Black or Red?

I can't say that I much fancy the kind of spanking stories that features an arrogant teenage girl or a sloppy wife or anyone who generally is at fault, the kind of person who gets her comeuppance and leaves you with the sense that this was the thing that was needed, the punishment that set things straight. There is a kind of moral I don't like at all, that some people deserve punishments, that it is somehow right to give them a whacking.

Don't get me wrong. I do understand that someone may think that they want to spank another person, even think they deserve it. It is when this assumption is taken for granted I don't like the story

I don't think that fantasy stories have to be politically correct. Far from it. If there is somewhere we should be allowed to form the world exactly how we want it, it should be in our imagination. Sometimes the very prejudices, the stuffy moral is what makes the fantasy a good one. It's not the misogyny in the Gor books I resent. These kind of things are often what drives a fantasy.

It is just that I don't much fancy those kind of stories. Regardless of this I thought I should try to write one, complete with a mean woman who has it coming and all that. I am not consistent, never accuse me of being consistent.

George was a friend from university, we had known each other for some time. I liked George, he was the kind of person you couldn't help liking. He was a very peaceful person, actually one of those who really didn't like conflicts. I never saw him as meek, though, kind and gentle and sometimes a little too cautious but not meek.

He had married a beautiful woman. Her name was Katherine. She was tall, had dark eyes and dark brown hair. She was an intelligent person, had an active mind and was one of those who got things done.

With George she was vicious. I don't know why she ever married him. He, on the other hand, adored her, he was devoted to her and did everything for her. It was hard not to be a little hostile to her the way she treated him.

She mocked him openly and told him, in front of others, what a useless nobody he was. It hurt to see it.

I don't want to judge, maybe he deserved it, maybe she had her reasons but to anyone watching she was vicious.

We had met up with a group of friends at a restaurant, a rather fancy one. Katherine and George were there and so was I. It was obvious that Katherine was in a foul mood. It didn't take long before she lashed out at George.

'You are not a man, George, you are a boy and boys don't get to kiss pretty girls.'

'Please, Katherine.'

'Don't 'please' me, why should I keep quiet? You let everyone walk all over you.'

'That's not true.'

'This Sasha woman, she is not even your boss, you let her order you around.'

'I am helping her, Katherine.'

'She is pretty and she lets you do all the job and she gets the credit.'

'You are being harsh.'

'I am not harsh, I am gentle. No real man would let someone, like this Sasha, use you like she does.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'In Russia, I have been told, a woman is not satisfied with her husband until he whips her.'

'Isn't that taking it too far?'

'You don't get it, do you, gentle George, you are just a boy.'

At this point some other friend butted in and directed the conversation away from George and onto something completely different.

I spoke with George later, when the conversations were not across the table but face to face.

'George,' I said, 'why do you let her talk to you, like that?'

'What can I do?' He looked miserable.

'Maybe she has a point?'

'What do you mean?'

'Maybe you are too gentle?'

'I don't know, I don't know. It makes me all frustrated.'

'And angry?'

'Yes, angry too.'

'Maybe that's a good thing.'

Some time later I was invited to a dinner at George and Katherine's house. They lived in a nice house that had a dining room that allowed rather nice dinners.

I was early, way too early. I know this is extremely impolite but I thought I may help them with the dinner or just be there for them. George was a good friend and he had seemed very stressed out about this dinner. It was Katherine's idea but it made George anxious.

As I walked up to the front door, I noticed it was open. I called out but no one answered. I peeked through and saw no one so I decided to walk in. I considered myself a very good friend of George's and I knew he liked me too. It wasn't according to protocol to enter like that but I dared it anyway.

I heard that they were busy on the first floor. I listened and found that they were very busy. I heard upset voices and realised a row was going on.

Curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to know what George and the delightful Katherine rowed about. I walked halfway up the stairs and prepared myself to look confused and surprised should any of them find me there.

Now I could hear what they said.

'No, you bastard, I am not going to wear the black dress. It makes me look like a prostitute.' Katherine was incensed.

'I don't think you look like a prostitute,' George said, his voice lower.

'It clings to my body, I don't like it, it's too short. And it isn't going to happen.'

'I think it is stylish...'

'It's vulgar.'

'...and sexy. You look great in it.'

I heard something new in his voice. I couldn't put my finger on it. His voice was low, almost purring but there was a tone of something else there, something a little menacing. And in combination with the trivial matter of which dress his wife was to wear I realised something unusual was happening.

'Why are you staring like that?' Katherine said, her voice sharp.

'Put on the black dress.'

'No.'

'Put it on.'

'Don't be ridiculous. Are you going to force me.'

'For the last time, put it on.'

The sharpness in George's voice made me prick up my ears.

'No.'

George didn't reply. I heard him walk across the room and open a door. He soon returned and I heard Katherine laugh.

'What are you doing with that thing?' Her voice was mocking him.

'You will soon find out.'

'I will soon find out,' she repeated, her voice cold as ice.

'Come here.'

'Why on earth would I do...'

There was commotion in the room. I heard someone move across the floor. Then silence. Through the silence came strange whimpering sounds, sounds of frustration, and perhaps struggle. Were they wrestling?

I had to get closer.

'You bastard!' Katherine cried.

'Long...time...coming.'

I sneaked up to the door to their bedroom. It was slightly ajar and I could peek through the opening. What I saw made me gasp.

In the bedroom was a comfy armchair. It was covered in green velvet and not stylish enough for the living room and I assume that is why it ended up in the bedroom instead. Across the armrest Katherine was lying, face down. She was dressed in a bright red satin dress. I had seen it before, it was a rather nice dress. Now it was in disarray.

George was standing beside her, leaning over her and as more and more details became clear, I saw that he was holding his wife down on the armchair with a grip on her arm, an arm that was twisted on her back.

I didn't see Katherine's head but I could clearly see her bottom. It was no longer covered by her dress. The skirt was ruthlessly pushed up over her back. Furthermore I noticed that she had no knickers on. I then saw that this was not completely true. They hung around her knees and looked very thin and black and lacy.

In his other hand, George held a long narrow object. I thought it could be a black riding crop. As I looked through the door he brought this vicious thing down on the very unprotected bottom of his wife. The sound was tremendous. I heard a short swishing sound that was followed by a sharp report when the leather of the crop hit the soft skin of Katherine's behind.

I flinched and gasped as I heard Katherine cry out, in anger and frustration more than anything.

'You bastard.'

Her protest was cut short by another sharp cut by the horsewhip. The effect was immediate and now there was agony in the unarticulated cry Katherine let out.

She kicked her legs and tried to wriggle free but this time, George was the stronger. She was rewarded with another lash by the crop.

I stared at the scene in front of my eyes. George let the whip fly through the air, time and time again only to land with devastating effect on the naked bottom of the proud Katherine. I saw red stripes form across her fair buttocks.

'Please, please,' she cried and George stopped suddenly.

'I will take the black one, George, I will, just stop it.'

'Good, I am pleased,' he said, a new confidence in his voice. 'Then there isn't much left.'

'What do you mean?' Katherine sounded worried.

'I mean, it is just the rest left.'

Then he whipped her again. She cried out in agony as the crop hit home. George delivered a set of hard blows and his wife wriggled pathetically under the lash.

I knew I had to leave. I had been transfixed by the scene before my eyes and as I tore myself from it, I felt my heart beating hard. I was shocked but there was also a strange thrill within me, a something that spoke of excitement.

I sneaked down the stairs and back outside. I walked out into the street and was happy for the chill in the air. It helped to cool me down. I stood in the dark for a while and waited.

Finally I saw a couple of other friends arrive and I pretended I had just got there and accompanied them to the front door. Now it was closed and we rang the bell.

George answered and he looked smart as always. Nothing in his face or behaviour seemed to betray what had just happened. As he ushered us into the dining room we were met by his wife. She smiled and sparkled as she always did and looked very lovely in her very short black dress, a dress that hugged her body tightly and was revealing but still very stylish.

Katherine looked admiringly at her George and I didn't at all see the tension in her mouth, that little movement that often came before some mocking remark. No, Katherine was very quiet and delightful and only once did I see her twitch her face, and that was when she sat down at the dinner table.

The Slaver

I know, when I talked about That Other Side you thought of something different than a silly story like this. See it as a gentle beginning.

Who said the life of a slaver would be easy? I didn't, I know better. Ah, when I was a boy I dreamt of being a slaver, thought of all the lovely merchandise I would come across. I know better now.

It is true that handling the goods is a pleasure but it isn't an easy life. So much to think about. Troubles and problems everywhere, all the time.

Well, I won't bother you with that, you will see. Where shall I start? Ah, my family. It always has to start with the family. What would I do without my lovely wives. I love them with all my heart, they are my joy and happiness. One is as beautiful as the other's tongue is sharp. She thinks she runs the household, that one. The other one? Oh, she is sweet, very beautiful and very nice. She often warms my bed. And she doesn't speak much. I like that.

I have two sons, a blessing and a curse. My oldest son, what a disappointment! He is a scoundrel and a drunk, not good for anything. He spends his time in the taverns by the port. He drinks and he plays with the dancers and waitresses. That is when he doesn't gets in his head to use my merchandise.

He is good with the whip, I will give him that, but otherwise, he is a useless bastard. He is good for nothing.

Oh, I remember once, when he made me happy. I had bought this redhaired little wildcat from the North. She was foulmouthed as a fishmonger and stubborn as a hungry monkey. She was pretty and if she had behaved she would have fetched me a good price. I tried everything, I kept her naked on a lead and had her whipped but she was as proud as a queen.

Then my eldest son wandered into the warehouse one night. I wasn't there, of course, but he got the key and went into the cages. I don't know what he did to the redhaired one but when I sold her the day after she was as gentle as a summer breeze. I am sure my bastard son made me a couple of gold coins that night.

My younger son, he is something different. He is hardworking and loyal. He is obedient and determined. He does what he is supposed to do and he is learning the trade. He is my pride. I think he will inherit my business when I am gone. Pity he is so dim.

I have two daughter, two lovely daughters. They are my pride and joy. Who wouldn't be delighted by having two such wonderful girls.

The oldest one, she has got her raven hair from her mother. She is beautiful as a queen and she is expensive. She has good taste, I have to admit that but it costs money. Does she thinks a poor slaver is made of money?

Some day, I hope, a very rich young man will decide that she will make a good wife. I am looking forward to it, although I pity him. She doesn't just look like a queen, she is haughty as one too. She is arrogant and proud and behaves as if she owned the world.

She would fetch a good price if I sold her though. In fact, I think a month or two naked in a slaver's cage and a closer acquaintance with a whip would be good for her.

My younger daughter is of another kind. She is not only cleverer than her sister, she is prettier too. She has blond hair, she got it from her mother. She is the sweetest child imaginable. She is gentle and obedient and walks with grace. There is not a grain of arrogance in her. A father has to be happy for such a daughter. She would make a lovely slave and I believe she would bring even a higher price than her sister.

A father shouldn't talk like that about his daughters. I would never sell them. Not even if I was offered twenty gold pieces for one of them. Although twenty gold pieces would allow me to replenish my stock and really get my business going...sigh.

Business has been bad, lately. There has been no major wars for three years and almost no raids to the northern lands. This makes slaves expensive. I can sell the ones I have for a higher price but I have to buy them for a higher price too. Business is slow.

I remember the Eastern Campaign. When was it? Seven years ago? Anyway, those were good times. The supply of girls was overflowing. And what beauties there were! Such lovely women that come from the East...sigh. Those were the days. Good supply and demand was still increasing. I made good money then.

Now my cages are half empty. I have even had to send my boys, not my sons, of course, the boys I have hired, I had to send my boys out in the night and look for girls in the streets. These are sad days, when a man has to revert to such methods to fill up his warehouses.

The problem with such slaves is that you can't sell them here, they may be recognised and that causes all sorts problems.

I have even considered stealing some of the daughters of the nobility. The upside is that they won't be recognised, they are often kept away from the public eye. The downside is that the actual acquiring of them is a bit tricky. Either you have to bribe their guards or you have to break into their houses, which can be quite dangerous at times.

When I was young, I used to love those things. We were reckless and thought that getting a nobleman's daughter was a great adventure. Those were the days. Made you feel strong. The girls didn't like it, protested and cried a lot but when you got the clothes off them and tied them up in the cage they came to their senses and some of them made very good slaves.

I prefer the legal ways of getting girls, I have to say that. They are less adventurous but safer and better for business.

A couple of years ago there were quite a lot of volunteers. There are always volunteers but they make no steady flow of goods. Some years ago it was different, we had a couple a week coming and asking to be enslaved.

Some of them had ridiculous demands, that I should give so and so many gold pieces to this temple or that person. You have to be hard, even if the woman was lovely and you knew you could get a good price for her, even make some profit. If it became known that you were too generous it would just make them increase their demands.

I had to turn away some really pretty ones but it paid off. Some of them didn't want anything but a prayer in the right temple and then you could have them. Strange thing, really. I don't understand why a girl would want to be a slave. The strangest thing of it all is that it is often the wealthy ones that want it most.

But as I said, you have to rely on the proper ways of getting your wares. War and plunder are the best ways of getting girls cheaply. There are some that fall in debt but they are often more expensive. It is nice, thought, with local girls.

Some girls you don't ask where they come from. I mean, if there is a gang of youngsters turning up at your doorstep with a girl, who look like a local farm girl, who is gagged and stripped and tied up and the young men want a quick sell and are happy with peanuts you knew she is stolen goods. Best to ship such a girl away from the city as quickly as possible.

I am boring you with details of my trade. I love my work but it is hard work and not easy to make a living from. Come back if you have something to sell, I give a good price. Or even better if you want to buy. Buy two and I'll give reduction...eh?

Janice v. Gor

Whenever you talk about a world where men hold women as slaves, a fantasy world that is suitably ancient and exotic, someone will tell you it is Gorean. I find this a bit annoying. I will immediately apologise to the one (see the comments on my last entry) who triggered this, this time. I am not having a go at you, this happens all the time.

So, am I inspired by John Lange, aka John Norman, and his Gor books? Yes, of course. I have read a fair share of them and how could you not be inspired? Everything I see and read and experience inspire me. But my fantasy world is not Gorean, full stop. Unless you mean Gorean in the same sense as USA is Roman because they have an empire or Barbara Cartland is Austen because people marry at the end.

Does it matter? Not really. I just want to make clear that where I go, in my mind, where I have my fantasies play out is not Lange's counter earth, the slave owners in my stories and imagination are not Gorean.

I do find Lange's books fascinating, and inspiring, but only up to a point. And now I am going to rant about what I don't like about his creation.

Life on Gor is highly formalised, at least social relationships. People are organised in castes if they are free and if they are slaves they are property. The main character, Tarl Cabot, is a member of the warrior caste but betrays the code of the warriors and becomes and outcast. Free women on Gor have to have their faces covered and removing the veil from a woman is about the most degrading thing you can do to her, short of enslaving her. It is a world that reminds me more of the Vatican or Medieval Japan than the Wild West or Europe during the Barbarian Invasions.

In addition, Gorean men seem to be scared of women. The relationship between everybody, including free men and owned women, is ritualised and very strict. A slave who speaks in the wrong way or doesn't show enough willingness to serve or in any way doesn't adhere to protocol is severely punished. A slave's life is full of the treatment that is meant to demean her and show her, not just that she is property but also worth nothing. This, to me, speaks of anxiety, not about self confidence and real power.

I can go there, I do occasionally. There is an appeal in this ritualised, formal and very degrading treatment of women. It is strange but part of me wants to be humiliated in fantasies. But I never stay there for long. In my world, my fantasy world, when ruthless men captures women and keep them as slaves, I like to think of them as confident enough to know that a slave is a human, although an owned one, and that there is no need to assert your power during every single second of every single day. The world won't collapse if the owner sits down and laughs with the slave. (If you now want to prove me wrong by finding quotations from the Gor novels where slave owners are friendly with their slaves, please, don't. This is about my overall impression of Gorean society as anxious and regulated rather than wild and relaxed and you are free to disagree.)

Yes, I do have many worlds in my head, some that clash if they would be put side by side. What I am saying is that I do find slave fantasies rather nice but mine are not Gorean, not that often any way, but they are still full of deserts, slave markets, chains, whips, nakedness and ruthlessness.

I can see that this seems superficial and why bother about details? And is there really a difference? I don't know and I will not try to analyse and argue it any further. Call it what you want. But if my world is Gorean, it is as much Hyborian, Barsoomian and of Arabian Nights. I am just tired of the label, as if John Lange is the only one who has imagined how fascinating it can be with a world where slaves are kept for the pleasures of their owners.

That Other Side

Before I write about that other side I will talk about this side, the one that is here, on the blog, the one I usually write about.

In many ways I came to this kind of fantasies as an observer. There are so many damsels in distress out there, in stories and films, and I couldn't help being fascinated by it. Films sometimes depict scenes of abuse, even rape. There are book covers with muscular heroes battling fierce monsters while a scantily clad woman struggles in her bonds, hoping for the hero to succeed.

I have been fascinated by those themes, wondering what it would be like to be chained to the wall, clad in almost nothing and having to rely on some barbarian prince to rescue me. Or being the subject of abuse and horrors from villains and criminals. The crucial point is, of course, that it didn't just scare me, it attracted me. I felt a kind of thrill thinking of those situations.

Being as I am, I had to try to understand why a scene from A Clockwork Orange, where a girl is stripped naked to be raped, only to be rescued by accident by the protagonist of the film, why such a scene gave me this thrill and not just the horror one would expect.

Lots of things pop up, it's about not being responsible, being vulnerable, allowed to be sexual without guilt. But I will not go further down that road, at the moment. What I am trying to say is that it has been a gradual process, from being scared and fascinated to identifying and even trying to find some kind of beauty in being subject to abuse.

On this blog I have tried to explore this side of me, the Yin side. It has been a great relief to accept this side, the side that isn't what you are supposed to be, at least not where I live.

There is another side, however, albeit less dominant. Maybe that is the spot of Yang in the Yin and only goes to show that it is the balance between the sides that matters, not just expecting one to reign supreme.

He is there, of course, in my stories, like a shadow, or rather a dark undefined force. In my very strict division of things, in my fantasies, he tend to be male. I am of course talking about That Other Side now.

I am immensely fascinated by that side too. In my fantasies he takes the form of the arrogant man, the ruler, the conqueror, the one with confidence and power. Sometimes it is a woman, although she tends to be more balanced, more like a real person, balancing a desire to be cruel with a care about the other.

I have done a bit of writing, trying to see things from the other side, allowing myself to be fascinated by that sense of power. What is it like to be cruel and ruthless? What is it like to feel that power and enjoy it for yourself and care little about the other.

I have been reluctant to post any of those scriblings, since they are so completely different and strange compared to what I usually put here.

Sometimes this person is a young man, who discovers that he gets away with spanking his girlfriends. In fact, they like him to do it. He gains in confidence and may discover that he doesn't even have to limit himself to one girlfriend. He finds he can do what he pleases and in this strange, twisted world, the women allow him that, they are as fascinated as I am by his ruthlessness and confidence.

He may be a slaver, a man who deals in women as commodities. He loves women, in his own way, they bring him profit and are generally pleasing for him, as long as they are in chains, belong to him and obedient enough to do his biddings.

I think this slaver comes from my fascination by and love of those strange and exotic lands were women are slaves and can be bought and sold for gold. I am fascinated by being a slave there.

But as it happens, I get this image of the man who is the owner, the slave trader. I wonder what motivates him, why did he become a slaver? Does he have to be this swine, this villain, this evil creature? Isn't it far more interesting if he is a man with a heart, who loves his family, who has friends he cherish and who have loyalties and values? It is just that his world is a man's world, where women are there to please men, for the simple reason that men rule that world. And that there is no contradiction for him to be loyal to his friends and at the same time, completely disregard the wishes of a woman he has put his chains on.

How is it to be that man who actually enjoys spanking a woman, his woman, the woman he loves and cares about? How is it to be the man who feels elated and happy when he uses his power over someone to cause them to suffer, not out of hatred but out of sheer love for that power, being selfish and ruthless enough to admit to himself that he really enjoys it.

As you can see, I do have a lot of thoughts about this and they are, of course, as far removed from reality as my submission fantasies and as close to it as they are. What I mean is that they happen in a world that doesn't exist but are still concerned with real life emotions and thoughts.

A little disclaimer here. Please don't think that this discussion about a more dominant side of my thinking means that I have opinions about those of you who consider yourselves as being dominant. I know there are a lot of other things going on and that you regard trust and care and love as being crucial as much as any submissive person. These are aspects of my mind, thoughts about how people behave and do in fantasies, not a statement about real life people.

Dashed Off

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

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

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

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

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

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

Living the Life Interior.

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

She was predictably stubborn at first.

'Dance.'

'I cannot.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Lock the door on your way out.'

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

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

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

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

But I have not seen her since.

A Dinner and Some

Sometimes when you read something by someone who is really good, you get inspired. It is quite fun to try to write in the style of someone else, one of the really clever ones. In all honesty, I don't make an effort to make my text similar to anyone else's, I am just trying to allow myself to write with a certain style in my mind. So it doesn't really matter if it is similar or not. It's just a story, nothing more.

We met at a café on King's Lane. It was around five when he walked in. He wasn't late but I was a little annoyed since I had been so early. He looked awfully smart, in a dark blue suit and a red tie.

'You look nice,' he said as he sat down.

'Nice?'

'Smart, beautiful.'

I laughed a short mocking laugh and smiled at him.

We went on to the restaurant and he took command. I don't know, but it seemed a little awkward for him. He knew what to do, how to talk to the waiter, how to order, but there was something that told me wasn't used to it.

We had met some days before, at a party and he had looked at me. I couldn't really understand what that look meant but it made me interested.

We shared a bottle of wine. I don't really drink wine but he didn't ask, just assumed that it was what I wanted. I kind of liked that.

We talked and drank our wine and had the veal and then the panna cotta. He was easygoing, not too bold, not too shy. He gave me room and listened. I enjoyed being listened to. It was nice.

'Want to go anywhere?' he asked when we had had our coffee. I had mine with lots of milk but he took his black. I don't know if he liked it that way or if he just wanted to show off.

'So you want to go somewhere,' I asked, 'with me?'

'I want to spank you.'

I laughed.

'I thought you wanted other things.'

'Like what?'

'Things you do, man and woman, you know.'

'No, maybe later, but first I want to spank you.'

'Where do you go for that sort of thing?'

'To my place.'

'It's the second time we meet.'

'It is known to have happened the first time.'

We walked through the empty city streets. They were almost completely deserted. It was an ordinary weekday and there wasn't much to do. It was only us who were dressed to kill.

I felt smart in my black dress and I had made my hair up in a sweet bun on my head with a very nice butterfly clip. It was a cheap thing but it made my hair look good.

'You get to choose,' he said, when I sat in his sofa.

'Choose what?'

'Not the wine, I have already decided on the wine.'

'Then what?'

'Wait.'

He came back with a bottle of red and two glasses. He poured the wine. I don't know much of wine but it was full and mature and not so flowery, if those are the words you use for describing wine.

He didn't talk, just sat there, sipping his wine. I wondered what it was he wanted me to choose. I wondered what it was he really had brought me here for.

He put his glass down and went away. He came back and placed a heavy wooden thing, something that looked a little like a leather belt and a riding crop on the table.

'I want you to choose one of these.'

I looked at the things and saw that the wooden thing was flat and heavy, had holes in it and a handle. The leather thing was thick and some eight inches long with a handle too. The riding crop was black.

'Which one is worst?'

'I couldn't tell, they are different.'

'I don't know which one to choose.'

'Just pick one then.'

I sat looking at the things and thought that he was serious. I wasn't still sure but I began to think he might be.

I pointed at the leather thing.

'Do you want to finish your wine?'

'No, I don't'

He told me to stand up and lift my skirt. I did as I was told. I was then to lie across the armrest of the sofa. It wasn't very comfortable.

He walked up to me and pulled my knickers down. I was staring in front of me, at a small Persian Rug, or rather a Kilim and wondered if was going to tell him they are supposed to hang on the wall.

I was surprised by the impact. My body rocked forward and at first I was more shocked by the impact than the pain.

He didn't tell me how many times he was going to hit me so I wondered every time: 'is this the last one.'

It hurt and I couldn't stop myself from crying. I felt embarrassed and it was strange to think that I was more embarrassed about crying than having my knickers around my knees. Maybe having my knickers pulled down was what I had expected.

When he was done I rose to my feet and pulled my knickers up. I smoothed out my skirt and looked at him.

'I liked that,' he said.

'Did you?'

'Yes, I did.'

'What now?'

'More wine?'

'No, thanks, I don't really like wine.'

'Alright.'

'Do you want me to leave now?'

'No, not if you don't want to.'

'I could stay.'

The Neighbour

Something more cheerful...and with a spanking. What more can you ask for?

John had just moved to town, new job, new openings. He had found his new flat in an old but well kept building. It wasn't big but he couldn't afford anything larger. He was content as he began to settle in.

The third evening, after work, he sat down in his armchair, feeling exhausted. Work seemed fine but he was new and that was taxing. He had just come home and wanted nothing more than to be allowed to watch the telly and fall asleep.

The doorbell sounded and John sighed and clambered from his armchair. He dragged himself out into the hallway and answered the door.

Outside stood a woman. She was half a head shorter than him, had shoulder length hair in an undefined darkish colour. She was dressed in a dark blue and quite modest dress but no overcoat. She smiled.

John remembered he had met her in the hallway, the day before, she had smiled and said hello. He thought she must live in the house.

'Plain and sweet,' he had thought when he saw her then. He still thought the same, but her smile made her look quite nice.

'Welcome to the house,' she said, a flicker of insecurity on her face. 'I am Stephanie.'

'Thank you,' he heard himself say, remembering to smile, 'John.'

'Are you busy?' she continued.

'No, no, not at all.'

'Can I come in?'

'Yes, of course, sorry, yes, please, do that, come in.'

'Thank you.'

'I'll put the kettle on.'

She followed him into the kitchen as he prepared the tea. She was leaning against the door frame, looking a little bewildered.

'It is a nice kitchen,' she tried.

'Yes, it is, very nice.'

'Bigger than mine.'

They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

'Please, sit down,' John said, feeling a little calmer after laughing together.

'Thank you.'

They took the tea in the kitchen, by the small table. John wondered if that was impolite but Stephanie didn't seem to mind. They chatted and after a while they seemed to find the situation less awkward, less tense. John began to forget how tired he was, thinking that it was nice to make new acquaintances.

'There is something I need to ask you about,' Stephanie said, suddenly looking very awkward.

'Please, do,' John said, expecting to be asked for a donation to the house party they always had in May or something of the sort.

'Can I confide in you?' she said and looked very sincere.

'Yes, of course, I hope you can.'

John found it a bit awkward, wondering if Stephanie was one of those who let her heart out to anyone who cared to listen.

'You see, John,' she said, looking very worried, 'I live with my sister and she always takes care of things. Now she has gone on holiday, won't be back for two weeks.'

'Yes...'

'And not I have gone and done something really stupid.'

'Stupid?'

'Yes, I have forgot to pay our credit card bill, in time.'

'Oh,' John said, feeling his body and mind tense. Was she going to ask him for money?

'I paid it yesterday but that is too late and now we will have to pay interest or something on it. My sister always takes care of those things, but now she explicitly told me to do that.'

'Is it a lot of money? I mean, the interest?'

'No, just some two pounds. It's not that.'

'What is it then?'

'I have failed her.'

'Failed her?'

'Yes, she trusted me with this and I have failed her. Will you help me?'

'What can I do to help you?'

'The same as my sister always does when I fail her.'

'What is that?'

'Punish me.'

John sat in silence for a while, not sure what to think. He looked at Stephanie and she looked miserable, really upset.

'Punish you?'

'Yes, please, will you do that?'

She looked pleadingly at him.

'I don't know, really.'

'Please, I am sure my sister will be grateful.'

'Can't it wait until she gets back?'

'It is better she doesn't have to deal with me, first thing.'

'Are you sure?'

'Please!'

John stared at Stephanie, she looked at him, her face close to tears, transforming her from the caring neighbour to a woman in need, a damsel in some kind of distress.

'How, how does your sister, well, deal with you?'

'She spanks me.'

'I am not sure...'

'It is easy.'

'But...'

'Please.'

'So you want me to spank you?'

'Yes, please, that's what my sister would do.'

'Well, if that is what you want.'

'Thank you.'

'I don't know how to...'

'I'll show you. Wait here.'

Stephanie rose to her feet and left. John sat at the table, bewildered. He heard her open and close the door. He stared in front of him until he heard the doorbell once again.

'Here,' Stephanie said and gave him a hairbrush, as he opened the door for her.

'Is this for...?'

'Yes, my sister uses it all the time.'

'Where do you think...?'

'The living room, perhaps?'

He nodded and they went into his small but nice living room.

'It is very neat,' she said, 'are you married?'

'No, not married.'

'A girlfriend?'

'I just moved here. To this town, I mean.'

'Ah,' she said. 'Over there will be good.'

'Where?'

'You sit in the armchair and I can be in your lap.'

'Are you sure about this?'

'That's how my sister does it.'

'Well then.'

John sat down in the armchair and held his breath as Stephanie with a very soft but yet cautious movement placed her body across his lap.

'And then I am, like, supposed to smack...well, your bottom...with this?'

'Yes, that's how it's done.'

'On the bottom?'

'Yes.'

John took a deep breath. Then he placed the hairbrush on Stephanie's bottom. She seemed to tense her body as he did this.

Then he slapped her. She jumped.

'Oh, sorry,' he gasped.

'Don't be sorry, I deserve it.'

'Did it hurt?'

'No.'

'Good.'

'No, that's not good. My sister makes it hurt.'

'Oh.'

'It is a punishment, after all.'

'Yes, you are right. Harder then?'

'Yes, much harder.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

He slapped her again, a little harder. She jumped again.

'Better?'

'Better, but harder still.'

He smacked her again.

'Did that hurt?'

'Yes, a little, go on like that, but harder.'

John began to put some force into the slaps. He had never beaten anyone, and especially not a woman. He had to struggle against his nature to be able to hit Stephanie with the sturdy and very heavy brush.

Just as he had managed to deliver a short series of extremely brutal whacks, Stephanie interrupted him:

'Wait.'

'I am sorry, I hit you too hard.'

'No, not at all, it is supposed to hurt and my sister hits much harder.'

'What's wrong?'

'Forgetting a credit card bill is a bad thing to do, I think my sister would want a more severe punishment.'

'Isn't this severe enough?'

'I think she would insist on me lifting my skirt.'

'Are you really sure...'

Stephanie swiftly lifted her skirt and revealed her very white knickers.

'I can't possibly...' John said.

'Of course you can, that is what my sister would have done.'

'She is a woman.'

'That's not a problem.'

John found he had no words for a protest. He stared awkwardly at Stephanie's round bottom. It seemed wrong to hit it with the hairbrush.

Yet he complied and slapped her bottom with the hairbrush. Again she jumped which made John think that she must have felt it much more acutely when there was no skirt to protect her.

She said nothing so he assumed he was to continue. He took a deep breath and began to smack her. He used even more force and was both terrified and fascinated by watching the hairbrush make contact with Stephanie's perk bottom.

She began to squirm but she said not a word in protest and didn't seem to want him to stop so he continued.

There came a strange moment, when John suddenly found the whole business of spanking Stephanie quite fascinating. In fact, he began to think it was not so bad to do this. She had asked him to spank her, she had obviously wanted him to punish her and she had been the one asking him to hit her harder and she had insisted on him spanking her on her knickers.

'Stop.'

'Oh.'

All his misgivings came back. He was either been made a fool of or he was doing something terribly bad.

'My sister would insist on something more severe.'

'More severe?'

'Yes.'

Without further ado, Stephanie rose to her feet and with one swift and determined movement she pulled her knickers down to her knees. She then lifted her skirt and retook her place in his lap.

John was now staring at Stephanie's unclad bottom. He had a distinct feeling that this was something he should not do.

'Do you really mean...?'

'My sister says it isn't a proper spanking if it isn't done on the bare.'

'We shouldn't let her down.'

'No, and you can hit harder.'

John's misgivings gave way to a strange sensation. He felt elated and weirdly happy as he let the sturdy brush make contact with Stephanie's now exposed bottom. She squirmed and moved and John could feel she was in distress. She didn't protest so he assumed he was doing it right.

Suddenly he heard something that sounded like a sob. He immediately stopped.

'Don't stop.'

'I thought,' he stammered, 'I thought you were in distress.'

'I am in distress, but you have to continue. My sister says that when I begin to cry, the real punishment begins.'

'That's rather cruel.'

'I forgot the bill.'

'Very well, then.'

Stephanie's bottom was pink and red in places and John thought it too cruel to spank her more. But he realised the sister was right. She did deserve it. He got on with his duty.

John spanked Stephanie for a while and he found that his concerns and hesitations were replaced by a pride of doing what was right and a childish satisfaction in seeing her bottom being hit by the hairbrush he was swinging. He began to be fascinated by the sound and the movements she made, movements that seemed to tell him she was affected by her punishment.

Then it was enough. He just knew it and she seemed to accept it. He stopped spanking her and sat for a while.

'Have I been spanked enough?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'May I rise?'

'Yes, yes, of course.'

Stephanie rose to her feet pulled her knickers up and turned to John. Her face was a little red and her eyes a little wet. Yet she smiled.

'Thank you, John. Thank you for punishing me.'

'You are welcome.' He was almost on his way of saying, 'my pleasure,' but he didn't.

'John, if you want, you can come over to my place tomorrow. I will cook dinner and you can help me with a couple of things.'

'Oh, thank you, yes, please, I would like that, very much.'

Stephanie turned to leave.

'You said help you, what kind of things do you need help with?'

'There are plenty of things. You know how it is when you are alone, you become very sloppy.'

'I guess.'

John did visit Stephanie the next day and he did help her. She showed him a bath brush and a fish slice that was very useful and she was delighted to find that he was equipped with a very broad leather belt.

In fact, John grew used to helping Stephanie, a lot. After a while he stopped wondering when the sister would come home.