me
No one else I'd rather be
Nobody down here can do it for me
I'm in tears again
When you rock 'n' roll with me

Three and a half months ago I married the love of my life, the one who really loves me and wants to be with me. We have been together for years so I know what I am doing, as much as anyone is able to know such things. I am one of the lucky ones.

But this blog is not about me being either happy or unhappy. It is about that parallel track in my mind that has always been there. Have you, like me, been one of those who never dared to act, never dared to move or let anyone see who you are then you know why you sometimes take the other track, the easy, colourful one, the one you know.

She waited by the moon
She was sick with fear and cold
She felt too old for all of this
Of course she never showed

Writing is magical and one of my true desires but it is about more than desire and lust. The view is wider, the fantasy land is full of more than things I want to do, things I want shall happen. There are things there that concern memories, experiences and thoughts that scare me more than anything else. Still I feel compelled to go there, to look at it, to form it into things I dare look at, even transform some humiliation into something desirable.

She'll turn the radio high
Find a station playing sad, sad soul

It is like a sad, sad film that you want to watch although you can't really see why you want to cry and be scared. I am one of those sad souls who loved the Titanic film but it doesn't mean I enjoy people dying in great disasters.

Just a little bit louder now

I still dare not move, dare not act and I still dare not show who I am. I admire you all who know what you want and believe that this blog is about spanking and sexual desire. You who know that your fantasies are just a reflection of your desires. I am not mocking you and I am not being ironic. I envy you.

Just a little bit faster now

I am not ironic or trying to be clever when I say that my mind is far more interesting than I am in my real life. I am basically quite boring. I blog because for once I want to be daring enough to talk about what is inside my head, my wilder, more daring self, the person that jumps between roles and who knows her desires, at least for a flicker of a moment, for the duration of a fleeting fantasy.

All I've done
I've done for me
All you gave
You gave for free
I gave nothing in return
And there's little left of me

I feel sometimes that I use you all, you who read, you who comment, because you give something to me. You make me feel that what I have in my mind, my fantasies are valuable and something enjoyable even. My dirty secrets are your dirty secrets and we share and I am not alone with my parallel track.

And she'll drive the big car
And talk herself insane

Perhaps you are right, you all who know what I need and what I should do. Maybe am I just holding on to a kind of self inflicted madness by staying in my mind instead of taking on the world. Maybe I should move with you who say you know, who tell me there is a way and you know it.

Just a little bit angry now

Why should I play your game, you who abuse me and treat me like I was not worth anything and believe that is what I want? Tell me!

I'm in tears again...

Janice has taught me one thing and that is I don't have to know the world, don't have to be responsible for everything in it and I don't have to compete any more. I am a dreamer, a person in disguise but I will talk freely, I will share my dreams with those of you who want to share. That is one way for me to face up to my demons.

I am being cryptic, I know that but I am also honest, perhaps more honest than I have been before. And once again I will thank you all who read and talk to me. I do, really, want to hear more from you. You don't have to say anything clever to comment.

Dear Miss Ellison, like a thief in the night I steal from you again but this time it is only the form. The content is all mine. Thank you for inspiring me.

Text in italics by David Bowie from 'When You Rock'n'Roll With me' (1974), 'Days' (2003) and 'She'll Drive the Big Car' (2003).

The Tavern

Fantasies are about painting pictures and sometimes when you do that it almost becomes a story. Here is a picture that not yet has become a story. Perhaps this theme is new for those of you who have read my blog. I made the drawing (had to say that).

Close to the harbour on a crowded but yet narrow street lies a tavern where ale and food is served along with entertainment and the lovely sight of fair women. Rowdy sailors go there and sit side by side with rough men from the mountains. You would find traders and adventurers there, and soldiers and thieves along with slavers and lumberjacks. All sorts of rough and strong and rowdy and brutal men sit on the benches and chairs in the big room of that tavern.

A great fireplace lights the room and its flickering light lends a certain red glow to the square features of the men, the flames reflecting in their hard eyes and glimmering on their steel muscles. This is a hard world of ruthless men and still there are women in the room. Between the tables and among the loud men there hurry the servant girls, small and soft and vulnerable in comparison.

The girls hurry between the men, trying to avoid their eager touch, their strong arms seeking to possess their bodies. They are appropriately and, with this, scantily clad. There is one clad in a thin cloth around her narrow hips, another in a flowing breechcloth and small embroidered waistcoat, yet another wears nothing but a leather thong and nothing more, her young breasts on full display.

The girls move in the room, their soft bodies in sharp contrast to the rough men, their semi exposed bodies accentuating their vulnerability. Their bodies are on display for the pleasure of the guests, their service not only that of bringing ale but also to let the men enjoy the sight of their shapely frames.

The crowd is loud and brutal but in a good mood. They laugh and drink and talk and sing. Suddenly there is a roar as one of the brutes manages to get hold of the thin skirt of one of the girls and rips it off. The girl having to complete her tasks in the nude to the great amusement of the guests. Her naked body only goes to strengthen the sense that this is a man's world, a place for the pleasure of men and the girls are only for entertainment.

In the middle of the room there is an open space. At one side is the fireplace at the other a small dais. Three musicians take their places on that dais and start playing. There is a drum, a flute and a strangely shaped sitar. The noise in the room continues but some of the guests turn their head towards the open space.

Suddenly all eyes are focussed on the open space as a girl enters. She is small, tiny in comparison to the men and all eyes are upon her. She is dressed in a red flowing breechcloth held in place by a golden chain low on her hips. Around her chest is tied a thin red piece of cloth. Besides this she is naked. The music stops and the girl stands still. She is waiting. The whole room is waiting.

The flute begins to play and then the sitar and lastly the drums. The girl begins to dance. She moves her body in soft flowing movements. The men can't take their eyes from her. She is small and looks so young, almost like a child but still there is something about her that makes her look older and wiser than ever a child can be. She is not a child, she is a woman and everyone can see that.

Her dance is beautiful, it is soft and vulnerable. She is both innocent and vulnerable and yet confident and strong. She dances her dreams and desires along with her strength and her softness.

The music gets wilder and the dance more intense. She moves her body to the music, becomes one with it and all the men stare at her in silent devotion. They desire her more than anything but not one of them dares to move risking to break the magic spell. He body exposed but yet covered makes them lust for her but she is not for them to touch, she is beyond them, belonging to another world.

The music stops, the dancing girls hurries from the floor on her bare feet. The men sit in silence. Some of them fighting back tears, knowing that they have seen something that is beyond them, something far more beautiful and lovely than they can ever be, something that is above and far, far away, never to be touched or taken. There is desire and lust and all earthly sensations but they know, as well, that they have been touched by something beyond that, something they will never forget.

Slave Trade Act

Yesterday it was two hundred years since the Slave Trade Act received Royal Assent, in practice outlawing the trade with slaves within the British Empire. At last the abolitionist movement had gained an important victory in the struggle against slavery. The most well known of the British abolitionists, perhaps, is William Wilberforce who had campaigned for the cessation of slave trade since 1789.

In this context it feels silly and almost wrong to talk about fantasies about slavery. The grim facts about the trade in humans make a terrible backdrop to the exciting and even arousing fantasies about being captured and enslaved.

Slavery is wrong and it feels almost trivial to state that. Only very ruthless and cruel people can think otherwise. The reason why I talk about this here is that I have to struggle a little to distinguish between fantasies and reality at times. The themes of my fantasies scare me. That which alleviate that feeling and allows me to continue having my fantasies is the knowledge that fantasies do not necessarily represent real life event or wishes. I would not want slavery for any human being, not even myself, but still the fantasy of being someone's captive can be something pleasurable and good. It is a romantic and basically silly fantasy but it is a nice one, however scary at times. But who said that humans were simple beings?

Allison's Bottom

This story is written for and inspired by a dear friend of mine, Kirsten Ellison, who is an excellent writer of spanking fiction. The story is mine but I have stolen a lot from her. It is a tribute and I hope she will like it and don't think me rude for putting poor Allison, the heroine of this story, in a very embarrassing situation. If you want to read some of Kirsten's work you should go here!

Allison hurried through the corridor. She was furious, she was angry, she was annoyed and frustrated. The blond brat in her class had managed to push all the wrong buttons, again. Jannike was tall, slim, delicate and very pretty. She had an angel's smile and very gentle manners. Seeing her for the first time you would adore her. But her innocent frame harboured the heart of a gargoyle. Allison hated her. She knew it was wrong to hate one of your pupils but she couldn't help it. They had had a discussion again and this time Jannike had been right.

Allison thought about spankings. She often did that when she was frustrated. Any other day she would have preferred to be at the receiving end and even in the rare cases when she delivered the smacks she was never angry. She never spanked in anger. Jannike had made her reconsider that. The delightful thought of having the young girl in her lap, relentlessly smacking her bottom made Allison feel guilty. Spanking was something she would never, ever, consider for her pupils. Spanking children was just wrong.

She was still frustrated as she walked into the common room and almost bumped into the man standing inside the door. He turned to her and she had to look up. He was not a big man but he was tall, slim and tall. She had never seen him before and for a while she felt lost and utterly bewildered.

'Allison, this is Theo, our new colleague, just arrived from the Netherlands,' someone said.

Allison stared into the new face. She smiled, trying to compose herself. She stood in awe for a second and then Theo turned to be introduced to someone else.

'Isn't he handsome?' a voice whispered in her ear, a voice belonging to a female colleague of Allison's. The other woman was some years older but the tone of her voice made her seem like she was thirteen.

That bewildering day came to an end and Allison hurried home with many thoughts tumbling around in her head. The handsome face of the new teacher persistently popped into her thoughts. A tall, dark, Dutch man had become her new colleague.

'Tall, Dutch and handsome,' she thought for herself and giggled a little.

Life went on and things returned to normal, which meant the usual gossip in the common room, the annoying classes containing Jannike and that ever present stress that seemed to fill up her life.

Some days later Allison went into the common room and picked up the morning paper only to find the face of the blond devil Jannike staring at her. She had been interviewed by a local journalist hunting for something to criticise the UK education system for. The young pupil provided him with some tale of mean and uncaring teachers who didn't know their subjects.

In that moment she hated the girl. Perhaps it was guilt over that hate the prompted the words that she didn't realise she had spoken out loud.

'Well, spank me! That little...'

'I am only khappy to oblige,' the voice came from behind, happy spoken with a very distinct aspiration. Allison turned around and faced her new colleague, the Dutchman, Theo.

'What?' she said.

'You said, spank me,' he replied beaming, 'and I said that I was only khappy to oblige.'

Allison was lost for words. She stared at Theo and all of a sudden she felt like fainting, her knees were weak.

'I...I,' was the only thing she managed to say.

Theo looked at her and suddenly he was serious.

'Do you really want me to spank you?'

Allison found the situation quite absurd.

'Well,' she stumbled on her words, 'well, yes.'

Allison shook her head in disbelief as they walked to her office. She wondered how this had happened. The whole situation was surreal, something that should not happen. Still it felt strangely natural.

As Allison locked the door to her office, Theo looked around the room, walked to her desk and picked up a ruler. He smiled a strangely happy and innocent smile, although Allison knew well what he was thinking, as he was swishing the ruler through the air.

The tall man sat down on the chair and looked at Allison. She looked back and she almost started laughing at the strangeness of the situation. Theo tapped his knees and she stared at him. As she took a step closer to him she felt an urge to speak.

'But only on my clothes,' she said, sounding stern.

'Off course,' he answered with a beaming smile.

Allison thought that it was something very boyish about that smile, about that tall man sitting in her chair about to smack her bottom. Still he was very much a man. Her knees were weak again.

In her confused mind Allison wondered how she ended up in this situation lying face down on the lap of this strange, happy Dutchman, a man she did not know, who seemed so boyishly confident. The tapping on her bottom with the ruler brought her back from her thoughts.

'What are you doing?' Allison cried out, 'on my clothes, I said.'

She had been taken by surprise as Theo flipped up her skirt.

'But those tights things,' he said, sounding surprised, 'aren't they clothes?'

'Of course they are,' Allison retorted.

'Well then.'

Before she had a chance to say anything, Theo brought down the ruler on her now less protected behind. The sting was considerable and Allison suddenly had other things on her mind than protesting about a flipped up skirt.

Theo smacked her bottom with some determination and Allison found the whole thing quite unpleasant. She didn't cry or protest. It was below her dignity. She struggled to keep her composure. After all, she didn't know the man. She was embarrassed at finding her body so close to Theo's and the fact the he could stare unhindered at her scantily clad behind did not diminish that sensation.

She thought that it was probably right that she should suffer. She had hated her pupil and that was something that made her feel guilty and the relentless smacking of her bottom alleviated that guilt.

The sense of deserving a punishment made Allison almost able to cope with her spanking. Theo was a tall man with long arms and a good swing. It crossed Allison's mind that perhaps he could be a good bowler with that swing. The Dutch did play cricket but were not very good at it.

What happened next caught her completely off guard. She was utterly unprepared for the sensation of Theo's fingers getting hold of her tights and tugging them downwards with great force. Allison felt surprised and powerless as she felt them sliding over her upturned bottom. With fear she realised that it was not only her tights that were removed.

'Are you mad?' she screamed with both anger and fear in her voice.

'It is only for the last ones,' Theo said and she imagined the boyish smile on his face which made her even more upset and angry. She felt humiliated and overwhelmed but was not able to get up and walk away. Something kept her in place.

He didn't give her many more spanks but the ones he delivered were delivered in earnest and on her unprotected bottom. Allison cried out in shame and agony.

'Done,' he proclaimed, 'you may stand up now.'

Allison felt her cheeks blush as she scrambled to her feet and readjusted her clothes in a very unladylike fashion. She was humiliated and angry and was about to scream something appropriate to this madman who had treated her like this.

'That wasn't too bad?' Theo said with his beaming smile.

Allison found that she could not scream. She could only nod and look down.

'No, not too bad,' she said.

'Thank you,' she continued and almost bit her tongue.

'Any time,' the tall handsome Dutch said.

Allison was upset as she walked home, upset and angry. She was still mad at Jannike and the strange Dutchman. Didn't Jannike sound like a Dutch name? It was a conspiracy. Still there was a strange sensation in her as she walked home, a new spring in her step. Anyone seeing her could, perhaps, discern an inward looking smile on her face. She would never admit it but there was this persistent pondering in her mind. It was a scheming and planning that went on without her conscious permission. She blushed as she realised that she, really, was trying to figure out a way of getting over that blasted Dutch knee again.

Subtleties

When fantasies tumble around in your head it is not that easy to see what it is all about. The chaos of them, sometimes, reflects the chaos in life and how complex life can be. I firmly believe that fantasies are about more than just sex and arousal. I think that sometimes there are more important things at stake. I am not saying sex is not important, only that sometimes other things can be as important and even more important.

Being Janice allows me to explore things about me that is different from my real self. Janice is far less proud and stubborn than I am. When faced with an accusation about having done something wrong or faced with some unpleasant fact about her Janice is less inclined to protest and fight to keep face than I am. I would say, 'but...' and try to come up with an explanation or perhaps deny it all while Janice would say, 'yes, that is true, I did that'.

To admit that you indeed did hurt someone, forgot something or just behave in some certain way is sometimes very hard. To be able to admit and face the consequences is something great and scary but it is also immensely brave and something that is really good. This is almost trivial to state, everyone knows that. What I was thinking of is the way that this enters into my fantasies.

There is a common pattern in spanking fantasies that is about doing wrong, having to face up to it, admitting it is true and then being punished for it. I know I have claimed that it is less so in many of my fantasies but the pattern is still there (more than I care to acknowledge) and it is there in many other people's fantasies. When I have been confronted with this in the fantasy world I have felt a certain thrill, not so much at the upcoming punishment but at the admitting of guilt or wrongdoing.

Here is the subtlety, it is something immensely exciting about not protesting and dodging responsibility and saying yes to whatever comes in your way, to say, 'yes, I hurt you', 'yes, I was wrong', 'yes I do have that habit'. It is not, necessarily, about submitting to someone who will guide you and correct you and make you a better person. The thrill, the excitement lies in the facing up to reality and taking the consequences. There is a subtle difference between acting like a child and allowing someone to correct your bad behaviour and just, simply admitting to who you are and taking the consequences of that.

So what about the spanking? Does is symbolise the consequences? Perhaps it does. It might be that the pattern of wrongdoing, guilt, admission and punishment is such a well known pattern that it just happens to be a spanking that is the consequence. Perhaps the consequence is painful, having to see that yes, indeed, I did hurt that person or I am not perfect, I make silly mistakes.

And I am not claiming that I have analysed the whole matter of spanking fantasies. I only wanted to talk about that thrill I sense within my fantasies that I believe is about something that is genuinely positive and that not necessarily is sexual in nature.

More About the Dark Angel...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The end

Two Slaves

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'She is very young.'

...