Just About...

Some people have made the assumption that I have stopped writing for the blog. I hope that is not the case, although I know my posts have been few and far between, lately. The urge to write down and share my fantasies are not as powerful as before. Maybe it has worked, in the sense that some of the demons are gone. Still I enjoy writing. It's just that I more seldom, these, days, sit down and write something that would work on the blog.

It is strange, I still see the blog as a labour of love and it has meant so much for me. Maybe I should try something else, try to find new ways for it, make it meaningful and worthwhile in some new and interesting way? As always, I am open for suggestions, and I am happy discussing things related to fantasies and imagination and that sort of thing. Communication has always been at the core for me.

I do believe the odd story will still appear here, but if you talk to me, suggest things, debate and discuss with me, maybe this could be something good. What do you, my dear Reader, want to read and see here, what do you want to discuss? What's on your mind?

The Park

Do I still love him? Of course I do. Why shouldn't I still love him? Yes, I know, what he did was unforgivable. It's not easy forgiving something unforgivable. You just have to...accept it.

What happened? I don't really want to talk about it, but I guess everyone knows about it anyway, so I will brace myself and tell the story.

It happened in the park, not long ago. It was a glorious day and there were plenty of people out and about. It wasn't exactly a milling throng, but it would be wrong to say it was deserted, far from it.

We were walking along a path, like any couple, that day. The sun was hot and the lawns were littered with people sunbathing and enjoying themselves.

We were having an argument. It doesn't matter what we were arguing about, but he was wrong and still is wrong. This latter fact doesn't exactly make it any easier.

The debate was quite heated, we are both passionate people who don't easily step down from our positions.

I think he knew he was losing the argument, because he began to use other means to get the upper hand, hinting that I didn't know what I was talking about, and telling me that I should know better. In the end he said that he should really take me over his knee and spank me.

My reaction was natural, I simply laughed at him.

It was then it happened. He stopped. Without any warning he grabbed my arm and dragged me along to a bench near by. Before I knew it, he was sitting on the bench and I was draped across his lap.

This he accomplished with not much effort. He is a strong and powerful man after all, a real delight to look upon. My strength is not much in comparison. Compared to him, I am tiny.

I don't know if the passers by thought much of what he did, but when he, without further ado, began smacking my bottom, I saw that they took notice.

He used only his hand but I knew he was angry. I had to admit that I yelped. It was not one of my most glorious moments. The fact was that it hurt. But I was to overcome by the suddenness of his actions and the firm impact of his hand, to say or do anything. But yelping.

After the first shock, I looked up and saw that more than one curious onlooker had their eyes fixed on us. I was taken by rage and began telling him what I thought.

'You can't bloody...you brute...it bleeding hurts, you son of a dirty armadillo.' Or something along those lines.

He was upset, I could hear that. He was panting his replies.

'Long overdue...you really need this...bloody know it all....'

Suddenly he stopped. I thought that his sudden anger had passed and it was now over. I saw that people were looking and I considered just sneaking away, instead of standing up and giving him a piece of my mind.

I don't know if he is a performer at heart, or if he just didn't care. The presence of our audience didn't dissuade him. Not at all.

Instead he decided that the indignity of my present position wasn't enough.

Funny how you notice small details in such situations. There was no crowd around us, but I saw that some people had stopped some distance away and pretended to enjoy the sun. Now they couldn't help turning the heads towards us. Or raise their eyebrows.

He turned up my skirt and gave me a couple of hard swats on my bottom. Since I had hoped it was all over, this came as some surprise, and I yelped again. He didn't continue for long. Instead he took hold of my knickers and yanked them down. In his fury he pulled them down to my knees, making sure they wouldn't interfere with his further actions.

Then he began again. I did feel his hand connecting to my bottom more acutely now, but I can't tell if this effect was worse than the humiliation of it all.

The fact that I now was lying with my bottom bared, getting it smacked, seemed to have changed the setting of the scene. Some kind of boundary was crossed, because now the onlookers seemed to feel more free to watch. It was as if the scene had gone from a domestic row, something that shouldn't really be enjoyed in public, to something unusual and weird, something you could be excused for desiring to watch.

His smacking was, perhaps, not as hard and angry as before, but the determination and the consistency with which it was performed made the whole thing quite unbearable.

The indignity receded into the background only to leave the centre stage to the burning pain. I was squirming at this point, no longer able to curse, only to whimper and gasp.

The crowd grew steadily and came closer. I guess they wanted to take a good look at us, at me and my now, without out doubt, reddened bottom.

Generally they were nodding and smiling and no one seemed to be too upset. No one decided to be my champion and try to rescue me.

He is a big fellow, that is true, but they were many and he couldn't have fought them all. The truth is that they enjoyed it too much

I could have understand if they crowd had consisted of his friends, the rowdy crowd that thought I had snatched him from them, and had made him into something less manly than they aspired to. Their view of manliness is not a pleasant one, I can tell you. Anyway, I could have understood if they wanted to see me getting spanked, but these were ordinary people, of all ages. Some of them far too young to be allowed to watch.

Then it took a turn for the worse. A well dressed, quite young man, approached us.

'Excuse me,' he said and cleared his throat.

My man stopped what he was doing and looked at him.

'Your hand must be sore,' the stranger said.

I was too relieved that the spanking had stopped to explain to this man that if something was sore it wasn't the hand that was spanking me. But before I could express my disappointment in his assessment of the situation, he continued:

'You should use this, instead.' With this he handed over a switch he most likely, and against regulations, had cut from one of the trees in the park.

'Thank you,' my man said and took the switch.

'You are welcome,' the other man said and nodded friendly.

Then it began again. My bottom was already sorely affected by the lengthy spanking I had received, but now it continued, this time with the help of a sturdy and supple switch.

Words failed me. I think I must have struggled quite a lot, because I noticed how my legs were locked under his leg and my arm was bent behind my back and was held fast. I had no means of escaping and for some reason I had decided that protesting only added to my humiliation. Still I couldn't endure the switch without a sound.

The impact was sharper and more poignant and to use the word unbearable wasn't wrong. He whipped me good and to my shame I had to admit that I was crying.

After a while I noticed a certain slacking of the pace and knowing my man I was sure he began to feel that it was enough. Not that it stopped him from keeping on for a good while, but I was right. My spanking was nearing its end.

He stopped short for a moment, then he gave me he a series of really hard quick licks with the switch, and I had no option but crying out loud.

Then it was over. He threw away the switch. For a moment there was silence. Then the crowd began to clap their hands. The bastards thought it was some kind of entertainment.

I don't exactly remember what happened next. I scrambled to my feet and noticed that I had no knickers to pull up. They must have fallen off during my ordeal. We hurried away from the crowd and I was more than happy to leave.

Soon afterwards everyone knew about it. As I said, this is nothing I really want to talk about, but since it is no secret, I have chosen to tell the story in my words. The fact that there was a picture in the local newspaper and two columns of text describing the event, didn't make it easier to pretend it never happened.

Do I hate him for it? I should. He is a bastard and he was wrong. No, I don't hate him. I love him. How could I not love him?

I told him what I thought about his actions and we had a row about it. This time there was a compromise. He didn't give in to my demand never to spank me again, on the contrary, he promised to do it more often, 'every time I need it'. But he promised not to do it in public, at least not as public as this time.

A Place of One's Own

At the very end of this month, I will present you with a lovely little piece by someone I have known for some time, through my blog. I have the permission to post it although I don't know what to call the author. They will have to get back to me to let me know. At the moment they are just Anonymous.

This is not, as you will see, a story about whipping and slavery. This is a story about devotion and determination. It is also, I believe, a story about pride. Anonymous mentioned Jane Eyre in our conversation about this story and I didn't understand. The more I think about it, the more I believe it really has to do with pride. And the thought of Jane Eyre makes sense then.

I think this is a really beautiful story and I am proud to be able to put it on the blog. Read and enjoy.

With much bowing and murmuring, they brought my new slave girl to me. She was a small thing, thin-boned, high tight bosom, slim hips. Everything about her was tiny, in fact, except her darting almond eyes and full lips. Rather plain, I thought. Quite unlike the ripe beauties who waited, each evening, for the golden apple that summoned one or two, or ten, to revels and games in my bedchamber.

My eunuch detected my indifference to her. "She will serve you well," he said. "She is obedient and clever. She has been trained in all the arts. She can dance and sing and ... of course..."

"No doubt," I replied. "Leave us."

"Nearer, girl." She stepped forward on slim, long-toed feet. "Kneel." She sank down smoothly, eyes slightly downcast. Her training, no doubt.

"What," I asked, "do you do best?"

She paused. "My Master will learn, and perhaps tell me."

"The proper answer," I said sternly, "is that the thing you do best is to serve me."

She nodded.

"And will you serve me?"

"Oh yes," she said, "yes."

"And how will you serve me?"

"By being for you what no one else will be. By doing for you what none else would do."

I shook my head. "You'll have to better than that. My slaves do what I tell them, always. They become whatever I require."

"I offer more..." she whispered, head still lowered. "More than that."

Her vanity amused me, momentarily. I would test that vanity, I thought. I shall let her observe me with my favorites -- let her see these exquisite girls, so much lovelier than she, give a man everything he could dream of. Let her watch, and find herself untouched, unseen, unnoticed in our frenzy. Let her ache.

"No doubt," I replied. I sipped my wine, planning.

"Master," she said quietly. A statement, not a question. "Yes?" "Master may I ask a question?"

Surely she knew better. But I was amused enough to say, gravely, "You may ask a question."

"Your servants told me that you punish slaves who disobey you."

"Of course."

"They told me that your arm is strong, your whip cruel."

"Why would you ask such a question? Are you afraid of being whipped?"

"No," she replied. "I am not afraid..."

"Perhaps you should be." My voice was cold.

"But they said... they said..."

"What? What did they say? Speak up."

"They said that if I obey you I would not be punished."

At last I understood. "They speak truly, little slave girl. Obey me and you will not be punished. Obey and you need not fear my strong arm or my cruel whip."

She nodded.

"Now leave," I ordered, "until you are summoned."

I turned to the window, savoring the tart wine, watching the sun set. Then I rose. She was still there, kneeling.

"I told you to go," I said, my voice all menace. I expected her to flee. She remained, still kneeling.

"Leave, I tell you." She said nothing. "Are you deaf?" I thundered. "Leave!"

She stood now, feet apart, gazing into my eyes, silent.

"So be it." I strode to the wall, where the whiplash hung on a peg. I snapped it. She jumped, but held her ground.

So be it.

I took her two little wrists in one hand and pulled her into the antechamber. She moaned when she saw the hook in the ceiling. She resisted with her little strength as I bound her small hands and secured them over her head.

I clapped three times. My servants rushed in, then stopped short as they saw her, helpless, awaiting punishment. "Watch and learn," I told them. I ripped open her tunic, baring her back. I pulled it down, exposing her bottom. I leaned close to her. "As for you -- FEEL and learn."

I stroked her back with the long whip. Her breath was fast, her eyes closed.

She endured the first lashes in silence. I stood farther off, bringing the whip to play over her maiden breasts. Now she danced and sang.

I struck harder. I used all my cunning to time her stripes. She hung in her bonds, exhausted, overawed. I struck between her legs and she rose up again, shrieking piteously.

I could feel every nerve in my body, feel my strength coursing through me. I felt... I felt pleasure at teaching this sylph a lesson in long, hissing strokes.

"Leave us now." The servants backed away quickly. As obedient as they had been, as eager to please, they would now be abject, driven, unrestrained in their duties. I imagined my buxom lovelies -- how industrious they would be tonight, how creative, how artful, how abandoned...

I held her pretty face in my hands. Her ... pretty face. Pretty? How odd.

And then a thought.

I took a dipper of water from the jar and held it to her lips. Still sobbing, she drank greedily. I gave her another drink of water, and another. I could see how the blinding agony of her flogging was receding just a bit, to a dull, more distant pain. How her dread and fear and humiliation were giving way to exhaustion and oblivion.

"No," I said. "You may not sleep, not yet."

"Then I shall not," she whispered.

"You fool," I said, "why did you disobey me?"

She shook her head. "No..."

"I ordered you to leave, and you defied me. Why would you disobey me, knowing what would come?

She was still shaking her head. "Ssss...." She couldn't get the word out.

"What are you trying to say? 'Sir,,' is that it?"

"No," she murmured.

"Say it. Say it now. What were you trying to do, in my chambers, when you defied me?

"Sss... serve...serving you... master..."

"What?" I sputtered. "Serving me? How?"

The words came slowly. I ladled more water into her parched mouth. "Giving you....the one thing," she whispered. "That ... no ... one... else would do for ... you."

"Giving me disobedience? Defying me?"

She nodded. Her reedy voice was stronger now. "I told you I was not afraid of the lash. Plain girls must be fearless."

"Go on." I stroked her cheek.

"Everyone is so terrified of my master. Too terrified to ever..."

"Disobey me?"

"To give you leave to whip them. Too terrified to give you what you truly need, as a man, as their master. Selfish slaves. All they offer is their beautiful pampered bodies, their perfect, skilled caresses."

I nodded.

"I gave you that. I am not beautiful..."

"Shhh," I whispered, feeling suddenly tender. "Hush, slave. You are beautiful."

"No," she replied sadly. "They are great beauties, your many women, your harem, your slaves. But plain as I am..."

She paused. "Plain as I am, I have found a place."

I released her. She slumped to the floor.


I had my six girls that night. I took my pleasure from them roughly, imperiously. I grabbed, I sucked, I bit their perfect breasts. I plunged into their mouths, their cunts, their bottoms. They groaned and endured.

A week later, I took the little slave girl to my bed. I used her a bit roughly, marveling at the fading weals. "Serve me..." She was generous and graceful then, as in all things. But she was still ...

As I lay back, she knelt by the bed. "Next week, master..."

"Time will tell."

"Next week," she said, insistently.

"Next week, what?"

"Next week I shall be... strong enough to disobey you again."

I nodded. "So you say. But the second offense merits harsher punishment than the first. Think on that."

She thought.

"It is my place, to serve and not obey."

Authorities

I have noticed a certain reluctance among people who declare their interest in anything kinky, for explaining or understanding the interest. I can understand that this has to do with a refusal to be regarded as deviant or, even worse, perverse. We know that kinky people are like any people; jealous, petty, evil, loving, nice, caring, cautious, intelligent and generally wonderful.

If you, like me, are blessed and cursed with an enquiring mind, you can't help asking the questions. Why? And how? What's behind it? And that is not confined to kink. Most things pose questions, make you wonder.

I thought I would share a thought that is very personal and maybe an answer to some of the whys of my imagination.

Tying people up, stripping off their clothes, and whipping them have a lot to do with power, the uneven distribution of power. This leads me to think of authorities. We have all been faced with people with power, teachers, parents, coaches, clerks and officials.

Our experiences of people with authority may be varied. Except my parents and a few others I have always been suspicious of authorities, scared of people with power, and especially if they have power over me.

I didn't grow up in a time when those people had the power to deal out the kind of punishments I so happily include in my fantasies. But I have always been aware of being quite powerless before some of those people.

In addition I have a history of disappointments in authorities, of teachers who taught me things I knew were wrong, and who wasn't adult enough to admit it, and the arbitrariness of some of them. I would have loved to have had a good teacher, one I could trust and whom I believed was right, who was able to teach me something of the world, about living in it.

The very thought that one of those people would have been given the power to punish me with, for example, a spanking, is terrifying. I could think of few things as humiliating and abhorrent. There is not even the slightest fascination in it, the idea is really terrible.

So, there is it, a person with a profound distrust for authorities, and a similarly overwhelming dislike for the idea that they should be given any power over her. And yet this person is obsessed with punishments and the unfairness of it all, the very difference in power between people.

Could it be that fantasies are, somehow, fuelled by the unfairness of childhood, the fear of humiliation and that sense of helplessness, and that one way of dealing with it, is to take control over them and approach them in an environment where they can do no harm, any more? To turn it into something good, something you enjoy?

Some people seem to have similar experiences but take another path, they want to be the ruler, the one who punishes and decides. It seems logical. I still struggle with the fact that I tend to go there on another path, let myself be humiliated and punished. I am still not sure why I so want it in my imagination.

Some Kind of Cruelty?

This is a little something I wrote some time ago. I guess this is how I write, more about what happens in the mind than with the body.

And I have to say that I find your interpretations of the last post interesting. I thought I left some of the things unsaid, so a different kind of interpretation is quite possible.

This is madness. This day is ruined. My mind is in turmoil, I can't concentrate. I need to focus, I need my faculties. I have a job to do and I need to be here.

He ruined it yesterday. I didn't sleep well. How could I? He is an evil man. He knows my day will be horrible.

He sent me an SMS. Very modern. It is just like him, a combination of extremes; medieval mind and a 21st century knowledge of technology.

'Tomorrow 8 be ready!' That was what he sent me. I knew I had something coming, that was not the surprise. Still my heart started beating, and have kept on beating really hard ever since. Those two words: 'be ready,' made all the difference. It means it will be severe.

My day is ruined, I can't concentrate on my job, my colleagues thinks I am unhappy or mad and I can't talk to anyone about it, not even my best friends at the office. They would probably fall off their chairs if I told them I was nervous for a punishment.

And we are going out after work. I know they will ask about me, how I am and all that. I can't tell them. They won't understand. How could they possibly understand?

'You see, this guy, I am with, he punishes me when I am doing something wrong.' How would they react to that? They would call the police, demand I went for counselling.

He should really pay my boss for sending me an SMS like that. I am not very efficient at work today. I can't get it out of my head. All I can think of is this punishment.

He knows what he is doing. He knows exactly how I will react, he knows very well that he will ruin my sleep and my day. He wants it. He wants me to feel like this. Oh, I wish it was evening, I want it over and done with.

Waiting for a punishment is like waiting for the dentist. No, it is worse. The dentist at least tries to minimise my suffering. A punishment is the opposite. He wants me to suffer. He wants it to be bad.

'Be ready' means it will be a hard one, a lot of suffering for me, a severe punishment. I can't keep my mind from wondering, what will it be?

Severe may mean a long one or it may be with something really painful. Or it may mean both. He has this really heavy paddle, as he calls it. It is really mean. The weight of it makes it terrible. It really, really hurts.

I don't want to think about it. I am at work and my colleagues will wonder what is on my mind. Still, I can't get the thought of the dreaded paddle out of my head.

He has used a bamboo stick too. That is not nice. It is supposed to be dangerous, it may split and you may cut yourself, or rather he may cut me. But he is careful about those things. I trust him. The bamboo stick is really, really painful. There is a kind of raw power in it.

But it is supposed to hurt. I am supposed to be in pain. It is a punishment after all. I don't like it but I am not supposed to like it.

It is such a contradiction, sitting in this office, being a professional, being good at what I am, being among my peers, polite and nice and well behaved. And knowing that this evening I will lie or kneel somewhere in some kind of state of undress. I don't know exactly how I will be dressed but I am sure I will not be wearing knickers. I will have bared myself and I will receive my punishment. On my body.

It is madness. I know it is madness to let someone punish you, to let someone decide those things, let someone choose to give you pain. It is madness, especially if you are so scared, as I am. I know I am mad.

'Dear colleagues, your fellow worker, who is sitting among you will this evening go to her partner's flat, and there she will submit herself to this cruel and painful punishment for which she will bare her body in order to make it more painful.' I can't possibly tell them why I look so nervous. They would lock me up, if I did.

Because, I can't make them understand that I want this. How could they understand that there is mutual understanding in this? How could they understand that I have given him this right, this right to rule over me and my body, given myself over to him? How could I explain that although I am scared witless by the thought of my punishment, I do, really want him to have that power over me and that giving him that power means he will use it. It would be pointless if he didn't.

How could I tell them I want it?

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?