In a Pickle

I can imagine that some of you will find this story a tad insensitive. I guess it is. Still I decided to write it and publish it. If only to show that imagination is strange and that mine is not always doing what it should. If you are a tinsy winsy bit like me, your imagination wanders off in very inappropriate ways when it shouldn't. It doesn't mean you condone the things that made it wander. I think you will understand this and forgive me for this story.

It goes without saying that I do not condone the gadget riots in UK, and I do take them seriously. It's just that my mind got some strange ideas at the same time, quite detached from my moral compass.

There I was, standing in a room, in front of four sturdy policemen, dressed in nothing more than a neon green t-shirt. It was long and covering, almost like a very short dress, but the fact that it was the only thing I was wearing, made the stares of the four men much more intimidating than would otherwise have been the case.

It started as a very ordinary day. I was walking home and noticed that there was some commotion in the streets. There were policemen and people in a angry mix. I didn't care that much, instead I tried to keep away from the crowd and found myself walking down a small lane.

As it happened I came out on a larger street where chaos had already started. Now I began to realise that something was, indeed, happening.

I had not much time to think about it, before I was grabbed by a motley crew who pulled me aside. They were a mixed bunch of mixed colours and creed and the only thing they seemed to have in common was their audacity and desire to take what they wanted.

They began immediately to help themselves to my clothes. They were very efficient, I must admit, and soon I was lying on the ground, quite naked, and held by my arms and legs. The gang was about to help themselves to more than my clothes when I heard the clang of metal.

The hissing sound that was heard made them release me and scamper away like frightened squirrels. The white smoke and the pain in my eyes and throat suggested that a cannister of tear gas had fallen nearby.

I fled down an alley as I saw the riot police rush forward. Out of the immediate danger I found it appropriate to try to take care of the fact that I was stark naked.

After have been running for my life, I started walking cautiously, scared that I would cut my bare feet on glass or other debris on the ground. I heard the fighting behind me, but found no one in the alley. I thought this was a good thing, since I was not keen on being stared at in my present condition.

I got to a street that had already been affected by the riots and found myself standing by a smashed window, staring at a neon green t-shirt that someone had dropped. It seemed like a heaven sent gift, so I took the shirt and donned it. I found that it was long enough to cover me and thought that now, at least, I was more able to get home with a minimum of embarrassment.

My plans had to change when I turned around and was confronted by the riot squad, complete with helmets and shields and very nasty looking sticks. They wasted no time and arrested me and bundled me into a police van.

I was glad the others were equipped with handcuffs too, their eyes told me that otherwise they would have taken the opportunity to strip me of my last vestiges of decency, and probably more.

The police station was brimful of looters locked up in the cells, so I was ushered into a room where the situation was explained to me. It was very simple. I had been caught looting and would be charged for it.

There was an alternative, though. If I was willing to accept them dealing with my case immediately, they would let me go.

So there I was, standing, facing the four sturdy policemen who where about to deal with my case. The way they said 'deal with' made me understand that it would be something quite unpleasant but temporary, as opposed to the drawn out process that otherwise would have been my fate.

As soon as I had nodded, accepting their suggestion, I was gripped by my neck and my upper body was forced down on a table. I saw the glaring eyes and the evil smiles and began to regret my decision.

Soon I saw one of the policemen remove his belt from his trousers, while another pulled my shirt up.

I must admit I was embarrassed as he stopped short and started chuckling.

'This one has made it easy, no knickers.'

'What a pity, I quite like that.'

'What?'

'The getting rid of knickers thing.'

'Well, you do it with some gusto.'

'I can't help it they tear so easily.'

One of the policemen grabbed my wrists and the other held me down with a grip around my neck. The third one had the belt, while the fourth was just staring.

A strong policeman with a belt in his hand, trying to make you suffer while your bottom is naked and exposed to his efforts, is not a nice thing. The impact was terrible, my body rocking forward while my buttocks exploded with pain.

He seemed to be skilled with the belt. And he was not keen on mercy. No, he let the dreaded belt swing through the air and land on my unprotected skin, time and again.

I did cry. I did yell and whimper. It was hard to avoid it. And it never stopped. I guess he had a lot of frustration to take out on me.

I was quite numb as I was finally let up from the table. The smiling policemen said I was now free to go. I nodded. Before I had time to leave they told me that the shirt I was wearing was looted and had to be returned.

I did hesitate. It is understandable, considering the fact that it was the only item of clothing I was wearing. But the smiling policemen were very helpful and soon I was stripped of the neon green t-shirt.

I was embarrassed walking through the reception on my way out. Once again, I found myself in the not so enviable situation of having to get home through the city wearing absolutely nothing.

How I got home is another story, a completely different story.

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 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.'

Oliver

Did you know that John Lennon would have turned 69 today, had he been allowed to live?

I am still digging out things from the archives. This one is from last year. It is one of those stories, or scribblings, that start somewhere and decides for itself where it ends up.

All stories are about me but all of them are also purely fictional, remember that while you read this.

Oliver Clarke was the most despicable person I could imagine. He wasn't grossly fat but he was, indeed, a very big person. He was at least twice my size. He had puffy cheeks and he was always flustered and red and sweaty.

He could, I suppose, have looked alright, perhaps even be good looking, had he not been so overweight. He had brownish hair, like a tuft of some moss on his head and his grey eyes were small and sunken in his face.

His clothes seemed always to have been bought in an earlier era when Oliver was of a more normal size. His stinking body seemed to struggle to get out of those ill-fitting shirts and trousers in the un-matching colours he always seemed to choose.

If Oliver had been a nice person he may have evoked some sympathy or at least pity but he was not only an unhealthy lump of flesh rolling through the corridors of my school, he was also an arrogant bastard.

We all laughed at him but he was unaware of it. He talked with gusto about his whereabouts and what he expected to achieve in life and seemed completely ignorant that most people considered him a 'loser'.

He had no sense of how unattractive he was to the girls and this impression was considerably sharpened by his view of the opposite sex, which he generously shared with the rest of the world. Although he seemed to think all females to be of a lower order of life he had no hesitation to tell them what he wanted to do to them. The only redeeming quality in him was that we all were convinced that he would never get the chance to use anyone in the way he imagined.

Still it was this lowlife, this pathetic excuse for a human being that entered my thoughts every time I put my hand down my knickers to take away some of the itching anxiety that seemed to traverse my body in my youthful loneliness.

Ever since Oliver had once looked me over, pushed his tongue out and suggested he would come home to me and show me what I really wanted with him, the image of him had popped into my mind whenever the desire hit me.

He was a curse. For a while I was almost physically sick whenever I felt the least tingling in me. Whatever or whoever evoked those feelings didn't matter, as soon as I closed my eyes and let my inner eye concentrate on the bliss and joy of those sensations, Oliver was there with his ugly snout, breathing heavily and looking smug.

I was quite depressed at first, feeling bereaved of my fantasies, my inner cinema. Oliver had taken it over and seemed to control the menu. At least he had a firm grip on the more seedy and arousing offerings.

I managed to learn how to block him out, temporarily, and concentrate on the physical sensations. This was a relief but it was not satisfactory. I needed my inner cinema, I wanted it.

I had a very vivid imagination and the strangest things could get my mind moving in directions that not only filled my head with colourful pictures but also made my heart throb in my chest and blood to rush to different parts of my body.

A history lesson about the Romans would paint some fascinating pictures in my mind, including me dressed in some thin flimsy toga like outfit and some hunky men indulging ourselves in some orgy or the like.

The horror was that Oliver suddenly was there, reclining on some divan, fat and sweaty, surrounded by a harem of girls, dressed in flimsy dresses if anything, providing him with grapes and wine and their bodies.

He would be the Emperor or similar and he would chuckle and leer at the entertainment, some exotic women, dressed in jewellery only, dancing before him. And the worst thing of it all, I often found that I was not one of the noble women at the court but instead one of the scantily clad dancers or even a naked slave who stood behind Emperor Oliver waiting on him.

I would be eager to return to reality when my mind was full of Oliver and his despicable frame. The most shocking discovery was that I often found that I was terribly aroused by my fantasies.

I was quite deflated when I had to admit to myself that my fantasies, the ones where Oliver, the monster, appeared, were really turning me on. I tried my utmost to subdue all images of him. I tried to block him out, tried to concentrate on film stars or my favourite singers, just to keep Oliver out. I even let some of the boys from school be there, just to make sure he wasn't.

My fantasies became grey and boring and predictable and I longed for the free flow of my living, tumbling and unruly imagination to return. I wanted the colours and the beauty and the unhindered desire of my imagination to fill my mind again.

As I realised I couldn't keep my imagination hidden away, I decided I had to let it back in. I had become anxious and unhappy and my friends had noticed and found me less interesting to be with. I just had to open my mind to my own delightful world of fantasies.

And Oliver was there again. There was no way for me to follow an arousing thought, a delightful thrill in my mind without Oliver turning up. When I was dancing the dance of the seven veils for a dark eyed sheik of the desert, revealing more and more of my aching body for him, I suddenly found that Oliver was there in the tent, urging me on, telling me that I wanted to strip for him, that I wanted to please him.

When I was taken to some fancy restaurant by a tall dark and handsome man in his black tie and shining eyes, Oliver suddenly sat himself down at the table and told my date how I wanted to take my clothes off and wanted to please them.

Worst of all was that he was right. That was exactly what I had been thinking, what I had hoped for. He seemed to be the voice of my desires, dressing in words what I played out in my fantasies.

I was defeated. I couldn't keep him out. I had to let him be there. I acknowledge my defeat and surrendered to him. I was determined to enjoy my fantasies despite the despicable Oliver. Let him watch when I was undressed by my dark handsome lover, or when the barbarian king threw my on his bed to have me.

I had lost but I had won. I was again allowed into my fantasy world and the delights I found there. My friends saw the difference and life was easier again. I could talk of my excitement about this or that film and I could giggle with my friends and blush as we imagined what it would be like to have that particular famous star kissing you senseless.

What I didn't tell them when I shared my own images of such things was that Oliver was always there, watching in the wings, commenting and telling me what a naughty person I was.

I was getting used to having him there as a voice of some darker side of me, but it got worse. Oliver started to take up more space. He more often insisted on the centre stage himself. He pushed the handsome lovers out of the picture and demanded my full attention for himself.

Oliver always wanted something raunchy and dirty. He never said anything nice to me. He sat in the middle of my fantasy, fatter and sweatier than in real life and always demanded that I should dance for him, strip for him or wait on him, while he mocked me and insulted me.

The worst horror of them all was that I was the willing victim of his demands. I did strip for him. I stood there in front of him and slipped my clothes off for him and nothing could be more arousing than to unbutton my shirt and open it, revealing my bosom for him, while he was licking his sweaty lips, leering at me.

All the while there was the real Oliver, the living breathing Oliver who was less of the monster in reality than he was in my imagination. Sometimes he looked at me and I wondered if he knew he was a permanent guest at my inner cinema. Most of the time I made my best to avoid him.

He didn't just become bigger and uglier in my imagination, he also came closer. He had always been a watcher, the one sitting as a wobbling mountain of flesh, staring at my body, demanding that I should undress for him. He had watched but had never touched me.

It all happened in steps. When he had had me strip he started to demand that I should touch myself. This seemed to be a natural progression, given the fact that the real me did some touching in the real world while the fantasy me performed some exotic and alluring dance for him, stripping the veils off, one by one.

The horror, the horror, the inevitable happened. In one very intense fantasy, a particular favourite of mine, I was a slave, performing a dance for my captors who happened to be some barbarian warriors. It was all set in some enormous tent, lit by fires and torches, the warriors sitting on their loot of fabulous rugs and silken cushions, surrounded by the gold and jewellery they had stolen, drinking their ales and wines from goblets made from the skulls of their enemies, waited upon by the semi clad beauties of the newly sacked city, the living loot from their plunder.

I was, or had been, a princess of that city. Now I was loot. I was still dressed in my silken but revealing dress and still adorned with my jewellery but these men were brutes, they heeded not my birth nor my status. No, I was forced to perform for my survival.

And perform I did. I danced before them like I had never danced before, carried away by my fear and my desire, forgetting how cruel these men were. I danced and let my hate and horror be swept away by my lust and arousal, as I moved my body to the chaotic tune they played.

My clothes fell from my body and I trembled with excitement as I felt the silken robes caress my skin as I took them off, one by one.

Oliver was the chieftain of these barbarians and he was perched on the greatest pile of loot in the centre of the tent and it was before him I danced, before his desiring eyes I revealed my body.

At last the dance was done and I stood sweating and trembling before him, naked, dressed only in my jewellery, panting and overcome by my passion.

At this moment my hand was deep down my knickers working its wonders. But there was just one little piece to add to the jigsaw, to make the picture complete, to finish off what the image had started.

I was called forward and was stood close to the chieftain, the monstrous mountain of flesh that was the fantasy image of Oliver Clarke.

Then he touched me. He put his sweaty hand down between my legs and snaked his fat fingers into me. And in that moment I reached what I had desired in the real world.

From that moment, Oliver insisted on touching me. If there had been any kind of hesitation on his behalf he soon overcame it. He was as ingenious and repulsive in his way of touching as he had been with his words. There was nothing sweet with him. He didn't caress, he didn't embrace or stroke. No, the disgusting Oliver pinched my nipples, or pushed his sweaty fingers into my sex, or even into other body cavities. Nothing was alien to him.

His treatment of my body was repulsive, degrading and cruel, but ever so arousing. Soon, it was not enough to dance and strip to this person, I had to be touched by him. He demanded ever more of me and it became increasingly humiliating to let him do it.

I was scared of the real Oliver. I think he saw the fear in my eyes but he couldn't possibly know what it was about.

My inner life had become a maelstrom of degradation and horror and I had begun to wonder what depraved creature I was. I felt guilty for letting myself be touched like I was and for enjoying it.

The Oliver inside my mind soon picked up on that and accused me of all sorts of dirty thinking. He demanded that I should be punished. At first I defended myself but he had all the power and he was accuser, judge, jury and lawyer in one, so I was always found guilty and deserving of the most gruesome punishments.

At first he was satisfied with having some of his barbarian tribesmen or henchmen come and tie me to some pole and then whip me. Sometimes he wielded the whip himself, enjoying it immensely.

But soon, that was not enough. Nothing less than some public display of my humiliation would do. He then had me dragged through the streets to some public place of punishment, where I had my robes ripped from my body, to be tied to a pole and whipped mercilessly, while Oliver looked on and licked his lips.

There was nothing more arousing than the sense of the tongues of the whip licking my body and the passionate cries of agony as lash after lash made my frame tremble.

Afterwards, when I hung limp in my bonds, my body whipped into submission, there was always some extra humiliation for me in store. Sometimes a company of guards were allowed to enjoy me or I was put in some cage, high above the street, for all to stare at, naked and punished.

But Oliver also had a softer side to him. He could be an ordinary, although unpleasant and disgusting man, who lived in an ordinary flat. I was his ward, or servant, who had to wait on him.

I was caned or whipped for the slightest error and was kept firmly in line. And he would slap my face and call me names if I didn't react quickly enough. He was a true pig.

In the evening he liked to sit and watch tv and when he was bored he would have me strip naked and lie beside him in the sofa and he would eat his crisps and down his beers while his hands wandered all over my body. His fingers would alternate between the crisp bowl and my sex and I was not allowed to protest or say anything.

He would pinch my nipples hard when there was nothing on the telly to keep him occupied, just for the sheer joy of seeing me in pain. Sometimes he would have me lie before him so he could rest his dirty feet on my belly.

Worst of all was when he was excited. Then I would have to crawl to him and do lip service to his sweaty little friend. It would be the ugliest and most wrinkly little member ever imagined but I would still have to kiss it and take it in my mouth. And when I did, it would grow and grow to enormous proportions and it would tear my jaws open and make me cringe and cry with pain.

Still I would long for him to take his, then, gigantic member and put it into me and do what is supposed to be done there.

I was ashamed then, in the real world. I would be amazed and ashamed and disgusted and horrified. I would sit back and wonder why I wanted so much to be degraded.

Then one day, something happened. Something wonderful happened. It began as something almost insignificant but it grew and grew to encompass my whole being and it would not just fill my mind, it would liberate me.

It was very simple. One day when Oliver, the real Oliver passed me in the corridor I saw that he didn't look like the Oliver in my fantasies.

It seemed obvious and very trivial at first. I was aware that they weren't the same but seeing the difference, although I couldn't put my finger on it, started a train of thoughts that became the path to my freedom.

Seeing that difference made me know that they weren't the same, the real and the inner Oliver. My thoughts had known it before but now I saw it. That little piece of knowledge opened my mind. I knew that the inner Oliver wasn't the real one.

When this thought had been allowed to grow I realised that the inner Oliver wasn't really anyone else but me. He was mine. I owned him, he was a part of me. The real Oliver had just been an inspiration.

I could now look at the inner Oliver and scrutinise him and try to figure out who or rather what he was. I listened to his words and I saw that he was something good.

The ugliness I had seen was only my fear, the disgusting form he had taken was really how I believed I had to look upon him. I began to see that he was really quite handsome.

My Oliver, the inner Oliver, was nothing less than my own desire, my own pleasure of being me, my living sexuality, the one that had been forbidden for me, denied me, the one I had to pay with guilt for embracing. I had longed for him and let him take over but I had dressed him up as a monster and I had let this monster punish me for letting him in.

For the first time in my life I saw that he was sweet and lovely and full of life and that he was me, that he was my hand down my knickers, the hand I had been ashamed of. Oliver was me, at least my inner Oliver was me.

I danced a little dance on my way from the bus when it dawned upon me. I didn't care that anyone seeing me must have thought me mad. This was too important.

For the first time in my life I was happy being me. I was happy having Oliver in my dreams. I was living, and the shame and guilt seemed like a dark memory.

I longed to get home, to sit down with a cup of tea, and once again enter the tent of the barbarians to perform my dance of the seven veils, to strip naked and dance my desire before the ones who found me desirable.

And I longed to let my hand slip down my knickers and pay a visit to my chamber of secrets. I was quite sure that there would be no trial and no punishment after that.

Surrender, part 22

I was a little mean to you who don't know the glory of Cricket. I couldn't help it. It is a great game. Here comes the next part of Surrender story. If you are as confused as Wystan E, then you may read my comment on his comment to the last instalment.

The next morning we went walking through the city centre. It was ancient and sedate and full of churches and old palazzos. He took me to a church and we wandered through it. I was taken by the mix of old and new, delicate and vulgar.

Behind a pillar, he leaned forward and whispered in my ear to take my knickers off. After the first rush of opposition and reluctance there came the thrilling sensation of giving in to him, to accepting his wishes, the excitement of doing something bad like that, in a place of worship.

I looked around and although I heard there were other people in the church, I saw no one. It was quick work to slip my knickers down and step out of them. I handed them to him and he put them in his pocket.

He took me to an art gallery and with precision found all paintings and sculptures depicting nudes, and especially female nudes. He stood before them for a long time talking about them.

'That is how women should be, naked. That is how I want them, naked for my pleasure.'

To him there was no doubt about our roles. I was there to please him and he made it clear to me that he was pleased with me. He compared my body to the ones in the gallery and explained in detail why he found me beautiful.

I was an object for him, an object he loved and wanted. In his strange way he respected me. He wanted me for what I could do for him, that was no secret.

He didn't look down on my academic achievements, on the contrary, he was proud of them, but they didn't interest him. He was selfish in a very childish way, he talked a lot about what he thought and wanted. He was interested in my opinions as long as they didn't interfere with his own wishes and desires.

There, in that Italian town, he made it clear to me that there was another side of me, a side that wasn't about career and achievements, but that was about something else. It was about body and submission and accepting my desires.

That was the strangest of it all. I desired it. All this submitting to him spoke to some longing in me. He disregarded my will but somehow, he left room for my own desires. I don't think he knew this, or if he did, he had stumbled on this knowledge by mistake. He was selfish, but self assured enough to not having to subdue my longings.

I was happy those days. We walked through this ancient town, had dinner in small restaurants and climbed the mountains outside the city walls. He didn't have to whip me and tie me up. He had me wear too short skirts and very little underwear, just as a reminder of whose power I was in.

It was easy being his. It was sweet being his woman, his servant and slave. He didn't provoke me in order to test my resolve. He had already done that, he had already forced me to accept the whip and being shamed me in front of his friend. We both seemed to know it wasn't necessary any more.

At the end of our stay he did want to shock me, though. He seemed to want to remind me that submission to him wasn't all sweet romantic walks through a lovely old town. Or maybe he just wanted to play a game.

In the evening we went back to the hotel and in the street in front of it, there was a group of young men sitting on scooters. My man stopped short and looked at them. He then looked at me. I saw a kind of wicked smile play on his lips and then he went over to the young men and talked to them.

When he came back they followed him. They looked at me in a way that made me blush. They stared at me, and smiled.

He took us all into a back alley behind the hotel. He took my arm and turned me around so I suddenly stood facing the small group of three Italian youths.

'Knickers off,' he said to me in a sharp voice.

Humiliation burned my cheeks as I put my hands under my skirt and pulled my knickers down. I stepped out of them and tried to give them to my man. He pointed to the young men and one of them reached out and took them. He chuckled and put them in his pocket.

'You,' my man said and pointed to one of the youths, the tallest and most handsome of them. 'Come here.'

The young man came forward.

'Unbutton your dress,' he said to me.

My fingers were numb as I did as I was told. I was terrified but not of the young man, but of my own humiliation.

'Slip it down your shoulders,' he snapped.

I parted the panels and slipped my dress from my shoulders. The young men stared at me, my breasts, and licked their lips.

'You may touch them now,' he said to the man standing closest to me.

I held my breath as his hands shot out towards my breasts. For a short moment, he seemed to hesitate, as if he didn't believe his luck. He smiled a childish smile and put his hands on my bosom.

I drew my breath. His fingers were cold. He started to grope me and knead my breasts with his nervous hands. He eagerly squeezed my flesh till it hurt. I looked at him and saw him stare with wide eyes at his own hands and my bosom.

'Stop it now,' my man commanded, 'put your hand under her skirt.'

He withdrew his hands, looked nervously at my man and then complied. He lifted my skirt and put his hand on my sex. I held my breath.

The youth looked at my man who nodded consent and he slipped his fingers into me. He was not gentle. He was too eager, too nervous. He rubbed his fingers against me, inside me and I gasped at the suddenness and the intensity of his movements.

'Stop now,' was the command, 'go now, the rest is for me.'

The young man withdrew. He looked in awe at my man but seemed unable to say anything. The other two looked amazed and disappointed, as they all returned to their scooters.

'Now they will have something to talk about,' he chuckled as he turned to me.

I still stood with my back against the wall, my dress down from my shoulders and with my bosom on full display.

'How do you feel?'

'Ravaged.'

'Excited?'

'Yes.'

'Humiliated?'

'Yes.'

'Button your dress.'

'Yes, Sir.'

I was trembling as we entered the hotel and went to our room. The youths were gone from the street. I was sure the story would be all around town soon.

'The rest is, indeed, for me,' he said as he began to unbutton my dress.

In that moment I didn't care I had been humiliated in a back alley behind a hotel. I desperately wanted him to touch me.

Sense of Humour

Dear Readers, I am glad you got the meaning of my last piece. I used the image of a landscape to express the sense of reality that comes with imagination, at least with my imagination. It may lead you to think that this inner world is more consistent and less chaotic than it is. It can be wonderful but confusing to go there, believe me, but it is never boring.

Wystan called a manifesto and in a way he is right. I do want to tell you about how great it is to have an inner world to explore. I know it may seem sad to others, people more firmly living in reality. I do inhabit both worlds, though. Maybe I have my head in the clouds too much but I am old enough to stop worrying about that. This is how I am.

I haven't been very active on the blog lately and I blame work and being busy. Strange then that when I get time I come up with a rather silly and strange and perhaps quite cruel story. I think it is a little inspired by something I read somewhere about a poor woman who got stuck in a trap door or something.

I will go on holiday tomorrow, far away from broadband and that sort of things. I will be back in June and wish you all a happy time. Take care of yourselves.

The stories about Sir Henry, 11th Earl of Tructon, are numerous. It would take more than one short tale to record his deeds and misdeeds, how he came to keep his wealth, what he did with the young widows and the source of the strange sounds that was heard from his estate during night time.

One of the many peculiarities concerning him, and this is without mentioning his appearance, his table manners and his interest in strange animals, was his sense of humour. He liked to play pranks on his friends and foes and not all of them were considered to be within the boundaries of what is called appropriate.

Perhaps the cruellest prank was played on the young and wilful lady Stephanie, 7th Duchess of Sprot. I don't know why he chose her and that particular prank but the nature of it may suggest that the Earl felt he had a score to settle.

It all happened at the Counter Dance at Tructon Hall, as he insisted on calling it. All other referred to it as The Ball. Anybody who was anybody in Society was invited and it was one of the cornerstones of the summer season.

The young Duchess had been summoned to Sir Henry's estate at noon and arrived in her chase and four. This is the only part of the story that is a real mystery. How did the Earl manage to get the noblewoman to leave her home and visit him on the day of The Ball? I don't know and perhaps only the Duchess herself knows this.

She was greeted with due respect but after that Sir Henry didn't waste any time and called on his servants, or at least a selection of the most reliable ones. Without further ado, the servants took hold of Lady Stephanie and conducted her to the Ball Room.

It is easy to understand that she was much vexed with being treated this way. This didn't cause Sir Henry or his servants any problems as they both outnumbered and out muscled the Duchess many times.

From the ceiling in the Ballroom there were usually five great chandeliers hanging but at this time the central one, the most imposing one, was substituted for a strange looking wooden box with a hinged door. The ugly looking thing was hanging in four sturdy chains. Below the box stood a heavy wooden chair, crafted in a style that didn't, at all, fit the grandeur of the room.

To this box the Duchess was taken and there she was very unceremoniously bundled into it. Or rather half of the Duchess was put in the box and the other half left outside of it. It turned out that the bottom of the box was cut out to form a semi circle that very conveniently fitted quite snugly around Lady Stephanie's waist. In this way, the poor woman found herself standing on the chair with her upper body inside the box and the lower part of it below it and outside of it.

I wasn't there so I can't say for sure but it seems likely that the Lady didn't see eye to eye with this treatment. To add to her humiliation, her rather elaborate skirts were lifted and bundled into the box and draped around her person, thus shamefully exposing the part that was sticking out.

The box was then closed and locked and the situation was now that the upper part of the Duchess along with her beautiful dress was inside the box while the lower part, from the midriff down, was standing below it, devoid of skirts.

'Ah, knickers, such novelty,' the Earl is reported to have said when he spotted the Lady's underwear.

'Off wit it all' he then continued and the, without doubt, quite excited servants soon proceeded with their task.

It is not reported with what language Lady Stephanie expressed her dismay at the removal of her shoes, stockings and those infamous knickers but it was without doubt not of the gentler kind. She was surely in great distress when she found that her nether body was left quite bare.

It was still some time until the Ball was due but the cruel Earl left the young Duchess standing on the chair in her exposed condition during the rest of the preparations.

There is not much to be said about the young woman's ordeal during this time but at last the hour of the Ball drew near. The room was ready and the Earl decided it was time to put the finishing touches to the decoration. This meant removing the ugly chair, leaving the poor Duchess hanging from the box. He then had the whole thing covered in a great white blanket. This made it appear as the centre of the room was occupied by a covered statue or something similar.

To cut to the final chapter of this strange event, the guests arrived in their best gowns and suits and there was an abundance of jewellery and beauty and a shameless display of richness and power. Everyone was, of course curious about the strange display in the middle of the room but no one was allowed to come near it, as it was guarded by four sturdy man servants.

No sound came from it either, the Duchess was clever enough to know when it was a good strategy to keep her voice down.

When all the guests had been greeted and been allowed to chat and mingle for a while the Earl, himself, addressed the crowd, standing in the middle of the room. No one really heard what he said but all agree that he looked well pleased when he finally removed the blanket and exposed the box and what was visible of the Duchess of Sprot.

The lack of clothing on the visible parts of the Duchess caused much comments and some of the guests were quite scandalised but everyone assumed that it was a well deserving servant girl or some other lowly subject of the Earl in the box and soon began to see the upside of the arrangement.

The Earl was holding a vicious looking horsewhip in his hand and with this he delivered two or three swift cuts to the unprotected backside of the young Duchess. This caused the guests much amusement and they seemed to find the wild movements of the hanging legs particularly entertaining.

The four guards where now, as it seemed, equipped with some tools: a horsewhip, a bunch of birch twigs, one of those short leather whips called a quirt and a sturdy looking wooden board. They were no longer ordered to keep the guests away but to supply them with their tools and in an ordered fashion let them approach the Duchess and have a swing at her.

The crowd found much pleasure in this and soon there was a great gathering of guests around the Lady and much debate about which tool was best to use. There was much speculation about the identity of the girl in the box and some listened intently at the rather muffled sounds coming from the box when the tools made contact with the exposed flesh.

Some assumed that it was an unknown maid the Earl wanted to amuse the guests with, a girl who had erred in some way, thus earning this treatment. Others pointed to the soft and unblemished skin of the half body that was on display and draw the conclusion that it may be a noblewoman. Who it was they tried to conclude using deduction, figuring out who was not present.

A group of men stood by the side with their heads together, nodding and smirking. They looked at the legs and looked back and nodded and seemed to agree.

This caused one of the younger men in the group to draw himself up and stare wildly at the visible part of the Duchess. Suddenly he walked over to the box with determined steps, red in his face. He then grabbed the horsewhip from a servant and pushed the man with the quirt out of the way.

Without a word and with a wild and quite terrifying expression on his face he deliver two dozen quite vicious lashes to the dancing legs, across bottom and thighs and it wasn't until he was done his smile returned.

During this intense onslaught the howls from the box became louder and some people around seemed to get an idea of the identity of the girl inside it. Soon the crowd was whispering 'Lady Stephanie' and 'the Duchess of Sprot'.

At first there was a little bit of shock and a gasp. There was a short hesitation but soon the crowd stormed forward and struggled to lay their hands on the tools.

The poor Duchess was soon the centre of a flurry of activities that all had in common some quite painful contact between her exposed skin and some mean tool for punishment.

The guests showed real ingenuity in their attempts to cover every little inch of the visible parts of the Duchess' skin with marks of the whips. The fair lady turned rather pink and later red.

It was Sir Henry, himself, who put an end to her ordeal by ordering the chair to be put back under the box and the box itself opened. The guests could then make sure that it was really Lady Stephanie who was inside it.

It is said that the Duchess stepped down from the chair and walked through the room with some dignity, although somewhat gingerly. She was, of course, covered by her skirts as she walked from the room but to her great shame she was wearing a day dress while all of the others where wearing ball gowns.

The Ball was a success and Sir Henry was much admired for his boldness and audacity. Some of the guests were, of course, sympathetic to Lady Stephanie but they kept quiet.

The Duchess was never seen again in Society. She tried many times to get her revenge on the Earl but failed miserably every time. It was not for her to arrange his both untimely and shameful death but that is an entirely different story.

This story has a sting in the tail, though. The Duchess went abroad and married the Archprince of Ostburg. Not many years later a war ensued and after some fierce fighting the Archprince found himself the conqueror of the Kingdom. It is not hard to imagine the influence of his beautiful wife when he then had the entire nobility of the subdued realm shot on the spot.