Waiting, Another View...

One of my Dear Readers wrote to me telling me he was inspired by my story Waiting so he decided to write the same story from another perspective. I think that is a brilliant idea. It was not only interesting to read from another angle but the story was very well written. I asked if I could publish it on my blog and I got the permission.

Note, especially his use of colours, red against white skin and the black of the tool as a reflection of the darkness that dwells inside, the heart that is darkness and you know what I am thinking. Black, white and red are also the first colours, the ones that tend to be named first in languages (according to some theories). Anyway, thank you Ollie for this piece. Dear Readers read and enjoy!

I had not known what to expect, but as soon as I saw her standing at the side of the road I knew. Two tiny patches of scarlet standing wanton amongst the dry greys and browns of the tired roadside. She was thin, with almost unnaturally white skin, and so totally out of place, waiting by the road dressed only in an apparently inappropriate bikini.

I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw Mistress give a small nod. I had known anyway, but I pulled up beside the girl. She looked scared, and when I got out of the car I could almost smell her fear as Mistress overpowered her with the silky force of her personality. The girl looked at the ground, a tableau of submission, her little triangles of red cloth calling to the world of her shamelessness. She was barefoot, and a thin dusting of summer dirt soiled her feet. The gravel over which she must have walked to get here would have dug mercilessly into her soles, and I glimpsed the familiar desperation of with whom those Mistress dealt, the need which drove her to stand half naked at the roadside, for what?

I felt a small sympathy rise within me as I often did knowing what would probably happen to her, but my professionalism took over and I sealed these thoughts, these softnesses back behind their steel shutters.

“Get the Tool” Mistress snapped.

Always “The Tool”.

I had heard her use the word “whip”, but that was too pedestrian, too erotic a term for her. This was a tool, merely that, an instrument to enforce this girl’s submission to her own desires. Black handled, mirroring the dark recesses of the mind to which it would take her, with knotted leather strands, designed to reach cruelly into the soul to extract the inner urges and bring them unwilling into the stark light of day. The girl looked at it with a fear and confusion which her hunger forced her to accept.

She placed her hands on the bonnet, hot metal in this summer weather. I half expected Mistress to require her to lean her whole body across the car, heating far too much but not quite burning the soft skin of her belly and breasts.

Mistress required me to lower her bikini bottoms, though they scarcely provided more than vestigial cover, but here on the public street where anyone could come by and see her the act made her yet more exposed, more naked.

Sometimes Mistress would have me cut away a girl’s clothes, signifying finality; the clothes could not be worn again, she was afterwards clothed only at another’s whim; but now, here, for this girl, I merely lowered them to her knees, leaving them there to remind her that her bottom was naked and presented to us both. I moved her knees slightly apart to ensure that the scrap of cloth remained in place, there but not there, the mocking, unconsummated offer of cover.

Her backside was full soft and round, its immodesty decorated with a few faint thin bruises from an earlier beating. The type of bottom belonging to a girl who needed the whip.

Then Mistress whipped her, but only lightly; the many thin snakes of the whip painting purple lines and small darker spots under the knots which lighted her buttocks with a further, deeper beauty. The girl did not scream. Had she done so she would have been gagged here in public, there would be time to hear her scream, to hear her beg later, when her cries would fall on merciless ears.

Mistress snapped her fingers at me.

I had done this many times; sometimes inside, sometimes in a public place, this final act of taking a girl’s body on the way to her mind, this preparing of her; and so I pressed into her, into her larger hole, not the smaller, Mistress would doubtless require that later, but for now she was merely to have her last covering of decency removed in public.

Sometimes Mistress would do this herself with the whip handle, making an alien intrusion inside the body, possessing her charge with it’s impersonal shaft, but for now it was me, and I took her, never losing myself as I filled her, never losing concentration that this was not sex, not pleasure, merely that which had to be done.

.

Whilst Mistress watched, I felt the hot stripes on her bottom press against my groin as I stretched her round Mistress’s will, before she was taken away to receive her due punishment.

Time for Silliness

I think I am too serious. I should lighten up a bit. So now for some silliness. I just checked what my Elf Name would be. It is silly, don't you think?

Your Elf Name Is...

Giggles Sugar Butt

What's Your Elf Name?

The Girl Who Danced with Trees

I have a cyber friend who is a real inspiration for me. She told me something that made me think of this story. I wrote it for her...and for me. She is a dreamer, just like me. She is lovely, dovely Dove and she has her own blog on the Web. Go read it! That is an order.

This story has no spankings and no naughtiness at all but I do like it. Please read it! And thank you for being you, Dove. This is for you and for all the dreamers out there.

'Don't pay her any attention,' he said, 'she's a little potty.'

Brian made a gesture to his head and smiled.

The girl had red hair, or was it auburn? He couldn't say. It looked a little tousled. She wore a light blue dress, low below her knees and ordinary walking shoes. She looked very ordinary. Still she caught his eye.

She passed by and he turned to the boys. Brian and Mike laughed at him and made gestures to their heads. Eric seemed to be occupied with something else, most likely he was staring at some of the other girls.

Laughing at him meant that he was accepted. He was part of their group now. That was good. That meant he was not alone in the new school.

He couldn't get the girl out of his head. He had hardly seen her face but he remember that she looked solemn, not sad but solemn. The way she dressed and her hair told him she was nobody. She would never get any attention. Still he couldn't get her out of his head.

He saw her later that day, alone by the main building. She was still looking solemn but as he stole some glances at her he thought that she also looked content. She didn't seem happy but content. As if she didn't mind being on her own. As if she didn't mind not being popular. Still there was this air of sadness about her he couldn't get rid of.

He kept looking for her in the school grounds. He saw her quite often, standing on her own. He didn't want to show the boys where he was looking and he never mentioned her to them. He didn't know why he looked for her. She was not very pretty, not ugly in any way but ordinary.

He saw her again. One Saturday he saw her again. He was taking a shortcut to town, walking through a tiny bit of woodlands between his street and the town centre. His bike was broken so he had to walk.

As he passed the small hill that almost was the entirety of the wooded patch of land he realised he wasn't alone. On top of the small hill there was a small clearing and when he looked towards the summit he saw someone there.

The girl moved between the trees in a strange way. She turned with every step and her hair stood out form her head as she turned and turned. He stood in silence regarding her. She was dressed in a white dress this time, its long wide skirt flowing with her movements.

She was dancing. He realised the girl was dancing. She moved between the trees and turned with every other step. There was no music but he could see she had music in her body. She moved from three to tree and her left arm encircled the trunk of the tree while her right arm was stretched out. Then she turned and moved away from the three.

She was dancing with the trees. She moved from partner to partner as a girl on a dance floor who can't decide which boy will be allowed to woo her. He couldn't see her face but he knew she was smiling. She moved with grace and beauty and although he heard no music he knew it was there.

He stood in silence regarding her, not being able to move. He felt like an intruder, as if he had come upon a great secret, a secret that was not only hers and the trees but a secret that was far, far greater than that.

He was startled as he realised that the dance was over and the girl was coming down the hill. He saw her approaching and knew she would pass him. He felt embarrassed, caught out. As if he had been doing something wrong, spying on her or been somewhere he shouldn't.

He looked at her as she passed him.

'Hi,' he said, smiling, wanting to be inviting, wanting to show he didn't think her potty or silly. Wanting her to know he wasn't an enemy. Wanting her to notice him.

'Hi,' she said, gave him a quick glance and passed him.

He stood, regarding her for a while as she walked to the buildings away from the hill. She didn't turn her head to look for him. She walked on, thinking of something else. He wondered if there had been a smile on her face.

Writing, Grammar and Being Brave

This is something that has been on my mind for some time but I didn't know how to talk about it. I will give it a try and I will start by apologising to anyone who is offended by this. I mean no harm, really, I don't.

Language matters to me. Language is a glorious thing, a tool but more than a tool, it is the air we breathe and the water we drink. We couldn't live without it. I know we can but it wouldn't be the same.

Language matters and I use it when I write this blog. Language is the means by which you can see a little piece of what is inside my head and it is the means by which you can tell me that you have been there. It is about communication. It is through language I am not alone. It is through language I share and express myself.

Language matters for two reasons, if not more. Firstly, it is a means to express something and it is important that I can convey as well as I am able what I want to convey. Secondly, it may, at times, be a thing of beauty, this writing. There is beauty in the images that became language but also in the language itself. It is a thing of beauty at times. Not always but there are some moments of beauty and I value them.

Grammar is a strange thing. To me grammar is not the rules that guide the communication but a description of the mechanics that helps us understand each other. Grammar is important. I care about grammar.

But I am also sloppy. And ignorant. I am always unsure about what I write, 'does this sound good?' 'Does this work?'

My mind is a mind of images, not of words. I love words but I am not good with them. I don't understand written text that well. I get lost in complicated narratives. Too many characters in a story and I am lost. I need to read and reread to understand. I am a slow reader.

I want to be perfect. I know there is no perfect. I know this. Still it is a burden to want it. I want my texts to be flawless, perfect, always beautiful and always good. My worst enemy is this desire for perfection. It makes me ashamed of errors I make, it makes me ashamed of my sloppiness and if this desire for perfection was allowed to rule I would never put anything on the blog that wasn't read and reread, edited and corrected many times over. There would be no blog then. I would sit in a corner doing nothing.

I struggle with this burden every day. I decided that my blog should not be perfect. It should be a means for me to talk about what I wanted to talk about. It should never be a place for flawless writing.

I often reread my stories only once or twice before putting them on the blog. I don't want to be bogged down with questions about if it would be better to say something in another way. There would be no blog if I allowed myself to do that.

I am not proud of the errors I make, the typos, the sloppy grammar, the incorrect references. But they will end up on my blog because if I would hunt them all down I would not be able to write.

The blog was never intended to be perfect. It couldn't possible be my intention.

Someone once said to me that my writing was good but with his help it could be perfect. He then went on pointing out errors I had made. I had a terrible row with him. Partly because he was wrong about a lot of things and didn't understand (in my opinion) how language works. And partly because I found it arrogant and preposterous to think that he could make my writing perfect. And partly because I was hurt to be told I wasn't perfect.

I have a lot to learn about writing. There is no doubt about that and I want to learn. But the point with this blog is to communicate, not to be perfect.

When I write this I realise that this is a problem for me not for you. You must wonder why I rant about it. Maybe I am trying to tell myself that I don't have to be perfect. I will leave it at this and go back to writing my stories.

Waiting

I am still a little upset by my ordeals in my second life. I feel a little stupid reacting so strongly but I can't, really, help it. I had decided it was story time again and was browsing through my older stories. I lost heart a little and though of one, 'no, that is too brutal', of another, 'no, too silly,' of a third, 'too badly written.' I couldn't decide. I wanted to put something on the blog today so I decided to put this story up. It is like an experiment, something I just wrote out of nowhere. I had some kind of setting akin to The Story of O in mind and perhaps it is a rip off. I am not sure I even think it is very good but some parts I like, others not. I will put it up as it is with just the odd editing. Obviously I find it good enough to put on the blog but I don't know if I mean anything with putting it here.

As I came in to my room I found the note on my bed. I took it and read it with trembling fingers. It was short but very clear:

You are to be punished.

Change to your red bikini and wait at the road.

Someone will collect you there.

My heart started pounding in my chest. I knew it would come but not what it would be. I was to be punished. But for what? I didn't know I had done anything wrong.

It was not a cold day but I shivered as I walked over to my drawer and took out my red bikini. It was the tiniest of all my swimsuits. They had chosen the red bikini because it was tiny, because I would feel most exposed in it. I put it on the bed and looked at it. The note didn't say when but there was no way for me to know and I may well be overdue already. I had to change and go out even if I would have to wait for a long time to be collected.

I started to take off my clothes knowing I couldn't be late if they were there waiting for me. I put on the bikini. I turned to my mirror regarding myself. I saw a very scared girl looking thin and very naked in a too small bikini.

The bikini was bright red and had a small but not tiny top of triangles and tiny strings. The bottom was small but not a string although there were knots at the sides making it cover very little of my body. I had never dared to show myself in this bikini. It was too revealing, I thought. I was too embarrassed to use it. I wondered if I could take shoes but the note said nothing about shoes, only about the bikini so I decided to be barefoot.

I felt naked and exposed as I walked down to the road. There were not many houses around so nobody saw me but at the roadside all cars passing by would see me. I shivered.

No one waited for me at the roadside. I had to stand there and wait. No cars passed by and I was happy about that. Still I felt naked and exposed and I shivered although the evening was soft and warm.

Three cars passed me by as I stood there. I pretended to be on my way somewhere but I noticed that they looked at me. I didn't dare to move away from the spot outside my house. I was waiting for to be collected. I don't know how long I waited but it felt like an eternity.

At last a big car pulled up. It was black and very elegant. It seemed as if the woman sitting in the back was the important passenger and the man at the wheel her chauffeur. She was elegantly dressed and seemed so posh that I was surprised as I saw her open her door and step out of the car. It seemed to be something below her dignity. She had a long black dress that had a high neck and long sleeves. She wore a small black hat and medium heel shoes. She walked up to me and looked at me. I felt terribly naked in front of her. I didn't dare to speak.

She stared at me but did not speak. She made a gesture with her hand and the man stepped out of the car and walked up to her.

'Get the tool!' she snapped at him and I saw him walk to the boot of the car with a strange smile on his face. The woman continued staring at me. I thought it inappropriate to stare back so I lowered my gaze feeling myself inferior to this beautiful woman.

I saw the man returning with something in his hand which he gave to the woman. It was a long black wooden handle with some three or four leather strands hanging from one end. The strands or strings had knots on them and with a freezing sensation I realised that it was a kind of whip. The word punishment in the note became frighteningly real at that moment.

'Put your hands on the bonnet!' the woman ordered me. There was no option for me but obeying. I walked over to the big black car and put my hands on the bonnet. It was still warm.

I heard a movement behind me and the man suddenly stood close to me. I would have anticipated it but I was taken by surprise as I felt him gently grab my bikini bottom and slide it down my thighs. My heart started pounding as I heard the woman moving closer to me.

She wasted no time. I heard a hissing sound behind me and then a loud crack. My dazed mind realised that it was the whip and the sound of it hitting my tender flesh. The pain entered my mind after that. I imagined a white hot iron bar pressed against my buttocks. I held my breath.

I heard the whip hissing through the air again and had time to feel my heart stop in anticipation of the impact. The sound was brutal and the pain was beyond description.

She gave me six more lashes and I was shaking like a leaf as she was finished. My bottom was on fire and my mind was in turmoil. I had been beaten and I couldn't understand it. I hadn't screamed but I felt tears in my eyes.

I didn't dare removing my hands from the bonnet or pulling up my bikini bottom that hung around my knees. I waited in my position. I heard a sound that may have been the snap of fingers. Soon I felt the presence of the man right behind me. He moved close to me and soon I felt his body touching mine from behind. It was almost as an embrace and for a split second I felt a kind of comfort from that but my mind brought me back to reality.

I felt his hands fiddling with something below my buttocks and my heart almost stopped as I felt something soft but still cold pressed against my bottom. He directed his sex into me from behind and when he was in place I felt his hands on my hips. With the sound of my heart pounding in my ears I realised that I was being taken. I felt his sex penetrating me from behind. It didn't hurt but I was overwhelmed by the sheer force of it. I didn't dare moving my hands from the bonnet but kept in place as I felt him moving inside me.

I wanted to cry out but the silence of the man and the elegant woman made this seem extremely inappropriate. I endured his penetration in silence. He pumped in me and soon he came closer to the end. I was overwhelmed but not aroused and found the whole thing nothing but degrading and humiliating.

He came inside me and soon withdrew. I was still standing with my hands on the bonnet of the black car while my body was shaking.

'Get in the car!' the woman ordered.

I straightened my back and reached down and pulled up my bikini bottom. I was relieved to be, at least, partly dressed again. The woman had returned to the car and she had opened the left back door from inside and I stepped into the car and sat down.

The leather seat felt cold and strange against the whipped skin of my bottom, barely covered in my bikini. I felt naked against the seat and in the car and especially beside the elegantly clad woman.

As we drove off my heart started to beat slower and I took a deep breath.

'Where are you taking me?' I dared ask with a thin voice.

'You are to be punished,' the woman answered without even looking at me.

'Why am I being punished?' I asked.

She didn't answer.

It Is Not Real...

I had planned to put a story up on my blog but that will have to wait. Today I want to tell you about my second life, in Second Life (SL). I have done it before but it is not often and far between times. I will tell you a little about me in SL. In that virtual world I am Janice Aldwych, also called Pipit. As you may have figured out I am a spanko and quite submissive.

Yesterday I broke up with my mistress in SL. We had been together for five months but for four days. That is quite a long time in SL, as I understand it. I took the step. I decided to leave and return my collar. That is how it is done. I felt we couldn't communicate the way I needed. I still love her and care for her and I think it was me rather than her that couldn't cope. She accepted it with grace and we are still friends. I am proud of her.

That which I want to tell you is that I am very sad now. It is strange how a virtual world can affect you...or me, at least. I think of it as a book or a film I co-write with all the other inhabitants of SL and a good book or film may move you to tears. Maybe it isn't so strange to be affected, after all.

Part of me regret leaving my mistress. I have been immensely proud of wearing her collar. It has been the most precious thing. Anyone who have read my earlier posts knows that I had a secondary owner too and returning their collar means I am not hers any more, either.

I feel naked now, without their collar. I feel lost and abandoned but I am my own now. I may find another mistress, in fact there is someone who has volunteered but we will see what happens.

I feel I am overly dramatic about this and I don't expect anyone to understand how it can affect me this way. Still I was close to tears yesterday and I am sad now as I write this. It is the end of an era and it hurts, even if that era was a virtual one.

Thank you for reading, dear Reader.

A Century

This is my century entry in my blog. My first entry was on 24 November, 2006, so I have achieved this within less than a year. Not that it means anything but I am, still, quite proud.

I began this blog in order to allow myself a space to talk about my fantasies. I felt that I needed and wanted a place for that. I decided to stay fairly hidden, thinking that it made it easier for me to talk freely. I think that has worked out well. I have been very honest with you and talked about my fantasies, shared my stories and tried to be honest about what motivates me.

It has been great. You have been great, dear Readers. The blog has turned, more and more, into a stories blog but that is not so bad. Stories and fantasies are all the same in the end. You have been very supportive and told me a lot of nice things. It boosts my confidence and now I think I have some talent for writing. Don't get me wrong! I am not as arrogant and big headed that I think I can't improve. I know there is a lot to learn, lots.

I have been honest and written the stories I wanted to read, the stories that interest me and excite me. I suppose not everyone who passes by enjoys my stories but they have been kind enough to just leave and not comment. I do like some of the things I have put here in my blog. I think I have managed to capture something of what I wanted to express. That is, really, what matters to me.

It has been a journey and I am not done yet. I am not there yet and perhaps I will never be done. I will keep on blogging and we will see for how long. I still enjoy it and I still enjoy hearing from you. Thanks, dear Reader, for reading. It means the world to me. I am very happy to have you out there, reading what I am writing, listening to my stories and rants. Thank you!!

By the way, for those who wonder what the literary reference was in my story The Rug. I can tell you that it was from Heart of Darkness by the spiffing author Joseph Conrad. In that book, the main character, the narrator, travels up a river (although the book never discloses what river it is, everyone assumes it is the Congo) to bring a man, the almost mythical Kurtz, back to civilisation. He gets him on the boat but while returning Kurtz dies and his last words are: The horror! The horror! It was a very flippant reference since there were no other connection but the words.

So let me just thank you, once again, dear Readers for reading.