Surrender, part 17

The story goes on.

Sarah was right, he did reach far into my soul. It was like he spoke to some of those childhood dreams I had. But still he was different, he was a man and he was real. I was a princess and wanted a prince but this man was real, not a prince. Still there was something of me that longed for him to take command, to take away all that independence I had, to break through.

But I was someone. I had accomplished something. I was my own. I didn't want to be just another of those who longed for a strong man to be in charge. It was so stupid, so childish. Being independent was good, it was not wrong, could never be wrong.

His behaviour tapped into thousands of years of history, of patriarchal oppression, and nothing would make me think that women really wanted that. There was a reality behind this, husbands had really whipped their wives when they didn't behave and I would never want that world to come back.

But I had let him cane me. I had let him order me and I did my best to obey him. Was it because I was a woman and he was a man? Or was it because I was that kind of woman and he that kind of man? I didn't think I was that but what had happened lately had forced me to reconsider. Did I really have a part of me, deep down, that wanted someone else in charge? Was it a romantic dream of being controlled and swept off my feet? Or was it just that I was a child at heart and he represented a grown up, a mentor, someone who was allowed to decide for me?

I couldn't tell and however much I thought about it I didn't come closer to an answer. I knew only that I was a thinking person and that when I let him rule me it was I who let him. It was my decision and it would always be.

A little calmer at that thought I walked home, sensing that I was still not ready to turn back. I still wanted to walk further on the path he had taken me. I wanted to be his.

He trained me and I let myself be trained. He had me kneel and show how obedient I could be. He had me make his tea and open his wine bottles. He told me what to wear and I complied.

In a way I liked it. It made me feel cared for, seen and loved. Still I was concerned about what this was doing to me, with my independence. I loved him, didn't want to lose him. I played it as a game, like something we did. I let him be the patriarch and I the obedient woman.

On the other hand I knew what a fool I was. I knew he meant it for real. He had punished me for walking out on him. Those cane strokes had been for real and my obedience was for real. He was for real. I wondered if my reasoning, my rationalising it as a game was my defence against the reality of it. I loved him and I had to bow to him to be with him. He wanted to command me and perhaps I wanted it too.

For a period he was away quite a lot and I was left on my own, with my worries and thoughts. I spoke to Sarah about my emotions but I was no wiser.

I missed him badly and the longer I had to be without him the more my heart was hurting and the more I was prepared to do anything for him. I even dreamt of kneeling before him, offering myself to him.

Something happened one week at the end of the summer, when he had been away for five days. I sat at the library doing research. I was researching women's conditions in ancient Egypt when I looked up and saw my books spread out in front of me. My eyes swept over the pages and suddenly I saw one word that seemed to be in every title in every book. The word was 'slavery.'

I was reading about slave contracts in ancient Egypt, how women signed contracts for permanent or temporary slavery. I searched for evidence about the social and economic conditions that forced them into that situation.

What struck me was how this theme of slavery had run through my research for years, how preoccupied I had been with slavery and slaves and especially female slavery.

On the one hand it is an interesting area, a valid subject to research. And useful for the research community in widening the horizon of knowledge. There was absolutely nothing strange with my choice of subject.

On the other hand I knew well in my heart that people often chose subject for some personal reason. I had joked about that male colleague who was preoccupied with the weaponry of the Scythians and that female researcher who often wrote about Roman footwear.

They had been example, I thought, of how researchers allow their personal interest to decide their academic topics. I had been blind to myself.

I sat there in the library with my heart beating. Why was I interested in slavery? I had to admit that I had always felt a kind of thrill at the thought of slavery, a kind of appalled fascination at the idea of people being property, things you can buy and sell. And female slavery appeared to me to be the utmost expression of a pattern in society where men ruled and women bowed their heads to those men.

I had often wondered what it was like being a slave. I had shuddered and been both appalled and fascinated thinking about what you had to go through as a slave, being sold, perhaps in a public sale and being taken from your home as loot.

My mind had shunned away from the thought of what happened to these girls in the homes of their owners, what men would do when given possession of women who had no right to refuse them.

I knew what happened. I had even written an article about it. I was no fool. I knew how both men and women used and abused slaves. But it was as if my own imagination didn't want to deal with that part. I had kept a professional distance to it.

Was I that easy to analyse? Was I just a naïve girl who wanted a man to rule her and who had let that desire decide her career? Did I want to be one of those girls who were sold at a Roman slave markets? Did I want to be ruled?

The day after he was back and he immediately put me to the test. He told me, already over the phone that we were going to a party, a gathering of people he met for his work. It was an informal party but one he needed and wanted to go to, to be able to rub shoulders with the right people.

I was to come with him, as his partner. He wanted to show me off, as he put it. I was both flattered and dead scared. He had told me to bring my black dress and I was concerned. He seriously wanted me to wear a minuscule, black and very tight dress to a party where people would be in black tie.

'It is a very nice cocktail dress,' he said when I told him how I felt about it.

There was no discussion about it. I had to wear it and I was aware that obeying him meant to accept such things as donning clothes I found too revealing.

'Can I at least take my black ballerinas?'

'Yes, you do that, that will be quirky, I like that.'

'Thank you,' I said a little puzzled by his comment.

'But I get to choose the knickers.'

'You get to choose everything. I asked you if I was allowed to take the ballerinas.'

He beamed at me and I was a little bewildered. Was this a game or was it for real?

He went away and came back with the tiniest knickers he could find. They were black string knickers that was nothing more than a small triangle covering the sex only.

'Strip naked before you put the clothes on.'

I blushed as I took my clothes off and put on the tiny knickers.

'Bra?'

'No bra. You should go like this, knickers only.'

I gave him a glance and reached quickly for the dress and pulled it over my head.

The black dress was very clinging, it hugged my body and I felt naked in it. There was a point in wearing string knickers to such a dress, one that was so tight against your body.

It had spaghetti straps and left my shoulders and upper part of my bosom bare. I had not much of a cleavage and he had chosen a dress that was revealing but not demanding a big bosom. Had it not been me showing off my body in it, I thought it was a quite elegant dress.

In addition it was very short, it fell only to half my thighs and it was the kind of dress in which you would be concerned about picking something up from the floor lest your knickers were shown, or in my case my buttocks.

Green Satin Dress

Just to show you that I have written other things than the very long story I am serialising at the moment. I was browsing through things I have written and found this. It is from 2007 and when I found it I wasn't even sure I had written it myself. I still have some doubts but I think it is a little of my style. What confuses, perhaps, is that I wrote it for a friend, a cyber buddy and I am sure he knows who he is. He is a person who was very surprised, recently, when I told him he inspired me.

Anyway, this is one of those annoying stories that ends in the middle of events but there is really no continuation so feel free to imagine whatever you want. And if you are offended by the thought of sexual tension between minors and older people I can tell you that nothing illegal happens in this story...smiles.

The man was waiting for the girl. He had prepared for her arrival. He had cooked for her, nothing fancy, something simple but something he knew was very nice. Now he was waiting.

He thought about her as a girl but she was, really, a woman. She was eighteen years of age and although he was twice her age she was, indeed a young woman. He liked that. He had met her for the first time when she was fifteen. She was the daughter of a colleague and she had been there when he came to visit. She had not been a flirt, neither did she ever talk to him but she had made an unforgettable impression on him.

She had been terribly shy, blushing as he looked at her. Still she had made his heart beat faster. It was something about her that made him have thoughts he wouldn’t readily admit to. He thought about what kind of knickers she wore and how soft her young breasts would be. He dismissed those thoughts, thinking that she was too young, only a child.

Many girls of that age are cute and beautiful and sometimes even very sexy but he thought them too young, not really attractive. This girl was different. She had grace superior to girls of her age and she had an air of serenity seldom found in people at all.

Something had happened that had stayed in his memory. He had asked her to get another glass of lemonade as they were sitting in the garden and she had moved without hesitation, gracefully and, he dared not think it, obediently and the faint smile he saw on her face puzzled him still.

Now she was eighteen and they had met again. She had grown to a young woman and he was surprised to find that something of her magic was still there. He was still attracted to it and her and now with less qualms. She was a woman and not a child any more.

He had felt that there was something, a spark, an attraction between them and he had enjoyed every minute of it. They had dated like young students and he had taken her to a couple of restaurants, a gallery, the cinema and the theatre. Now he had invited her to his flat, planning on cooking her dinner. He was nervous in a way he had not been for many years. She was only a girl but still he was nervous.

The doorbell rang. His heart started pounding. He looked in the mirror and liked what he saw. He was tense but happy as he opened the door.

She was stunning. She had dressed up for the occasion. She was wearing a deep green

satin dress with very wide knee long skirt. The dress was sleeveless and quite low cut but not vulgar in any way. Her hair was arranged to expose her soft and very white neck. He loved her neck. On her feet she wore heelless green shoes, the type they call ballerinas. This made her look a little more girlish than what the cool elegance of her dress suggested.

He noticed she was not wearing a bra and thought that she was not wearing anything else but her dress, her knickers and her shoes. He thought that she was naked underneath her clothes and smiled at himself thinking how silly that thought was. Everyone in naked underneath their clothes but now, here and with her that thought took on a new and more interesting significance.

She blushed and bowed her head as he welcomed her and asked her to enter. He showed her into the dining room and she walked in front of him in her typical, graceful and smooth way, the way he had come to love when he saw her for the first time.

Dating this lovely young woman had been a strange experience. She had been so shy, so timid, always blushing, looking down, never ever raising her voice. She was always polite and soft. Still he didn't find her weak, nor meek. There was something about her that hinted at a hidden passion underneath the surface.

She was clever, he knew that. Most people, including women seemed to be less clever than him. He was used to that but with this girl it was different. He sensed that she may even be his superior and he was not intimidated by that. That was really something unusual.

There was something in the way she acted that made him intrigued beyond understanding and something that excited him more than he wanted to admit. She always did what he asked her without hesitation, without the slightest hint of irritation. She complied with his every wish with a grace and elegance that took his breath away. This quality of hers was very subtle but it excited him more than anything else. She was obedient.

She made it seem like she wanted it, like she waited for it, that his wishes triggered the actions she longed for and craved. He had dared to test her. He gradually had taken more and more control of the situation and he had met no resistance. Still she didn't seem to be a person devoid of wishes, lacking a will of her own. In some strange way, it was like she wanted to be obedient, as if her person, her sharp intellect desired it.

He had decided to test her, to ask her to do things that she might not like, just to see how she reacted. His heart started pounding as he prepared his demands. He felt more nervous than when he tried his first kiss and was deadly scared the girl would reject him, find him ugly or horrible.

'Will you, please, take off your panties?' he asked sounding very polite.

He was scared by the sound of his own voice. He had wanted to frame it better, to make it sound like an exquisite and exciting demand, an invitation to some delicate pleasure. Instead he was blunt.

She gave him a quick glance, no hesitation, just a flicker in her eyes. She moved her hand and he listened to the sounds of the satin dress as she reached under her skirt and slid down her knickers. He felt like a schoolboy as he stared down her dress as she bowed down and removed her undergarment. He saw that she, indeed, was not wearing a bra.

She handed him her knickers and he took them and put them in his pocket. He didn't know why he did that, it just happened. But as he did it, it appeared to him that he accepted her surrender, like her knickers was the sign of her defeat and he put the trophy in his pocket to keep as a reminder of his victory.

She blushed as she ran her hands down her skirt, straightening it. She looked at him and he wondered what it was he saw in her eyes. There was a glimmering in them but he could not understand what she felt. He could see no resentment, no anger.

'Please, sit down!' he said as he held her chair.

She moved to sit down.

'But, please, lift your skirt!' he continued. He was bolder now, more daring in his requests. It was like a game and he had cleared the first hurdle. It gave him confidence.

She sat down and arranged her skirt around her. His mind was focussed on the thought of her naked behind touching the surface of the chair. He wondered how she felt. She had complied and by complying and doing it without any words she had recognised his power over her. In less than a minute she had showed him that he was in command and that she was willing to obey.

He got the food, waited on her, asked her if she wanted wine. He was the perfect gentleman, the perfect waiter. Still she was the girl who had obeyed him.

He sat down opposite her. He looked into her eyes and she looked back, blushed and looked down. She smiled. He saw a soft, gentle and very private smile on her lips. He felt brave.

'I want you to slide your dress from your shoulders,' he said and he noticed how she draw her breath, ever so slightly. She did not hesitate, though. She moved her small hands to her dress and slid it from her shoulders. She let her hands fall down again and the dress slid further down exposing her small but round and firm breasts. He noticed her nipples, erect and attentive. He knew it didn't necessarily mean she was aroused but still he liked what he saw.

Then they had dinner and with mounting satisfaction he found that her dress slid further down her shoulders as she moved and slowly exposed her more. He knew she would do whatever he asked of her.

Surrender, part 16

Hello there, Dear Readers, those of you who are still there. Now to next part of this story.

'Kneel!'

I was awakened from my thoughts.

'Now, my dear, spread your legs, as you do at home, every evening. I assume you do that, as I have instructed.'

'Yes, I do, every evening.'

I worked my knees outwards.

'Is this how you kneel?'

'Yes.'

'This isn't good enough, wider.'

'I am sorry,' I said as I spread my thighs wider.

'Don't worry.'

'Like this?'

'Wider.'

When he was satisfied I had my knees spread almost painfully wide.

'Back straight, bosom out, head up. Be proud!'

'I don't feel proud. I feel cheap.'

'It will come.'

He had me sit like that, open, naked and spread wide for a while. He sat in his armchair regarding me. I struggled with embarrassment and shame.

Finally he rose from his chair and approached me. My heart started beating wildly. I wondered if he was going to touch me.

He knelt in front of me and was suddenly very close. I sat in position, very exposed, very vulnerable. Was he going to touch me? He was close to me and I trembled as I felt the smell from his body. There was a hint of sandalwood and man. It made me tremble.

He put his hand out and held it in front of me. I held my breath in anticipation as I almost felt his touch as his hand approached me. He held it still and my skin was aching with the longing for that hand to come closer.

'Don't close your eyes. I want you to see me touch you.'

He finally touched me, he put his hand on my left breast and I heard myself sigh. He kneaded my breast, determined but gently. He felt my hard nipple in the palm of his hand, squeezed my breast, took the beaded nipple between thumb and forefinger, pinched it a little.

Then he let his hand slip down from my breast, over my midriff and a finger found its way into my belly button. I sighed again and felt stupid. His other hand he put on my hip while the first one continued down my lower belly.

I held my breath as he put his hand on my sex and I exhaled as he slipped his fingers into me.

'Look at me! Look at my hand as it enters you!'

His fingers snaked in me, felt their way, found what it was seeking. I struggled with him, with his fingers, felt that I should try to hold back. But there came a moment when I could fight no longer, when I turned around and was ready to welcome it.

It was in that moment he withdrew. He rose to his feet and returned to his armchair. I sat shivering on my knees, my body aching. I stared at him in disbelief.

'Come!' he said and stood up and held his hand out. I rose to my feet, took his hand and was led to the bedroom. There I undressed him, unbuttoned his shirt, caressed his breast, unbuckled his belt, released his sex.

In the bedroom I prepared him, stripped him naked and was told to kneel by him and serve him with my mouth. I wasn't used to that. I didn't know how but he instructed me and I was willing to please him, although my body ached for him to come into me.

Finally when I was almost crying with frustration, my body aching for release, he put me on my back and entered me. When it happened it didn't take long. I was scared by the violence of it. I used to be slow but now I wasn't. Now my body had longed for it so long it exploded almost at the merest touch by him.

In the common room at my college, the following Monday I was met with amazed gazes. I was sporting, as instructed, the shorter of the new black skirts. It was fit for work but still very, very short. I was wearing a body hugging, striped top, that had a so wide neck that it almost came off my shoulders.

I was properly dressed, no provoking cleavage or vulgar excesses but I am sure they noticed my nipples. I blushed as I looked around the room. Some of my older colleagues looked displeased, some even scandalised but the younger men among the fellows seemed more pleased.

I had very mixed feelings. On the one hand I felt like a clown, like someone who had overstepped the boundaries, like I had stripped naked and run across the quad. I felt I had done something wrong, broken some untold rule of decency. On the other hand I felt a strange thrill of satisfaction at the gazes I received from some of my colleagues and wondered if they found me attractive. There was also a sense of pride of having been brave enough to follow orders. I was showing the world I was his. Even if no one else got the message.

To lecture I donned a jacket. There was no way I would teach in a top that showed the students quite clearly I was not wearing a bra.

'Wow!' Sarah said as I met up with her after work.

We sat at the pub and had half a pint each. It didn't felt like a wine evening.

'You look great,' she continued, 'this man works wonders with you. What I have tried to do in years he achieves in weeks.'

'Stop it! You talk about me as if I was some hopeless nut case.'

'Well, reality isn't far from that.'

'Just because I am a little prudish.'

'Skip the “little” and yes, that is right. This man of yours, did he have to whip you a lot to get you into those clothes?'

'Will you keep your voice down!'

Sarah chuckled.

'Did he?'

'No.'

'But he did whip you?'

'Caned me, it is called caning.'

'Yeah, right, I guess it is important to get those things right, in that company.'

'What company?'

'He obviously is into kink, there are loads of people like him out there.'

'He isn't part of any scene,' I said and heard how sulking I sounded.

'A freebooter, even better.'

'What do you mean?'

'That he is strong enough to do what he wants and not what is mainstream.'

'Canings can hardly be mainstream.'

'I meant mainstream in the scene.'

'You know an awful lot about this.'

'It is common knowledge, stupid.'

'Don't call me stupid.'

'Listen, this guy is clearly into that sort of kink and it is doing you good. I can see that. I am not surprised.'

'What do you mean?'

'You like it, admit it?'

'I don't.'

'You do, but you can't admit it. You are too prudish.'

'I am not.'

'You admitted it.' She chuckled.

'Don't be daft!'

'But seriously, I have known you for quite a long time, like forever, and I know you. You really long for the knight in shining armour.'

'You are saying, I am hopelessly romantic?'

'Nothing hopeless in that but you are. And that's not all.'

'All what?'

'You will never admit it but that knight is supposed to come and sweep you off your feet and you still wish for that. You like a strong man to be in command.'

'I am an independent woman.'

'Yeah, but there aren't that many knights out there, so you have to defend yourself against the ogres.'

'So I have been waiting for a strong man to sweep me off my feet?'

'Yeah, someone who is strong enough to control you, to curb a little of that pride of yours.'

'I am not proud. I just have accomplished something. What's wrong with that?'

'Nothing at all. But you want someone to come along and take that away, undress you.'

'And rape me?'

'Don't be silly, I meant it metaphorically, like you have your armour, to take some of that away, to reach through to you.'

'And control me?'

'Yeah, that too. And I think this one has managed that.'

'So he is my knight in shining armour who sweeps me off my feet?'

'Something like that. But you didn't expect him to come with a whip and a rope.'

'What do you mean?'

'He wants to dominate you, right?'

'What do you mean?'

'He punished you for being disobedient, that sort of thing, dominate you, command you.'

'Yeah, I guess so.'

'And you want to submit.'

'No, I don't.'

'But you do.'

'I don't.'

'Like allowing him to cane you is not submitting to him?'

'I wanted him to take me back.'

'You want it.'

'No. And he has never tied me up.'

'Tied you?'

'You said the knight had ropes.'

'No, not yet.'

'I am not into kink.'

'I didn't say you were. Just that you liked him for what he does to you.'

'He loves me.'

'Yes, silly cow, I know that. I can see that. But he also takes command and you like it. It does you good.'

'Sarah, I do feel strange.'

'Not surprised.'

'You know it all, don't you?' I heard how strained my voice was.

'Do you love him?'

'Immensely.'

'Good.'

Scenes and Settings, part 3

I thought I should continue my blogging about scenes and settings. We tend to be quite similar when it comes to that, don't you think? Often when I write of some setting I find particularly interesting I find that I share it with others. Maybe it all follows a pattern and we all think we are unique while we are just parts of something bigger.

Or maybe there are something general in those scenes that speak to our minds. Like there are historical or at least possible scenes that evoke something within us that is easily transformed into fantasies. The slave market is an obvious choice, it is degrading and speaks to our sense of unfairness. In a world that publicly shuns objectification of women, especially as sexual beings (here is the hypocrisy, though, never before has the world been so full of exposed female bodies, that are there for the pleasure of the viewer), the fantasy about a time and a place when a woman was an object you could buy and sell seems alluring, maybe because it provokes our good taste. Perhaps it is because it is about the public display of bodies, the objectification of women that makes us go there, that makes it forbidden and exciting.

I know that some out there likes to turn it around, to have a man be the focus of attention. I know this. But this is my blog so I simplify it a bit. For me there is always a woman being sold or whipped or whatever she is subjected to.

Another of those scenes that lends itself well to fantasies is the public punishment of criminals. There is a plethora of scenes and settings that fascinates us. Is it because someone is exposed to public shame and agony we like it? A real public punishment was surely a gruesome event but in our mind we take away from it some of the forbidden fascination and transform it into a fantasy.

I bet there were more men who were publicly whipped than women but in fantasy land it is often a woman who is there, tied to some whipping post being treated with a whip. In fantasy land she has no right to retain any decency. No she is brutally stripped naked, so it becomes a scene with one person stripped and exposed in front of the many and subjected to a cruel punishment.

We take something that has some roots in reality and transform it into a scene from fantasy. The shame is accentuated by being naked, the excruciating pain becomes passion and arousal.

A very typical scene, at least in my mind, is the public square, in some medieval town. There is a scaffold with a whipping post. There is a crowd, hungry for the spectacle to come. There is a man, in mask. A strong man, muscles shining in the sun, boots, a broad leather belt and a vicious whip in his hand. He is the Man. He becomes the symbol of male power, the ruthless lover, the one who takes but gives nothing back.

There are also other men, grim and old; the magistrate, the judges, the ones who judge and decide on the punishment. They are not attractive. They are cruel and ugly and cold. They are there to see that the punishment is carried out according to the law. They are the men who have the power.

Then there is the woman, the heroine, the criminal, the one deserving the punishment. She is helpless and vulnerable and have no means of protection, even the law wants to see her suffer. The crowd wants to see her suffer, the judges want to see her suffer.

On my medieval square she is stripped naked, her flimsy dress is ripped from her body and she is tied to the pole. The Man, the masked man with the whip steps forward and the crowd falls silent.

This was not supposed to be about what happens. It was about the setting, the scene. You have to do what you like with this. I am done describing it now. Maybe I return someday to write a story.

What about mutuality, that thing we really need to have for it not to become really cruel. I think this woman, in her heart, really fancies the Man with the whip, and somewhere deep inside she gets a thrill from having her clothes ripped off and whipped senseless. As I said, the pain transforms to passion in fantasy land, passion and arousal, and maybe more.

Surrender, part 15

The good thing with writing and getting things off your chest is that it becomes less important, it starts to fade and you hope it will soon go away. I wrote about something that bothered me, you read it, Dear Readers, and I am grateful. I am beginning to leave it all behind and I even feel a little silly for making such a fuss about it. I guess it means it isn't as important any longer.

Enough of that. Here is the fifteenth instalment of the story of a poor woman's journey into submission (we can assume...smiles).

'Do you know what I want to do now?' he asked as he pointed to a dark green top with spaghetti straps and a black, straight and very short skirt, I should wear.

'I don't know,' I said as I donned the clothes, feeling relieved I was allowed to dress.

I continued dressing, casting a glance in the mirror wondering if I ever would be comfortable in a top like that, that clung to my body and with bare shoulders, not to mention a skirt that showed half of my thighs.

'Wait!'

He rummaged through one bag and presented the wooden spoon.

'No, you can't be serious.'

'Ah, you know I am serious.'

'But what have I done?' I was baffled by my own question. I had begun to thing like him, that he could use those things on me, to punish me.

'Nothing, really, this would be for fun.'

'Please.'

'Don't fret now.'

'I don't think it is fun.'

'Does that really matter?'

I looked at him and wondered how he managed to combine the childish joy of shopping 'sexy' clothes to me with the steel hard conviction that he could spank me just because he wanted it. He really meant that my objections didn't matter. I had thought he cared about me, and maybe he did, but that would never be allowed to interfere with his desires.

Soon I found myself leaning over the big oaken table, as that first time, that day when he spanked me and set something in motion I felt I wasn't sure I could control any more.

'Good girl,' he said and stirred up rebellion in me. In that moment the thought of being spanked wasn't as horrible as his mocking me for accepting it.

I stayed in place. I didn't rebel. I let him work the tight skirt up my hips. His hands on my hips made me shiver with delight and I was shocked at sensing how much I longed for his touch.

Something happened in that moment that terrified me more than anything that happened before during that day. He stood a while and did nothing, waiting. My skirt was around my hips and I assumed he stared at my knickerclad bottom. I was wearing a silken red pair he had bought me that day. I knew him enough to know that he enjoyed the sight and I was pleased with that, pleased and embarrassed. But it wasn't until he put his hands on me again and pulled my knickers down I felt how much I had wanted him to do that.

I trembled with a sudden surge of excitement. My cheeks flashed as I felt a wave of arousal run through me. I was intimidated by the sense of being aroused by him shaming me like that. I felt cheap but couldn't help enjoying it.

The worst thing was that the added shame of knowing he did it, he bared me, to make the spoon hit harder. That cruelty, only contributed to the sense of arousal.

I didn't enjoy the smack he gave me with the hard wooden spoon. The sense was quite different from the cane. The pain didn't sear through my soul as much but I surely felt it. I jumped and squealed. I had just time to collect myself when he smacked me again.

He didn't spank me for long, in total it may have been a dozen of them but they were quite hard. I was overwhelmed and confused by the mix of sensations. The initial arousal clashed with the sharp and sudden pain of the spoon hitting my skin and I was shocked by the sheer power of the smacks. He did it for real, he put some force into the whacks and they hurt, profoundly and what terrified me was how ruthless he was when it was 'just for fun'.

Still I felt he knew what he was doing. He would never harm me, never cause damage to me. He whacked me good, knowing how much it hurt me, but he would never do it to harm me. I trusted him with that.

'Are you going to try all of your toys on me?'

He chuckled at that.

'No, my dear, not tonight. And they are not my toys, they are your toys.'

'I thought toys were for having fun.'

'I am having fun.'

When I rose and straightened my skirt I looked at him. He looked at me with a kind of curious expression on his face. In that moment I saw how immensely attractive he was. I stared at his eyes and wanted to drown in them. I wanted his lips to kiss me and his strong arms to hold me, to crush me in their embrace.

I remembered how he had groped me on the landing, long time ago and I got a strange image in my head of him pushing me against a wall, or the bonnet of a car, ripping my clothes off and ravaging me. In that flash of a moment I wanted to be ravaged.

It went and I came to my senses but it left a craving that murmured deep inside me. I had never in my life wanted to be had as much as I did in that moment. For me, sex was something I wanted when it happened, when I was being touched in the right way and in the darkness of a bedroom, when I gave in to the sensation of being close to a lover. Now I felt it while I was dressed, staring at a man.

Instead I helped him cook. He was making pasta. This man was excited by anything Italian or French. I preferred East Asian food but I had to admit that the Carbonara he conjured up was nice. I admired him for making something ordinary like that taste so good. But I dreamt of cooking for him something I really loved.

'You are an arrogant bastard, you know that?' I said as we sat down to eat.

'Yes, I know that.'

'You have made me do things I never thought was possible.'

'Is that a good or a bad thing?'

'I don't know, I am not sure I care, maybe I do. A little bit of both.'

'A little?'

'A big bit of both.'

'I am proud too, you know', he said, 'you need to boost my ego.'

'Do I do that?'

'Yes, you do.'

'Oh.'

'I know I am an arrogant bastard, but I like being one.'

He chuckled as he continued eating the pasta he had prepared.

'I am exhausted,' he said as he sat down in his armchair when the dinner was over, 'but I don't think it is time for you to rest, just yet.'

I looked at him.

'Here,' he said and tossed me a thin green scarf, 'put this on!'

The scarf was very thin and flimsy and had some golden threads weaved in its fabric. It was so thin that you could look through it.

'Not like that', he continued, 'around your hips, I wanted your red one but this will do, it is a nice colour, don't you think?'

I tied the scarf around my hips, like I had done with the red one. This meant I didn't spread it out but collected it as a band, not more than four inches wide that encircled my hips, just below the hip bones. I knotted it at my left hip. This meant the scarf embraced my body, around my lower belly, way below my belly button but above my sex. It was more like a belt worn very low.

When I was done I stood watching him. He didn't speak. He waited. I waited.

I saw in his eyes that he waited for me to do something and I wasn't completely sure what it was. I remembered his references to the red scarf which I had tied around my hips in similar way.

I kept staring at him as I reached for the top and gently slipped it over my head. I then unbuttoned the skirt and wriggled it down my hips. Lastly I slipped off my knickers and arranged the scarf so that it hung in its right place.

I saw he was pleased. This was what he wanted of me. He wanted me naked, dressed only in this flimsy scarf, a piece of cloth that didn't even cover my sex.

'Turn around!'

I said nothing.

'Stand still now!'

'Straighten your back', he continued, 'push your bosom out, put the weight on your left leg. That's it.'

I stood and let him watch me.

'You are beautiful. How delightful it is to see your nipples bead, see that lovely body shiver. I love your sweet belly.'

He sat in silence for a while.

'What would you think if I invited some friends, and had you wait at the table, dressed like that?'

'You can't be serious.'

'Imagine I am!'

'I won't do it.'

'You said you'd do anything.'

'But that is silly, they would wonder.'

'Don't worry about that', he chuckled.

'I would be dead embarrassed.'

'I know, but would you do it?'

'I still think it is silly and stupid and horrible, but I would do it. I have said I would do anything.'

'Good, I like to hear that.'

My heart was beating hard at the prospect of parading through his flat clad only in a scarf that didn't even cover my sex while he entertained guests. I thought that he seemed to be the man who knew people who could enjoy such a thing.

Bothersome Thoughts

Sometimes, something gets to me, someone angers me or hurts me and I know I should just let it go but it comes back and won't let go. Most people will just tell me to don't bother and that I shouldn't let people get me down and all that. They are right, of course, but sometimes it doesn't work. For various reasons. You may be constantly reminded or the other person won't leave you alone.

I blogged some time ago about someone making me hurt and angry and I thought I was done with it. But it is returning and now I will use my blog, my space to rant about what happened, give my version of events. I do what I know best, I write about it.

Some time ago I was approached in chat by someone who has been in a part of the blogosphere I have been visiting for some time. I am happy to give everybody a chance. We both have a common friend so I was generally accepting towards this person and, perhaps, a tad too willing to trust him.

I should have known were it was going when he started to go on about how it was important to do it for real, imaginary spankings isn't the same as real ones and that writing only makes it worse. These were his words, not mine. I know this point of view, I have encountered it many times before and most people tend to accept it when I tell them I prefer my way of approaching things and that writing does not at all make things worse.

This was not enough for him. He knew better and even suggested I should pay someone to smack my bottom.

Talking to someone who doesn't at all respect me and my decisions make me, first, annoyed and, then, angry. We all have our lives to lead and we approach them in the way we know best and to assume, without knowing someone, that your own solution is best for others is disrespectful and plain stupid.

I should have stopped there but I didn't. It became worse. In a a moment of madness I told him that I can't have children, that it simply doesn't work. It is not about husband, it is about me. It is true and the madness was in ever mentioning it.

This person then promptly declares that it is because I haven't met him or his brother and then went on to tell me how potent and fertile they were. If that was a joke I may be a person without humour. To me that is exactly the things you don't tell a woman who has divulged to you one of the great pains of her life.

Now, I am telling you. It is no secret now, but still something very sad. And I may be forgiven, I think, for not wanting to laugh.

I gave him another chance, sometimes later, and then we started talking about grammar. You all know what I feel about grammar and how I try to explain my view on it. To cut a long story short. He claimed that English was developed from Latin and I told him he was wrong.

This is one of those things that could easily be checked, to see what the research community think of it. No, he knew about those things. He was a public school boy.

It is strange to spend years in education, studying, among other things, language history. To acquire knowledge about established theories and trends in a subject you come to love and cherish only to be dismissed with the argument that they are educated in a public school.

What gets to me is that when I try to stay on track, to argue my case, to ask what he meant by saying this or that, he changes subject and comes with arguments about completely different things. He is like a sniper, shooting at you from a new place every time, not stopping and standing up for what he has said. This is really frustrating. And when he then turns around and try to laugh it off, suggesting that it is fun to argue about these matters, asking if I know what irony is, I have had enough.

I have been thinking about why I was so angry about a discussion about language history. I can see that it is not my desire to be proven right that is important but it was the way my view was dismissed, laughed at and just avoided that really fired me up. I don't have to be right but I want the one I am talking to, to understand that I do have a view that is worth respect, especially in a subject I have studied for many years.

Given the history of having been hurt by this person I felt that enough was enough and in the end I asked him to bugger off and to do other things off. Yes, I became rude. I said rude things although I did never call him names.

I was rewarded with being called foul mouthed fish wife and other equally insulting things. I was told I was playing the dumb blond. If that is not insulting I don't know what is.

I will end now and thank those who have managed to read my rant this far. I am not looking for support and I don't want to excuse myself. I just want to give my version of events and just tell my story, to get it out, off my chest, to talk. I mean nothing more than that. Thanks for listening.

Surrender, part 14

I gather some of you will find the pace a bit too slow. You will have to live with it.

I stayed with him, in his flat that night. I was his equal and he was gentle with me. He talked to me, listened to me, saw me and loved me and I felt happy.

I wondered about his demands, his will to power, his desire to control me. I saw very little of that during the evening but I noticed that he never, ever let go of his command of the situation. Although I was as his equal I was never his superior. The normal ebb and flow of in an interaction, the changing between being active and passive, dominant and held back always stopped with him being always the active and dominant.

On the Friday he took me to a restaurant. He was the perfect gentleman and I was his perfect date. We talked and we laughed and got a little tipsy.

I knew then what I loved about him. I loved that he was that unrelenting force that never ceased. He was the ever active mind, always attentive but always in command. I relaxed in that and remembered that I had loved that in him from the first day.

I was beginning to understand that his power, that power that had made me strip and kneel, that had mercilessly whipped me was just an extension of that which I saw in him always, at the restaurant, with friends, with me, in any situation I had seen him in.

I began to feel that I had in me a longing I had not dared to admit, a longing that I believe had been with me since childhood, or at least as long as I had known him. It was the soft spoken but relentless desire to give in to an overwhelming power, to let it sweep me away and carry me to vistas I had never visited.

Was the whippings and the training, the wearing of the clothes he choose, the stripping naked of me and the sitting by his feet part of that power or was it the price I had to pay to be blessed by it.

We went shopping on the Saturday and I was a bit apprehensive, both curious and frightened he would buy something horrible for me to wear, something vulgar and raunchy.

He put my worries to rest although there was a fair bit of embarrassment for me. He bought me some skirts, a couple that was black and very sober for my lectures. He thought them to be far better than the ones I owned since they were at least a couple of inches shorter.

He found some tops he liked, they were all body hugging, quite tight and some too short for my taste, one or two had quite wide necks but there were no really plunging necklines. I had too small breasts for that.

We bought some dresses and he proved he had good taste by buying some that were quite pretty, although he was very enthusiastic about a very, very short black one that had spaghetti straps and clung to my body. It was way too skimpy for anything I would ever have chosen.

'You are not supposed to enjoy shopping, you are a man,' I said when he enthusiastically scampered down an aisle on his way to the underwear.

'But you know,' he said, 'boys like buying things for their toys, and you are my toy.'

It was a joke, I knew that, but I thought in my heart that he really meant it. I was a toy for him, perhaps I was not one he would toss away soon but still a toy.

There were no buying of bras since he had decided I didn't need any so he went directly to the knickers department. He declared that although he liked my girly, silly ones he thought that I needed sexier knickers.

They were all too small and mostly black and red or both. I sighed and wondered if I wouldn't look like a porn star after all. I blushed to a deep red when he decided on some string knickers.

'Have you any idea how uncomfortable those are?'

'You are not going to wear them to be comfortable, you are going to wear them to please me.'

Those words could have been quite menacing if he hadn't smiled like a big happy child. He truly enjoyed this.

His eyes were shining as he dragged me too the swimsuits. Once again he avoided the vulgar and ugly but had no scruples about tiny ones.

I was already exhausted when he continued in among the kitchen utensils. He browsed the shelves and picked up a rather large wooden spoon. It was made of wood from some endangered rain forest tree and felt very heavy in my grip when he let me hold it.

'This I want you to have, he said, 'I will use it when I come visit.'

'Are you going to cook for us?'

'Ah, we'll see, but I am sure some raw meat will be involved.'

He chuckled to himself as if he had delivered a really brilliant joke.

At that moment I didn't get the meaning of the spoon. I did get suspicious when he bought a fish slice and a cheese board with a handle. When he found a bath brush and a very heavy hairbrush I was quite upset. I knew then that he was buying things to spank me with.

I was completely convinced when he went into a shop and bought a supple but hard riding crop.

I turned to him with a sense of being both intimidated and frightened. Most of all, I was offended by the assumption that he would need to use them on me.

'There will be no need for those, I won't be that disobedient.'

It was still strange to take such words in my mouth.

'Don't worry,' he said,'I quite enjoy it regardless.'

He smiled a very smug smile but I could also see that he truly enjoyed this. There was no menace in him, just a childish joy.

I was both worried and amazed that the thought of spanking me made him this happy. What kind of man was he? He showed me another side of him this day. I saw the childish, enthusiastic side of him, that seemed to be far removed from the stern person who had demanded to cane me. Still he spoke openly of spanking me.

My heart melted when I saw him like this and I felt I didn't want to deny him. In that moment I would have said yes to anything, just to see him this happy. Still there was no weakness in his joy, no sense that I could patronise him or reproach him for being childish. He was himself enough when it came to his moods. I already knew that.

I had had a hunch that the shopping would be heavy so I had brought a rucksack. Still we had a multitude of bags and packets to carry.

He took me to a pub and bought me a glass of wine and told me I had been very good and patient with him. I knew then that I could never patronise him, he was the one doing the patronising.

He called for a taxi to take us home to his flat. He told me the things was for my flat but he wanted me to try everything out at his place first. I wondered with a churning in my stomach if he meant the wooden things as well.

All this was something new to me. I had gone shopping with women before and my friend Sarah had always provoked me to buy things she said I would be sexy in, things I never ever used. But to have a man tell me I should wear this or that and being completely open about why he thought I should, was nothing I had ever experienced before. I was terribly embarrassed and cringed with shame but there was a part of me that was pleased and happy about the attention, having someone tell me what was right and what didn't work and who really cared and had a plan for me.

I think he cared about me. He was open and blunt in saying that he was completely selfish, it was for his own satisfaction I should dress in this short skirt or that clinging top. I believed him but there was such a warmth in his eyes and such happiness in his smile that I felt that I was someone he cared for and that it mattered to him that I was comfortable too.

Not that it stopped him from embarrassing me. He obviously thought that this was something I had to work through. He seemed very pleased with himself when he got me to blush. Not that I sensed any malice just some naughty joy in making me cringe.

So, there in his flat, we went through skirts and tops and dresses and he smiled and approved or said that one or two wasn't what he had expected. Often those were the ones I thought I would have chosen.

He got really enthusiastic when I showed him the bikinis. There were only three and they were all skimpy. I had to admit that he showed some kind of sense still. They were all revealing but not vulgar. He had gone for low rise string side bikinis with triangular tops, the kind that works with small bosoms. One, a black one, had string briefs and I told him I would never wear that to a beach. He said that I shouldn't be so sure about that.

It was the same with the knickers, which he demanded I tried on without anything else. They were tasteful although too tiny for my liking.

After this shopping spree I ended up with a set of clothes that were quite good looking but clothes I would never have dreamt of wearing myself. They were far too elegant and, perhaps, too sexy for a person like me.