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."

Dashed Off

Another guest post. This time by the one and only Wystan E. I didn't know what to call this story so I took the subject heading of the email it was sent in. I think it refers to the way this story was written. I liked it, so I put it as the title.

Maybe I am lazy putting stories by others here, but since they are good, you shouldn't mind. And, besides, I am sure you have plenty of ideas how to deal with my laziness. Read and enjoy.

She was a dancer who never danced. A singer who never sang. A poetess who never spoke, or wrote.

By 'never,' I mean, 'anymore.'

She was a genius who now kept her thoughts to herself: Running commentaries on events; ideas for gadgets; advice for friends; stock tips; expressions of love, or hatred, all repressed, shut inside.

She laughed (when she laughed) as if she were stifling a sneeze. Half embarrassed, half annoyed with herself.

Living the Life Interior.

And suddenly, she became mine, all mine. You may wonder and guess how and why this came about – but you will wonder in vain, and guess wrong. Simply take my word that this treasure was suddenly mine to … to spend as I would. No, not to spend – to invest in…

She was predictably stubborn at first.

'Dance.'

'I cannot.'

Well, I had seen her on stage, years ago, light and lithe. Dancing en pointe. So I placed her on point – you take my meaning, do you not? – and induced her to dance for me. On this occasion, with the same … incentive … she also sang.

Mind you, this was not ballet or opera – nor hip-hop or pop -- but her movements were graceful, her voice pure, real.

'I told you that you could dance,' I said. Her head was bowed, her hair tangled, her face wet with perspiration. 'Yes,' she replied. Her voice was a bit hoarse. 'Dance some more,' I commanded her, 'For yourself.' She shook her head 'no.' So she danced instead to my tune, sang to it.

The next day, more of the same. Her dance was more frantic, her song more urgent, more plaintive. I applauded, then spoke gently to her. 'You are exhausted, my dear.' (Indeed, she was gasping for breath, her face red, her body trembling.) 'But I require an encore. Freely given or …'

And this time, she nodded wearily (warily), 'yes.' She danced about the room for me, still naked, a bit stiffly, but she danced. A dance of captivity, of distress, of longing. But a dance…. Her song still had no words, none that I recognized, but it was tuneful. She stared at me as she sang. The song expressed anger, promised revenge. I was satisfied.

The third day she agreed to dance. She pirouetted, then sprang for the door. As if I would not have anticipated… So this time she danced on air, her legs kicking …

Later, she performed other dances. Some on her back, some on hands and knees. She intoned new songs, some wrung from her, some spontaneous, some from the heart, some from other places…

Words came harder from her. At first, she simply snapped the pencils in half. 'You are a bit old,' I observed, 'for such schoolgirl pranks.' She pouted prettily. 'But as you will play the schoolgirl, I will play the headmaster.' She knew the 'position.' Assumed it. Ten minutes later, I handed the pencil back to my chastened pupil.

So she wrote. Nonsense, doodles, runes. I was satisfied. Marks on paper…

The very next day, after sharpening her pencil, she sprung at me, wooden dagger in hand. I can’t say I was surprised, except by her speed and strength. But in the end I prevailed. Or rather, the shackles gave me an unfair advantage.

I did not punish this last attempt (for it was indeed the last). I expected her to test the bars of her cage, of her invisible fence. I wanted her to push the limits, to see cause and effect.

And as she sang, wrote, read, danced – felt – lived -- again, she changed. By now the doors were unlocked. I felt free to turn my back on her. I made no new demands. I did not need to. She was pursuing excellence again.

I told her, one fine Wednesday, that my task was complete, my job done.

'Not yet,' she said. She ran to the cabinet, and returned, bearing a whip, a rope, a wooden ruler, a candle. I nodded. 'No.' I placed them in her bag, the small one she’d brought with her. 'I’m not ready,' she insisted. 'I can’t… out there.'

I patted her on the cheek, turned and walked away. I felt the bag – and it was heavy – hit me in the back. She’d flung it at me. I turned and slid it back to her.

'Lock the door on your way out.'

Later, when I checked, she was gone. She’d locked the door, as I’d told her.

Still later, I found she’d taken the spare set of keys.

Once in a great while, I find things disturbed a bit, a chair moved, or a tabled neatened. Sometimes I find a new picture on the wall, a new poem on my desk.

Yesterday, I heard her voice. In a cab. On the radio

But I have not seen her since.

Who She Is

This arrived in my mailbox, written by someone who wants to remain anonymous. I was fascinated, as you can imagine, and with permission I put it here on the blog for you to read.

As I read it I thought it looked familiar and there is a very good reason for that. I wrote part of it. This is a comment, counterpart, compliment or fleshing out of my story Who Am I?.

It is absolutely amazing to see your own story, or rather your own text, transformed into a story, like this, put in a context you hadn't intended. I can tell you that I had something completely different in mind writing it, but this is very good and very well written and I try to be true to my words that a story belongs to the reader when it is read. I welcome and embrace interpretations of what I write. If someone ask me, I will try to tell them what I was thinking when I wrote it but that doesn't mean any other views are wrong. I am surprised how differently people see stories.

For me this story changes my own text, quite a lot, but it doesn't matter, I like it all the same and it makes me think and realise how the original was read.

Oops, now I go on about myself, again. I really wanted to share this little gem with you and at the same time say a great big thank you to the one writing it, for letting me post it.

I had seen her on campus many times. She was sweet. She was sweet in all senses of the word. Her body was small, her limbs slender and delicate. In the spring she wore dresses so fragile a gentle wind would press the fabric against the front of her body, and I would shamelessly observe the contour of her waist...her hip bones were like hills beside the sloping valley between...the little mound on her belly. Behind her knees the dress would flutter as she walked, and I imagined it would simply fly off, leaving her delicate body entirely exposed in the middle of the large grassy field.

My wandering eyes were attracted to an awful lot of girls at that time, and I confess that I enthusiastically observed them all. I had a thirst for variety, and would follow the various lines from their shoulders to their toes, digesting the shape of their breasts and behind. I learned that I was a hopeless admirer of the female form, but would usually pull my eyes away as they turned in my direction. I was afraid they would think I was a pervert. It was true, my thoughts were wicked and detestable as I drank. I was ashamed. Yet, with her, nothing could part my eyes. Whether she noticed or not, God help me, they were fused to every square inch of her like warm syrup over pancakes.

Her skin was smooth, her belly was soft and smooth and flat. It curved from her midriff down over her lower belly to the valley between her thighs and in its centre there is her belly button, a sweet but shallow hole.

Her hips were narrow but her body still possessed the right curves, the roundness that makes it sweet and touchable, not square and hard. Her breasts were small and sweet, proud and round. They were like perky animals peeking out, sweet round mounds, crowned with her rosy nipples, small but lovely, and I fancied that sometimes they were as soft as her skin but sometimes hard as small pearls.

Her legs were soft and round, her thighs were slender but still with the softness, that roundness that is unmistakably female. Her feet were rosy and untouched and unconfined. They were vulnerable and helpless, still they were what she walked on, what makes her move in the world.

It was her feet I would observe first as she appeared. I would be seated alone on a bench, waiting for her as she turned the corner. The first time she passed, our eyes met briefly and then she looked straight ahead as I continued to admire her neck, shoulders, and breasts. By the time she was in front of me I assaulted her belly and hips, and imbibed upon her backside as she continued and finally slipped out of view. The second day she looked straight ahead as I remained focused on her, following each delicate movement of her body. This persisted the following day, and the next, and the next... Each time her eyes remained straight ahead, as if she didn't notice my observations. She was consistent. She never used the other door, which was just as convenient for her route. And, she never looked back after she passed, but innocently placed her left hand on her side for a moment. She placed her hand there every day, and at the exact same number of steps after she passed me, which was 8...

Her shoulders were narrow but soft and her arms slender and delicate, her hands were the sweetest things you have seen, with those fingers that can touch with curiosity and gentleness.

Her neck was slender and her face was pretty. She had that kind of face that makes you want to protect her, vulnerable and innocent but also curious and alive. Her eyes were big and her nose was small. She may even have had some freckles, just a hint of them on the back of her nose. Her hair is not long not short, auburn or perhaps red, maybe reddish.

She was the kind of person I wanted to protect, the kind that would seem to break in contact with the harsh world. She was the girl I wanted to hold and comfort, to keep and protect, because she was so vulnerable.

I knew she was intensely vulnerable, fragile and delicate. Perhaps that is why her subtle consent consumed and empowered me. She wanted me to drink her flesh as she walked by. She encouraged me to undress her with my eyes, tearing her clothes off as they fluttered away in a gust of wind. I was calm as I observed her, although she captivated my imagination with such intensity that I feared I might lose control. I wanted to touch her. Somehow I knew that by touching her I would be touched by that magic she had. The magic I wanted.

Her eyes told me of something else too. They would not look in my direction as she passed, but that did not stop me from admiring them. They were not just vulnerable and sweet, they were curious and hungry too. They spoke of something else, they spoke of a kind of desire that is not just innocent and gentle.

She was the kind of girl I didn't just want to protect but the kind I wanted to have, as well. Her body was the kind of body I want to touch. She was the kind of person whose clothes I wanted to rip away and whose body I wanted to expose and look at, ogle and stare at.

That hand touching the side of her leg was enough to invoke a ravenous beast within, scratching and crawling inside. It wanted to get out. It growled for me to subdue her.

She was like a sweet, wrapped in paper. Her clothes were like the paper around the sweet and I couldn't wait to unwrap it. She was not desirable because she dressed in a certain way, it was not the paper that made me want to eat the sweet, it was what I knew is underneath it, what I saw peeking through.

Each day as she sweetly passed I wanted to intercept her as she approached so we were standing face-to-face. I would not say a word, but quietly look upon her, knowing I had complete control...knowing that she could not escape from me, and that I was in command. She would look at my chest and arms and experience the degree of her vulnerability. I was much stronger and faster than she. I would overwhelm her delicate frame, inches from her feathery figure. I knew all of this was in my power anyway, but I wanted, needed her to know it. I wanted her to feel that she was in my possession, if I chose to take her.

She was beautiful and perfect in every sense of the word. She was desirable for her sweetness and her youth, for her smooth skin and her soft body, for her sparkling life and for her delicate limbs and her perky breasts. In my mind she was already in her knickers and I could see for my inner eye how the fabric clung to her bottom. I could imagine her breasts under her top and my hand moving towards them. I thought how lovely it would be when my fingers touched those mounds.

I didn't just want to touch and caress and embrace. No, I want to have. I wanted to have her and take her. I wanted to undress her, rip the clothes from her body. I imagined she would protest, say no and despise me but that only made me want to do it more.

She appeared one day in the most delicate floral dress of an abbreviated length. It was like air surrounding her, and she approached me at her usual pace, looking straight ahead. She had never seemed more desirable and was free of any books or encumbrances. The fabric hung off her breasts like a bunched tablecloth sliding over the edge. Her hair fell over her eyes and grazed her shoulders as she walked. How could one glow with such malevolent perfection? She passed just a few feet in front of me as my eyes assaulted her graceful figure. I begged for mercy as she continued, and watched the pleats of her dress flirt with the skin of the back of her legs. At 6 steps her hand began to fall to her side as a shiver welled in my spine. By the 8th step her hand had traveled back farther than usual and I watched in slow motion as her fingers wrapped around the light fabric bunching it a bit. I was paralyzed as her hand moved slowly upward, pulling the material just enough to expose the bare crease of her bottom. It disappeared as quickly as it arrived.

I quickly emerged from my stupor, rose from the bench, and began to follow her. She did not look back, but began walking faster, as if she knew I was in pursuit. I increased my pace, fixated on the way her shoulders moved as she walked, the sway of her hips, the push off the balls of her feet. I was a predator stalking my prey. I would not allow her to rule over me, to taunt me without reprisal. I was not her victim. By the time she turned the corner and walked up the steps of her dorm I was close behind her, and walked through the dorm's front door a few seconds after her. She still hadn't looked back, but must have known I was in pursuit, and ran up the stairwell as fast as she could. I was faster and closing in as she tore down the hallway and then pushed the key into her dorm room, opening it and slipping through. As she pulled the door shut I barely slipped the toe of my shoe against the door frame, blocking the large wooden door. I pushed the door open, slipped through, and wrapped my hand around her mouth just as she began to scream. My other hand wrapped around her waist and I pulled her backside against mine, restraining her tightly as she squirmed.

She deserved what was coming. It was inevitable. For weeks she had abused me with her body. She had tormented me with every step and she knew it. She could have chosen another path. She could have walked behind the bench instead. No, she chose to walk directly in front of it. She chose to place her hand on her leg at the exact same point every time, as if to say "I know you are watching. I have the power here. I dominate the deepest portions of your mind and body. You are a slave to me." These thoughts ravaged my mind as she struggled in my arms. Her one free elbow struck backward, jabbing my side with moderate force. Of her assertions, I had proven her wrong each day by my complacency, silently enduring her playfulness. She would not be able to capture me or control me. But this...exposing her bare bottom to me...it was an insult. It was an intolerable offense with unstoppable repercussions. The beast lurking beneath my skin would not permit it.

I relaxed just enough to allow her to breath. I growled in her ear: "When I remove my hand you will stop screaming." After a moment she nodded hesitantly. I slowly removed my hand and brought it to my side. I also suddenly released her waist, allowing her to escape. She did not move, but stood silently in front of me. Rushing to the other side of the small room would be useless. She was at my mercy.

I placed my hands gently on her shoulders and turned her around so she was facing me. I looked into her glossy, pleading eyes, and saw desperation. I could not see her thoughts. I could not comprehend. I only knew my hand was gently moving to her neck, almost without my knowledge. She lifted her head as my fingers moved underneath her chin. I dragged them softly over her lips, and she did not respond, only stood, trembling slightly. She was breathing heavily, and her dress was moving up and down as her chest heaved. A mixture of fear, helplessness, and mysterious wonder filled her face, and I saw in her what I desired...vulnerability. I recognized that she was mine in every way, and I that I could not possibly want her more any other way. I did not want her consent. I wanted to take her without it. I required complete autonomous power over her every sense and thought.

My hands moved over her shoulders, which were bare other than two tiny strings. I pushed them to the side and her dress instantly fell to the floor, bunched at her feet. She was almost still, but recoiled in shock, trepidation, and embarrassment. She was impossibly fragile as my hands lightly moved back to the side of her arms. She was now wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of thong underwear.

"You may scream now if you wish."

She opened her mouth as if to scream, but was mute, my hands holding her shoulders gently. I took her nipples between my fingers and twisted gently as I looked into her eyes, which still appeared exasperated and bewildered. I began to explore her body, discovering the spoils of my hunt. Her skin was warm and impossibly soft. I did not know why she didn't scream, but somehow knew that she wouldn't. She looked at me as if she needed to tell me something, yearning to find the words. A tear fell down her cheek. It was useless. She could not control me with pathos either, and I looked at her sternly.

"You will do as you are told."

She nodded.

"Turn around and place your hands on the desk."

She turned and walked over to her desk, slowly placing her hands on the wood to either side of her computer keyboard.

I walked forward and stood directly behind her, then began to unbuckle my belt. I could see her legs subtly shaking.

"You are sweet, but I don't just want sweetness from you. I want more. I want to have you and take you despite what you want, do you understand?"

She hesitated and then nodded twice, quickly.

"Your youth and sweetness infuriates me, and I will punish you for it. do you understand?"

She nodded again similarly.

The tiny amount of fabric still clung to her body made me angry and anxious. I could think of nothing but pulling them down and smacking her bottom. Her bottom looked so sweet and innocent. I needed to spank it – hard. I needed to feel my hand smack into the soft skin and I wanted to feel how hard it was for her...how much she suffered. I wanted to hear her cry and plead. I wanted her to feel the power reign down over her...to rule her and feel my power on her body.

A smile or even a glance from her is a blessing for me, a gift I cherish. Still I want to punish her for that power she has over me, the power she has to smile to me or not to smile to me. The power she has to just walk by be, elicit these awful desires, and be gone. The power she has to make me feel old and lonely. Those are crimes that are unforgivable. Those are powers someone like her should not be allowed to have. She must be punished for it. She must be whipped and suffer for her youth and her sweetness and her power over me.

She is free. I control my life and I can and should get what I want. I cannot get her. She is free and I cannot get her unless she wants to give herself to me. That is a crime worthy of punishment, that is a wrong that should be set right.

"No," I decided. "This is not right."

I needed to take possession of her completely. I needed to be the one to decide, how and when she shall take her clothes off, how and when she shall please me with her body. I want to have that power over her and I have that power...

I growled, and pulled her panties down to the floor, then pulled off my socks and used them to tie her wrists to the wooden crossbeam of the lofted bed.

I put my belt on the desk and removed my shirt, then tied her right leg to a chair. I then removed my pants and tied her left leg to a small sofa.

"Someone as sweet as her should not be allowed to go free, should not be allowed to choose for herself. My power should be asserted. I should take possession of her."

I picked up my belt and wrapped it around her neck, then pulled it back and fed it through the buckle, pulling it taught against her neck. I pushed the pin though to hold it secure and then stood on a chair and tied the other end to a pipe that extended across the ceiling.

She is my slave. She stands before me, her body at my disposal. Her legs are spread, the path to her sex is clear. She is naked and everything is open and exposed and touchable and there for me. She has no say, she has no power and that is how I want it. She is a sweet, lovely body that is there for me, that is mine to do whatever I want with it.

But, she is already my captive, my slave, my possession. She is not just a body. She is my willing body. She is my happy slave because she wants to be my slave. And if she didn't want to be my willing slave I would demonstrate that she is. I wanted to hold the whip in my hand and she would be just like the horse at the circus, the animal I tell what to do, the animal I whip to submission, the animal that is rewarded if she does what she is told.

But I wanted even more. I wanted her enthusiasm and desire. I wanted her not just to dance for me, wait on me and touch me and satisfy me on command. I want her to want it too, I wanted her to desire it too, to long for it and be satisfied by it too. In my mind I wanted to know that she possessed that magic, that kind of power that not only overpowers me but also makes her desire it, desire me, the power that makes her happy and satisfied by being my slave.

I wanted her to resist me so I could defeat her and conquer her. I wanted to have to whip her to submission. But I also wanted her to see what a desirable creature I was and I wanted her to accept my power over her, to love my power over her. I wanted her to love and desire my need to whip her into submission.

I placed my hand gently on her bare bottom and could feel her trembling.

"I am going to spank you now."

I held my hand back and gave her a hard strike on her right cheek. She quivered, and shrieked just a bit. I delivered another strike, then another. The flesh rippled each time, and her utterances grew more controlled as I continued, even though I increased the force. I began to speak along with each strike...

"You...

are too...

sweet...

to not...

be punished..."

I only stopped when I could no longer bear the sight of her red bottom.

I stood still for several seconds behind her in silence.

I walked up behind her and placed my hands on her breasts. They were damp. My hands roved up her chest and over her face, which was also moist with tears. By now I was in nothing but my underwear, which pressed against her bottom. My hands returned to her breasts, cupping them gently.

I pressed my lips against her ear...

"You've been a very good girl. I am pleased..."

I untied both her legs to retrieve my jeans and shirt, then put them on. I removed the belt from her neck and wrapped it around my waist. I left my socks, knowing that she would be able to untie herself in time. I slipped into my shoes and walked out the door.

I sat on the bench the next day.

She appeared as she always did, and looked straight ahead.

She walked right in front of the bench.

My eyes were locked, as usual.

After 8 steps I watched her left hand descend slowly to her side, gently bunching the pleats of her skirt.

One Wise Woman

I got this story in the mail. It is written by Oxbridgeman, who, as it happens, is not at all from Oxbridge. It is a story of love and devotion, of a very special kind. Read and enjoy.

[6 January is Epiphany Day, the day when the Church commemorates the coming of the Wise Men to the baby Jesus, the One they adore above all, and bring Him the three gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Here is a story of one wise woman who also brings three gifts to the man she most adores in her life.]

He had chosen her. He loved her. He cherished her. He cared for her. He protected her. She loved him. She was pleased that he had pursued her and chosen her. And he was honorable and worthy of her adoration. So she chose to give herself to him. Soul and body. For she was a wise woman and knew that the greatest gift a woman can give to a man is herself. Totally and completely.

Tonight she would again show him that she wanted to be his, to belong to him. And so in her bedroom she had taken off all her clothes and put on a lovely short nightgown, plain with just a touch of lace and thin satin straps over her shoulders. It came down only to the tops of her thighs. She had used just a hint of make-up and had brushed her shoulder-length hair to a beautiful shine. She looked at herself and smiled slightly. She knew he would like this.

She was now ready to present herself to him. She was a little nervous as she picked up a long thin piece of cloth and started toward the sitting room. The tiles were cold on her bare feet and even though the house was warm her body seemed to feel the cold winter air from the outside and she shivered slightly. But that was fine. She would be warm in a moment.

In the sitting room he sat in a chair near the fireplace. The fire roaring in the fireplace warmed the cozy room chasing away the January chill. The cat was curled up on the chair where the woman of his life usually sat. He had the newspaper in his hand but he wasn't really reading it. He knew she was coming.

She walked into the room. They looked at each other but neither said a word. She walked over in front of him and knelt down before him, resting her bottom on her heels. She placed the piece of cloth beside her on the carpet. Her head slightly bowed, knees together, hands to the side, she stayed in the kneeling position while he drank in her beauty. The hem of her nightgown rested on the tops of her thighs. He loved that this intelligent, successful woman should think so much of him that she would voluntarily kneel at his feet. His heart overflowed with love for her. The cat stared at them then went back to her slumber as the man continued to gaze at the kneeling woman.

Finally she said, "I have some gifts for you." The wise woman presented her first gift. She pulled the nightgown over her head and laid it to one side thereby giving him her first gift, her nudity. She resumed her kneeling position only this time with her knees slightly parted so that he could see all. Nothing would be withheld from him. Once again he gazed at her from his chair. His soul was filled with passion and part of him wanted to reach out and pull her into him, but he waited for he knew there was more to come. The only sound that could be heard was the January wind blowing outside and fire crackling in the fireplace inside. The man and the woman were hardly aware of either.

After another few minutes, the wise woman offered her second gift to her man. She handed him the long thin cloth then put out her arms and crossed her wrists one over the other. He paused just briefly then proceeded to bind her hands together. He wrapped the thin piece of cloth around one wrist, then the other, knotted it, then wrapped both wrists together front to back, side to side and then knotted it again above her wrists. The cloth was soft but firm and the knot was away from her fingers. She was now naked and bound. She resumed her kneeling position with her bound hands in her lap. He was on fire with love and passion for her. She was his. And had she stopped here it would have been enough, but he knew there was yet more. He reached out and gently caressed the tips of her breasts. She felt a slight stirring as he did this, but she didn't move.

Finally, after many minutes had passed, she looked up at him for the first time since she had knelt before him. She was nervous and her voice was almost a whisper, but she summoned her courage and said, "Drawer." She then looked back down and he gazed at her for a long time. Finally, he lifted her face to him and smiled at her with love and assurance. He got up and went over to the bureau. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a small whip. The wise woman had now bent her body down, placing her elbows on the floor. She stretched out her arms and placed her head on the floor between her arms. The wise woman then presented her third gift to him. She raised her bottom up ready to receive his passion, his strength and his masculinity through the kiss of his whip.

She trembled slightly and felt in her throat that she was going to cry but she had already resolved in her mind that she would be brave and receive in her body all that he would deliver to her so that they would both know that he was strong and able and that she truly belonged to him.

He stood behind her as she presented her beautiful waiting bottom to him. She was naked, kneeling, bound and ready to be whipped. He hesitated. She did not deserve this. She already was his. She had given him so much. But his passion cried out that he had to make her his own completely. He had to mark her as his own, and the way he had to mark her was with the stripes of a whip. He took the small whip, held it over his head, paused briefly and then struck.

She received the first sting of pain. The second caused her to flinch. As the whip began to strike her over and over, she had to fight herself and make herself keep her bottom raised. Her thighs were giving way but she willed them to stay still and keep her bottom raised to receive each painful sting, each kiss of fire, each expression of his passion -- the intensity of his love. She wanted to cry out to him to stop. She wanted to get up and run away. But she stayed where she was. Her bottom was on fire and she could not protect it. The culmination of the successive stings was overwhelming her. But she stayed where she was. She pressed her head into the carpet and clenched her teeth. Her hands closed into fists and her fingernails dug into her palms. Her toes curled up tightly and occasionally her lower leg would raise slightly as the whip struck her yet again. But she stayed where she was. She would be strong and bear it no matter how long he whipped her.

After two dozen lashes, he stopped. He gazed at her trembling body. He gently put a hand on her hip indicating that she could rest her bottom. He stared at the red stripes which were all over her bottom and even on the tops of her thighs. He had done that to her. He had marked her with those red stripes, markings that declared that she was his. Although she wouldn't see them until later, she knew that her beautiful body was now marked. She was marked with his stripes. And the memory of the pain and creation of those markings made real for her again the knowledge that she was truly his.

He went in front of her, and lovingly raised her up. He took her chin and raised up her face to his. Although she had not cried out, tears trickled down her cheeks and her lip trembled.

"Let it out," he said. As she grabbed him around the neck with her bound hands the sobs burst forth from her. She cried on his shoulder as he held her tightly and comforted her.

As her tears subsided he looked at her and said, "I love you, with all my heart!"

"I love you, too," she replied. He then picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. She rested her head in his chest. She didn't have to be strong now. She could let herself be comforted by him, cared for by him, loved by him.

Later that night the fire in the sitting room died away, and the cat stretched and yawned before resuming his long winter nap. The man and the woman were also curled up together, deep in the sleep of satisfied lovers. The wise woman's gifts had been received with gratitude by her man, and he had in turn offered her the gift of his manhood that assured her she was beautiful and loved.

A Public Punishment

With permission from the author, none other than Wystan Ephraim, himself, here is a guest story. I think it is a little gem, with something of a sting in the tail, if you allow me the expression. Read and enjoy.

Roseena had sat in her cell, waiting for the sunrise. She saw the glow rising in the east, which foretold the unthinkable glow and burn of the stripes she must soon endure. At sunrise. At the town square.

The jailer had tied her to a chair, facing the tiny window. When she tried to look away, he would snap the whip and murmur unspeakable threats. She learned to sit still, to watch the moon rise, to see the stars slowly wheeling. She pushed away the horror that crept toward her. Being marched, prodded to the whipping post. Being stripped. Waiting for the first bite of the lash. The first of many. She had no illusions that she would be brave. She had seen prisoners whipped before. By the third stroke, they were panting and sobbing. By the tenth, the bravest pleaded for mercy…

The jailer contented himself with counting off the hours: 'Three bells …. Four bells, m’lady Rose….' With the rosy dawn he whispered, 'Won’t be long now…'

She saw the first yellow line, the top of the rising sun. 'There he comes,' the jailer murmured. 'He’s eager to watch you, from up above. He’s as anxious as the rest of us, to see you, naked, writhing…' He paused. 'He wants to heat your flesh, as I do, to redden it, to see your sweat trickle between your breasts and run down over the red weals…'

She heard a key turn stiffly. Rough hands grabbed her from behind. Her manacles were removed from wrists and ankles. 'Stand.'

Her shaking knees would not comply. He caught her as she fell. Bore her up, almost tenderly, his strong arm around her waist. She felt his hand feel for her breast, squeeze it. 'None of that,' another voice barked. 'Plenty of time … later.'

She tried to move her legs as she was half dragged, half carried out the door, to the jailhouse entrance. She opened her eyes, blinking in the half-light. The town square was already crowded.

They marched her past the whipping post. A bar had been placed between two trees, some seven feet high, with straps dangling. She was denied even the small modesty, the small comfort, of pressing herself to the sturdy post. She would be in full view…

Numb, she watched, rather than felt, her hands raised above her, saw her wrists secured. A winch clinked, and she was raised to her toes.

Roseena was dressed in a long, coarse blouse and a long skirt, much too large about the middle. It was held up by a knotted cloth belt. The blouse had six buttons, spaced from below her navel to her small chin.

The jailer faced her now. She pursed her lips, waiting for him to rip her shirt from her body. She had seen it before: a single yank, and an admiring (or derisive) gasp from the crowd as naked female flesh was revealed.

He leered at her, and reached for her throat. She shuddered, heart pounding.

He unbuttoned a single button. Voices from the crowd protested: 'Off with it! What’re you waiting for?' The jailer winked at her, and stepped back. The crowd pressed in. 'Can’t see her tits yet…' 'All in good time,' the jailer replied. 'In the meantime, just picture her tits... are they proud and perky, or do they droop a bit? Are her nipples small, or big as coins? Dark, or pale pink? You'll know soon enough.' Minutes passed. Again the jailer approached, and again, undid the second button. This time the crowd did not jeer. 'Isn’t she worth the wait?' the jailer sly asked. They stared, breathing hard. Stared… as the jailer unfastened the third button, and the fourth. Now he pulled her blouse open, showing just the white tops of her breasts. Roseena felt the crowd push forward for a glimpse. She felt their hunger, their need.

The jailer stroked her cheek with his gloved hand. 'So fair,' he mused. 'So brave. Still a hint of roses in your rosy cheeks... but ' (addressing the crowd) 'soon these cheeks will be wet with tears, her face red and contorted, her pretty mouth open as she howls...' He made a face, imitating her agony.

The sun was higher now. How long had she…? The jailer opened the last two buttons now. He untucked her shirt, pulling it open again, but left it on her.

Roseena felt a warm breeze from the front. Her blouse billowed out now, flapping, exposing, then hiding her breasts.

The jailer reached around her waist. He untied the belt, holding her skirt up for a second, then letting it drop. 'That’s the stuff!' a man cried hoarsely. But her long blouse, whirling about her in the gathering wind, still partly covered her bottom, and her coyly wrapped itself around her maiden triangle.

Once again, the jailer approached. He uncoiled the whip, the wicked braided whip. He shook it. Roseena thought, 'Finally… give me strength…'

But he held the whip out, handle forward. With the wooden grip, he tapped her right nipple. At once, Roseena and the crowd moaned aloud. The jailer teased her nipple to hardness, flipping and flicking it to a tight, red bud. Now the other…

He stepped back. The men licked their lips, breathing hard. Roseena could almost feel their scruffy beards chafing her breast, feel their nipping teeth, their swirling tongues and sucking lips.

Without warning, the shirt was ripped from her body. She heard the winch tighten, felt her arms raised… Roseena saw the jailer step behind her. She heard the whip whistle as he tested the distance. Dimly, then with fresh terror, she saw another man in front of her. He, too, was uncoiling a whip. He winked at her… She would be lashed, front and back…

The winch chattered. Roseena’s wrists were lowered to the level of her shoulders. She held her face in her hands, weeping…

The jailer’s master spoke for the first time. 'There will be no punishment today,' he shouted. 'The governor himself wishes to see the wench flogged. But last night he was called away on urgent business. Punishment will take place at dawn tomorrow.' 'No,' was the general cry. 'No, lash her now, flog her white skin…'

The bailiff silenced them. 'The wench will remain here, in public view, for two more hours. You may not touch her. You may come as close as you like, but you may not touch her. That,' he concluded, 'is for us, the keepers of the law.'

Sold

Right! I am a little lazy. But now it doesn't matter because I have a guest posting. Ramon send me this story which I found delightful. I decided to put it on my blog, asked him for permission and was granted it. I did edit it. I have to admit it but just a little. I changed the spelling of one word. I couldn't help myself and can only ask Ramon for forgiveness. And I said changed, not corrected.

And what a coincidence that the heroine of this story is called Janice! I can assure you I had nothing to do with it...smiles. So, read and enjoy!

Janice smoothed down her faux-fur outfit, wishing her arms and legs weren't quite so exposed. She shivered, and not because of the air-conditioning in the crowded conference hall. It could have been much worse; the girl two over on her right was wearing that Arabian slave-girl costume Mary had originally chose for her; with veils transparent enough to be effectively invisible, at least to hungry eyes. Crazy Mary! Janice had laughed when Mary had first leaned over the desk they shared and told her that she had volunteered them both for the company's fund raising evening; this year an auction of office workers to the highest bidder. Of course she had flatly refused, but Mary had spent all afternoon working on her. 'It's for charity' and 'look at the homeless children, look at the poor dears' she whined. Mary had planned this well, she even had photos of hungry waifs. Finally Janice caved, but flatly refused to wear the outfit her delighted co-worker produced from under her desk. Finally a compromise was arranged; she swapped with someone whom Mary knew from another office . So instead of standing in line in front of a thousand laughing office workers as a harem girl, she was Captive Barbarian Princess from the Far Northern Steppe. Mary always had a flair for description.

Three had been sold so far, and the audience was getting warmed up. Wads of cash and credit cards were waved as the auctioneer praised the next slave's (it was the harem-girl) attributes: the length of her legs, the firmness of her torso. He didn't really have to go into much detail, thought Janice, when those veils left nothing to the imagination. It was then she noticed one man in the third row who wasn't gripped by the current item on sale. He was looking straight at her, hand to his chin as if weighing something up with a professional eye. He was weighing her up! She looked away and tugged downwards on her costume, as if she could increase the hem length by a few metres. He was probably comparing all the girls. No, a quick glance back and his gaze was still on her. His face was set. He had made a decision.

The applause from the last sale was settling down and she felt a hand in her back and was pushed forward. It was her turn already. She stared at the edge of the dais as offers started to flow in, many more than she expected. That voice was Will from accounts; she cringed to think she would have to spend the rest of the dinner with him at his table and all his rugger-bugger friends. The bids settled down, it was a battle between Will and another unknown male voice. Deeper than Will's. The kind of voice that was used to projecting across rooms, even auction rooms. Janice looked up as the final bid was cast. In the front row Will was despondent and the man in the third row was striding up the stairs to pay and take possession of her. Another shiver.

'I believe you're mine for the evening' was all he said with a smile, and lightly took hold of her upper arm. She felt his finger tips there. They may as well have been steel chains that wrapped themselves around her. 'I am', she answered.

She had never met the people at his table before but they were great fun. They and the man (Antony, he introduced himself) made her feel at ease and less self-conscious. Soon she was getting into the spirit of the evening for the first time; she laughed when Antony's friends asked his permission to pour her a glass of wine. When offered dessert by a waiter, she coyly suggested he 'Ask her master'.

'I will allow it this time', he said, and returned her impish grin with interest.

The function was winding down. Only a last few die-hard dancers were still on the floor. Antony guided her back to their now deserted table for refreshments. She was getting anxious again, but not because of the auction or her circumstances, but because of the impending end of the evening. Antony looked up at the clock, oh no, it was all about to end. He would turn to her, kiss her hand and say something about how wonderful it had all been. It would be over. No. She was a Barbarian Princess who fought polar bears and marauding Neanderthal tribes on the harsh tundra. She took chances, not like Janice the office worker.

'How long did you buy me for?' she half croaked.

He looked surprised. 'Well I'm not really sure. Midnight? I have no idea'. He did have an idea. Other couples - Masters and slave girls - were bidding each other goodnight, laughing and kissing each other.

'Its traditionally ... daybreak, isn't it...?'. Janice couldn't believe she just said that. He was looking at her very closely.

'I believe it is...I believe it is.' He wavered for a second, then his voice was suddenly very firm. 'You'd better come with me then', he said standing and taking her once again by the arm.

Janice...no the Barbarian Princess, pulsed with fear and excitement as he led her to the lifts. He pressed the 'up' button and she jerked his hand off her.

'That's no way to treat a Princess from the North' she said.

'Is that so?' he answered. '

No it is not. In my land I should have you fed to the polar bears for your insolence'. Janice pouted and thrust her breast defiantly forward. She hoped her eyes were flashing. She hoped he'd take the bait. The lift doors opened and grabbing her by the arm he pushed her in. 'Princess?' he said sarcastically. 'I have bought you at a slave action. You are a slave. My slave.' She started to fight, she wanted him to be rougher, to increase the pressure on her arm, to wrestle her to the ground. Trying to control her, Antony pressed the 'stop' button and using all his strength, grabbed her wrists and held her still. As she squirmed, he managed with one hand to undo his belt and wrap it over her torso, just under her breasts, pinning her arms by her sides. He buckled the belt tightly and smiled as he watched her struggle in the improvised restraints. She began swearing at him and he put her hand over her mouth.

'Quiet now', and she obeyed. He pressed floor 12 again, took off his dinner jacket and swept it over her shoulders, buttoning it on. Janice was amazed. To anyone waiting for the lift on their level, and there were two, she looked like a girl dressed in evening wear who had been given a jacket to wear by her considerate boyfriend against the midnight chill. They couldn't see the leather restraint underneath that kept her as his prisoner.

The people on Level 12 walked past them onto the lift without even a backwards glance, and Antony lead her to his room. Inside he unbuttoned his coat, stood back and admired her. He stepped forward, and with hands on her shoulders bent down for a passionate kiss. Not hard, but firm. Bound as she was, she felt self conscious again, but she refused to let go of the moment and returned the kiss with vigour. It was wonderful and she felt the current flow from his lips and down her spine. Then she bit his lip, not too hard but enough to surprise him,and she broke away,making a run to the door. He had her before she was half way there. He dragged her to the window, and her wondering why they were there ended when he pulled down the curtain cords. He unbuckled his belt and began binding her wrists, crossed over, behind her back.

He fought him, but he was too strong and she loved it.

'I'm sorry I have to do this', he said breathing heavily 'but you left me no option. You're mine for the night, I paid good money for you, and I'm completely within my rights to bind...' he undid his tie and cleave-gagged her, tying the knot at the base of her neck, '....and gag you'. Satisfied, he sat back on his elbows as she writhed and swore at him. After a few minutes of fruitless struggling, she lay back and glared at him. Exhausted.

Seeing she was done, Antony scooped her up and onto the bed. He kissed her legs, her shoulders, and her neck. Getting closer and closer to her lips. 'Now the evening starts, my prisoner. No don't tire yourself struggling. I can see I'm going to have to keep you like this till morning. And if you don't behave it will be the back of my hand'. Janice's eyes widened. She couldn't get free. She was his captive. And it was wonderful.

More Waiting

I am amazed about the attention my story Waiting created. Mind you, I have managed to write two stories with that name. I am referring to the newer one. There is an older story with that name too, quite different.

Anyway, it seems as if this story captured the imagination of some of you Readers. I am chuffed, I really like that. I have to admit that it was just an idea, something that just happened, a fantasy. I had a very vivid image of what happened and I wrote that down but I don't know the circumstances, who the girl is and why she has to follow orders, who the woman is and what she is planning. Truth is, I have no idea what will follow.

Anyway, long time ago, longer than I feel comfortable thinking about, I got this continuation of the story sent to me. It is once again Ollie who is the creator. He has already written Waiting Another View... and now he follows up with a continuation. The reason I had for waiting (no pun intended) with publishing it was that I thought I should follow it up with my own continuation. I have no idea what it would be so I decided to, at last, put Ollie's story up anyway. With kind permission.

I think this is a continuation I never would have written. Still I think (and perhaps because of that...) it is brilliantly done and with a twist. That we all think so differently about a subject only shows the power of imagination. Read and enjoy!

No-one spoke as the car purred smoothly along, unhurried to its destination.

The expensive woman looked straight ahead, inhabiting her own secret world, maintaining the perfect poise of the rich and contented which I envied but could never share.

If the driver had any emotion he didn't show it. How had he felt when he took me? Was there any pleasure? Was it just a job for him to violate a woman for his mistress? Just something which needed to be done like filling the car with fuel or doing the shopping?

He merely drove, as if he was on a quiet Sunday outing, nothing out of the ordinary, the late summer sun, the first hints of tiredness creeping into the leaves, that dusty taste to the air which remains unstirred by the absent breeze, and a rape to be performed. The banality of the situation started to overcome me, and as the pain from my whipped buttocks began to recede I found myself looking through the window at the scenery passing by. I knew where we were, driving out of the city, through the farmland with its hedges and coppices, the almost overwhelming variety of greens and browns distracting me from my predicament and the impending punishment.

Slowly the landscape of small holdings gave way to larger industrial sized farms, with ugly utilitarian buildings, threatening grey silos like something from a James Bond film and the occasional huge mechanical monster grazing the fields with implacable determination.

On and on we drove, through the late evening, till the sun died bloodily into the wheat white western horizon.

On and into a small town. I knew this place. It was the town where I had been born, grown up, where my parents still lived, and where my roots lay buried shallow.

Through nearly to the centre to an area of tall town houses, where the better off people lived, where I'd hoped, as a girl to own a house one day, knowing all the time that I could not. This place was not for people like me. I might aspire only to serve the people who lived here, perhaps to be used by them, that was all.

The car stopped suddenly, outside a house, black doored, its windows unlit and foreboding.

“You will get out” said the woman. It was not unkind, not even peremptory; just a bald statement of what would happen.

“Wait here”

The car drove off, leaving me beside the road for the second time that evening, waiting, obvious and exposed in my tiny red bikini, its strings frail and vulnerable, as if a wisp of wind would untie them, and send it fluttering down the street, leaving me bare and in public. I felt naked enough already as the evening darkened, and the hopeless insobriety of my attire became more obvious. If I carried a towel it might, just might seem as if I was home from the beach, but I had none, just the scarlet fragments to cover my scarlet soul.

There was a lamp post, and I turned with my back to it, keeping my stripes and my evident wantonness hidden, despite the puddle of growing brightness in which I found myself. I pulled off my hair band and allowed long hair to fall lank about my face, making curtains for me to hide behind. They seemed pitifully thin.

A few people walked by; the women bearing unkind judgemental glances, taking me for what they thought I was, the men taking me also with hypocritical lust. I was to wait, for what I knew not, just that I was to be punished.

Suddenly he was upon me, a man in one of those long leather coats which you see German officers wearing in old war films. He seemed overdressed for the summer evening, but gave the impression that he never wore anything else, the coat was a part of him as naturally as my pathetic bikini was a part of me.

He stopped and I automatically looked down, as if I was not permitted to see his face. He did not disabuse me of this, placing a hand on each shoulder he turned me round, examining the weals on my behind, lifting the bikini bottoms away to see more clearly.

He turned me back and wiped a single finger between my legs, stroking my sex just once, not gently, not with aggression, just a single firm stroke. I expected more, expected him to perhaps invade with his fingers or to remove my clothes and take me a second time here on the street, but he only raised his finger to his nose and inhaled.

A quality control test. Had I been whipped? Had I been penetrated? Was I ready?

He took something long from his coat pocket. A very thin leather belt? Was he going to whip me again then? But no, he took a red leather dog collar with stereotypical conical studs and fastened it round my neck, attached the lead and walked off down the street, making me hurry to keep up.

I was led leashed along the roads I knew so well, through the empty market with its smells of rotting vegetables, past the end of my parents' road where I had been born; where they would be sitting indoors for the evening.

On past the junior school with its spear shaped railings whose paint was always flaking when I was a child. I remembered in a flash standing inside the grounds one break time, picking off pieces of rusty paint, fascinated by the one side being rough and brown, the other faded institutional grey, and being sent to the headmistress for doing so. I had been punished then too.

The man led me jogging on my bare feet to keep close, to shorten the lead, for if I could just make it seem as if I was with him, his equal, then the lead might be invisible, might not be seen by any of the people with whom I had grown up, with whom I had lived, who knew me.

All the time I knew this was a fancy, for my clothes gave me away. I was not his equal, dressed as I was in the most revealing of scarlet scraps, almost every part of me from my scarcely covered too-white breasts to the plain whip marks on my bottom displayed to the world.

He walked as if he owned me, and I trotted obediently after as if he did.

We passed the café where I'd had my first part time job as a waitress, a little money, my first tiny piece of independence, then past the bus stands. I remembered waiting there for the bus to take me away to college to a new life, always waiting.

On we went, passing the school where I had returned to teach, to be placed in charge of the children of my less careful contemporaries. They'd come to the school to parents’ evenings, remembering me, the girl they'd mocked as a boffin, calling me “Miss” with lightly disguised reverse snobbery.

Another layer peeled away; and I let the lead lengthen.

Finally he stopped, and I realised that we were only just round the corner from where I had been left, at a similar house with steps up to the glossy black door and railings protecting it from the unworthy world.

The man tied my lead to a boot scraper on the top step; too short, I had to bend over, place my hands on the upper steps, my feet on the pavement; no option now to hide my behind with its charge of disgrace. I was glad of the small cover my hair afforded, dangling over my face, making me feel slightly hidden in a thicket of my own making.

He left and I waited as the night darkened, with growing discomfort from the position and a sudden realisation that my bladder was full. Now nothing I could do could distract me from the increasing pain in the belly, which could so easily be relieved, and yet at what cost? I was certain that I was watched. I started to dance my feet, desperate not to humiliate myself further, and summoned all my reserves of determination to resist the clarion demand from below.

I was on the point of succumbing and releasing my wet charge when the door above me swung open and a pair of female feet stood on the top step. I lifted my head to see her face; she was dressed as a maid and had a face which would scarcely float a stick on a puddle, much less launch a thousand ships. She looked into my eyes, into my soul and saw what was within. Without speaking she removed my collar and turned away from me, waiting quietly on the step, giving me the opportunity to flee before leading the way into the house. Cravenly I followed.

We went through a darkened hallway, all colour washed away by the night, and into a large room.

It might once have been a banqueting hall, hung with expensive tapestries and gilding on the ceiling, filled with meticulously crafted furniture, each piece containing some of the soul of its maker. Now I expect they used the utilitarian epithet “conference room” though from the conferences I had attended there was very little conferring, merely presentation.

A room carpeted with commercial coldness, it had a low stage at one end. The floor had several small tables with people seated. It felt impolite to look at them, I knew I had no right so to do, but I did. They were plainly dressed, and in all shapes and sizes, what was so shocking was their ordinariness, the image of everyman.

The girl led me to the stage where a spotlight blinded me, making me in an instant totally alone in a crowd, the centre of attention. Apprehension grew in me, my only protection the gossamer of a bikini and my drapes of hair.

A flat disembodied voice, a man's I thought, spoke causing the burble of chatter to subside.

“Why are you here?”

Unused to being addressed and with growing fear I opened my lips to reply, but my mouth was arid, the tongue seemingly swollen to twice its normal size, and no sound appeared.

The voice came again, more kindly this time

“Why are you here?”

Knowing I had to reply I forced the words out:

“I am to be punished”

“You will have to speak louder, everyone needs to hear”

“I am to be punished”

“And are you here of your own free will”

I had to answer:

“Yes”

“And do you truly want this?”

My inner thoughts were being teased out carefully. He knew.

“Yes”

“Is this the deepest craving of your heart?”

There was nothing left. He knew, they all knew, they had seen inside me, seen the desire within my traitorous heart

“Yes”

“Remove your clothing”

I had expected it, but the very act of hearing the order caused something in me to want to rebel. I froze; my arms incapable of obeying even the most urgent strictures of my brain. I thought bizarrely that my pathetic triangles could scarcely be considered clothing, and yet they covered something, just a little, and were enough to give me a small piece of self in this place.

“Remove your clothing”

The order was repeated, and this time I obeyed, removing the top, allowing my breasts to swing free for the audience before pulling the strings of the bottoms and letting my last vestige of dignity fall discarded to the ground.

I heard a noise behind me and my arms were grasped gently by invisible hands. I was turned away from the light and saw a chair facing the audience. It had posts fixed to the front in the shape of a V, and as I was ushered into it I could see at once their purpose.

Wooden horseshoes stuck out from the top of the post, and my ankles were lifted into their support, opening me wide to scrutiny. There were no straps or threats securing me to the chair; I had the knowledge that I was free to leave at any time, I would have to stay here with my legs lifted and separated purely by my own will regardless of what they chose to do, however they wished to punish me.

I had waxed recently, which usually made me feel sexy and powerful, but as I felt their eyes resting greedily on my most intimate parts, I knew I was even more naked without my natural covering. There was nothing, nothing at all between me, my bared soul and those who sought to punish.

The fear began to struggle against my determination, but I found that pride prevented me from flight, prevented me from lifting my legs down and giving myself blessed covering. As I was now stationary and seated the fullness in my bladder returned to the centre of my mind, mocking me with the prospect of losing control not just in the pseudo public of the street, but here in front of a watching audience.

I heard a quiet buzzing behind me, and the fear mounted. Was this some electrical torture device, banned no doubt by the United Nations but now about to be used to inflict pain on this victim?

The buzzing continued, and I felt nothing.

Perhaps it was not, perhaps it was a device they intended to use to arouse me and force me to wanton orgasm again and again here in front of the audience, for their pleasure. I didn't know if I would have preferred the pain.

I felt something touch the back of my neck, cold and vibrating, running up and over my scalp, leaving a cool unfamiliar lightness behind. It was repeated but not in exactly the same place and as I felt a second hank of hair fall the horror of what was transpiring bit deep into me.

I sobbed, pouring out remorse as they continued cutting off my hair.

When my head was completely shaved gentle hands lifted my legs down and the ethereal voice floated across my mind announcing that my punishment was complete, and that I was free to leave, but that I could not wear the bikini. So I was taken by the hand and shown out into the outside world completely naked.