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.

Surrender, part 13

Back on track again. Here is more cheerful part of this story of surrender.

'We are going home to your flat,' he declared and I had to suppress my annoyance at having me get all the way to him only to go back.

As we went we walked arm in arm and I felt happy, being his girlfriend, his partner. I wasn't sure if I was but I let myself be that for the time being and I enjoyed it.

He had never visited my tiny flat and was amazed at how sparsely it was furnished. I had a kitchen table, a bed, two armchairs and a small side board. It was nothing fancy, simple design but, as I thought it, elegant.

He sat himself down in one of the dark green armchairs and accepted a glass of wine. Then he demanded I should show him my wardrobe. When I looked at him in bewilderment he explained that I should put on my clothes and show him.

I had to laugh, This was silly. I had loads of clothes but they were mostly practical things, that was good for my college but not for anything else.

He smiled but was persistent. He said we had plenty of time. So I started with my jackets. He looked at me with a straight face and made some noises when I wore something I think he at least found stylish enough.

After a while he told me that he didn't want me to disappear into the bedroom to change but I should bring the clothes to the living room and show him.

'Begin with trousers,' he said and laughed and I went into my bedroom and returned with a pile. I tried them on one by one and he shook his head. He didn't like them. The only pair he approved of was a pair of stretch jeans that clung to my legs and were quite low cut. Those were a pair Sarah, my friend, had given me because they didn't fit her but I had never used them.

Most of my skirts were too long but he liked some of the shorter ones. I had a wide, red skirt that fell to my knees that he liked, despite its length.

Tops were harder, some of my shirts were good, he told me and demanded I should show him what it looked like if I tied a knot in the front and wore the tight jeans. He liked that he could see my belly then.

Some of my other tops were acceptable, especially the ones I didn't use because they were too tight. He liked that.

He seemed to like my taste in dresses and found most of them good looking but especially the green one I had worn when I asked him to take me back. It wasn't elegant, he said but it made me look exposed.

I took off and put on my clothes in front of him and although I was embarrassed I stopped thinking about it after a while. Until it came to underwear. He was very keen on underwear.

'Throw them away,' he said about my bras, 'why would you want to wear a bra?'

'My nipples are visible if I don't wear a bra,' I said, grumpily.

'I like nipples.'

I knew my breasts were small enough to manage without a bra but it was, still, a little hurtful to be told like that.

He was quite enthusiastic when it came to knickers. He didn't demand that I tried them all on but some he wanted me to show him. Most of my knickers were cotton and quite childish, with hearts and cats on and that sort of thing but I had some that were black and smallish that he liked.

He accepted that my one piece swimsuit was elegant but he liked my bikinis better. Still he found most of them too prudish. He liked a red one I had that had low rise tie side briefs and a triangular halter neck bra, a classic but small bikini. This one I considered to be too daring to really wear at any public beach. He laughed when I told him.

When I thought I was done and most of my clothes lay in heaps and bundles on armchair and floor in my living room he rose and went to my bedroom. He wanted to check my wardrobe.

'I like those,' he said when he returned holding some of my scarves.

'Try this on,' he said and held out a very flimsy, red one with golden threads. It was made of some very thin fabric and had golden disks sewn to the ends, that rustled when you shook it. I had bought that on a trip to Cairo and I had thought it pretty but never used it.

I took the scarf and put it on.

'No, not around your neck, around your hips.'

I looked at him and tied it around my hips.

'You should learn to belly dance,' he said, that scarf gives me ideas.

I smiled at him. He was like a child, a child with some naughty ideas.

'But you can't be wearing those jeans. Take them off!'

I knew better than to protest so I unbuttoned my jeans and took them off.

'Still too much clothes, take the top off, too.'

I blushed as I stripped off my top. I felt suddenly naked as I stood before him dressed only in knickers and the scarf around my hips.

'Knickers too.'

'The scarf won't cover me.'

'I know.'

I took my knickers off and was now only wearing the scarf.

'Lower, let it hang on your hips, even below the hip bones, I want to see your belly.'

I retied the scarf and made sure it was low on my hips.

'Now stand there, weight on one leg, push your hip out, hand at your hip, let the other hang, push your bosom out, look at me, over the shoulder, straighten your back.'

I felt like I was in a photo shoot and he was instructing me. I tried to follow his orders.

'There you go, very nice. You would make a lovely barbarian princess.'

'A princess with very little clothes on.'

'Or a dancer or a harem slave or both at the same time. My imagination flies.'

'Are you a barbarian king and I would sit at your feet?'

'That is not a bad idea. And maybe I should chain you. I think you would look lovely in chains, imagine the hard steel against that soft skin.'

'I feel silly.'

'Don't be, you look lovely. You should learn to dance. You are really sexy like that, exotic and sexy. I like that. Maybe I should invite all my friends to dinner and have you wait at the table, dressed like that.'

'Don't you dare.'

'Don't tempt me, you don't know what I dare.'

I was silent. I knew he spoke the truth, in a flash I imagined him really doing that. I wondered if my willingness to do anything for him reached that far.

'We have to go shopping.'

'Too little rubber pants in my wardrobe?'

'What do you mean by that,' he snapped and I felt a cold hand grip my heart.

'Nothing,' I said, my voice weak, 'I just thought, perhaps...'

'What did you think?'

'I talked to my friend, Sarah, and she thought that perhaps...perhaps you were into that sort of thing.'

'Like fetish wear, like rubber and leather, like I was part of some kinky scene, like I went to some fetish club?'

'I don't know, maybe, I did.'

'You think this is a game?'

'No, I didn't mean it like that.'

'How did you mean it?'

'I don't know, sorry, forgive me.'

'Very well, it is a mistake, easily done. I can tell you, I don't fancy rubber and I don't fancy leather and I am not part of a scene. I am me and I want a woman by my feet and you are that woman. There is nothing more to it than that.'

'I understand,' I said, 'I am sorry.'

'That's alright.'

Pride and Anger

Pride, we all have pride. Just because you have fantasies about being sold as a slave or caned in a humiliating way doesn't mean that you don't have pride. Maybe it is because you have a little too much of that, that you have those fantasies. That could, very well, be true about me.

Growing older means, among other things, you see yourself a little clearer. Never believe you know completely what you are but it slowly becomes just a tad clearer with age. You begin to know what you are good at and what you are not so good at.

I am, for example, useless with complicated plot lines. Maybe that is why I don't like crime fiction and thrillers. It's sad when you sit and watch the great conclusion and don't understand what happened. 'Why was he so angry with the brother of his boss' lover because he had lost some money on the races and was that really a reason to kill the gardener's cousin?'

I am not so good at understanding long written texts, believe it or not. And I am useless with the remote controls of the things in our home.

I am, however, quite good with pictures. I recognise patterns easily and can have a guess at who painted a certain picture because I know their style. Despite the fact that I hate logic I am quite good at it, I have a maths brain but I prefer logic and maths when it is in pictures and not in text.

Another thing I am good at is to pick apart an argument and know what people really said and see the flaws and strength of it.

Back to pride. I am old enough to be proud of my achievements and to defend my position in subject areas I am passionate about. I wouldn't pretend to know anything about quarks or renaissance poetry but I have had a fair bit of education in Linguistics and Ancient History.

In fact, language is one of those things I am passionate about and I have read enough, studied enough, to have come across most of the main areas. I don't pretend to know the field but I have been around enough to know that when I do have an opinion I know it is well thought through. And when I am certain of a fact, I know why.

One problem with Linguistics is that everyone is an expert, everyone knows the language. To some extent that is true, the intuitive knowledge of how to communicate is the very basis for what we research within Linguistics. It doesn't automatically make you an expert on language history or typology or even formal grammar, though.

Mind you, it is not Linguists who pick on grammar and write complaining letters to the Telegraph. No, those are the language police, whose ranks are filled with over confident teachers and those who struggled through the old school only to now get the chance to pick on and bully someone else. Style in language is not the same as grammar.

The other day I found myself chatting online with somebody who I had experience of being quite insensitive and prone to saying quite hurtful things to me. But I had my reasons to give him another chance.

It all ended up in a silly discussion about the history of the English language. What is truth, one may ask? At least there is often an establish theory that is accepted within the research community and when I know what that theory is and agree with it it is hard to stand down when someone just tells you, you are wrong.

When that person tells you he is a public school boy and because of that he 'knows', it feels petty to point to your years of studies at the university. I don't claim that university makes you an authority, not at all. There is a tremendous number of idiots in academia and lots you could be ashamed of. No, it was just very tempting to hit back.

It is quite silly to row about something that is easy to check out – Wikipedia is a good start – and I don't know why I didn't stop it there. It became nasty. I like to stay on target and when I do, I don't like to be dismissed with 'do you know irony'. Bad cop out.

Anyway, this person is now deleted from my contact list and all is well with that. Why do I blog about this? Am I petty and whining? Well, yes, that is what I am. I am angry and hurt and this is my blog. I want to be petty.

Dear Readers, I guess I wanted a sympathetic ear or just wanted to get it off my chest. Thanks for listening. I know you to be very lovely people.

Just some advice for those who may be provoked by this. Don't say I play the dumb blond or call me a foul mouthed fish wife, ever!!

Surrender, part 12

I am much more clever than you may think. There were a lot of things I chose not to tell in that last story, just to see how you reacted. Not that I know that much now, but it was still fun. Never mind, writing is not about being clever but about stories. Here is the next part of Surrender.

'How I would love to keep you here in my flat, in my bed. But you will have to wait. There is a bit left of your punishment and we will take that the next week.'

'I'll do anything for you.' I smiled at him.

'This time I almost believe you.'

'Thank you.'

'You don't have to abide by the rules.'

'Oh, thank you.'

'But I want you to do one thing for me, every evening.'

'Yes, of course.'

'Strip naked, and light a candle, and sit down in front of it. Kneel and spread your knees wide. Open your body and sit like that for a while. Remember how attractive you are and how desirable that body is. Do that for me!'

'Yes, I will, as you instruct.'

He laughed at the formality in my words and I had to giggle.

'Do you know why I was so particular about the skirt rule?' he said on the Wednesday, the next week when I had returned for the final part of my punishment. I had taken the same skirt as last time the slightly shorter of the two modest black ones.

'Because you want me to feel exposed?'

'Ah, that is true, but only partly so.'

'I don't understand.'

'You are such a child at times. Did you get anything what I told you in front of the mirror last week?'

'I don't know.'

'What did you get?'

'That you think I am attractive.' I felt how I blushed.

'And why I want you to wear a short skirt?'

'Because you think it looks better.'

'Why does a short skirt look better than a long?'

'More legs?'

'Yes, more you, more of your body is there for me to look at.'

'I see.'

'I don't think you do.'

I looked at him in bewilderment.

'No,' he said, 'I am a selfish bastard and I think women are attractive, I think you are attractive. I think your body is attractive and I want to see more of it. I want you to wear a short skirt because I, the selfish man I am, like to see more of your body.'

I blushed.

'You are cute when you blush. Take your clothes off so I can cane you.'

I was a little taken aback by his sudden change of subject. I hesitated for a second, then I began to strip off. I was amazed how easy it was, how hard it was.

There was no hesitation when I had started but his words of wanting to look upon my body burned in me. I wasn't stupid, I knew that men wanted to look at women but I couldn't imagine it was my body that attracted any of them to me.

As I knelt for the cane I was apprehensive and terrified but there was also a kind of elation that sprung from the knowledge that this was the final part of my punishment. Soon it would be over, the worst part would be over.

I was stronger this time. I began to cry after a while but I had the strength to compose myself and he didn't have to help me as much as the second time.

This time he took me in his arms as I stood on trembling legs after having climbed down from the chair. I pressed my naked body against his clothed frame and I felt both naked and very small in his embrace.

'Stay with me,' he whispered in my ear, 'stay with me tonight!'

I nodded, tears streaming from my eyes. I wanted to be with him.

I looked at him, I had to tilt my head backwards to see his face. I looked at his face and wondered about the man. He had strength and determination. Or was it just me who was weak? I felt a strange kind of admiration for him. He had whipped me, he had not hesitated. He had demanded that I bowed to his will and he had whipped me.

I could hate him, hate him for being cruel, hate him for being a devil, a selfish bastard, bent on having me as someone to rule. I was never ever again to be his equal, it was too late for that. I had accepted to be whipped by this man. I was never to be a princess with him, not a royal woman, worthy of respect. I was something else for this man, a woman, a body, a slave. I didn't know. I could hate him for that too but I didn't. I admired him and at this moment I basked in the sunshine of his attention.

He dressed me in a silk dressing gown, that caressed my skin. He sat me down on a cushion by the table and gave me food. He cooked for us and we had our dinner. I began to smile. I felt like a teenager or a child who had been on a long bike ride and was exhausted but proud of my achievement.

And when he led me to the bedroom, sat down and had me stand before him while he slipped the gown from my shoulders I felt attractive. His gaze on my body made me feel like I was beautiful. I saw in his eyes that he was proud of me.

He was gentle, thought about how sore my bottom was, gentle but determined and managed to have me in a way that satisfied both of us.

I fell asleep on his shoulder, happier than I had been for a long time.

In the morning I made us breakfast and I served it on the bed. He smiled and seemed pleased with me. For a while I felt like before, like I hadn't been whipped, hadn't knelt to this man and stripped at his command.

I knew that he would not compromise. He had made that clear. Staying with him would be at his conditions and I wasn't sure what it entailed. What did it mean to sit at his feet? What did it mean to obey him? I knew what would happen if I didn't.

I went home to change clothes before leaving for college but before I left he turned to me.

'Come back tomorrow, we'll start your training then.'

My cheeks were flashing as I walked home. 'Training' he had said, as if I was some subject of his, a trainee or an animal. Pride reared its head and I wanted to tell him I was a lecturer, a tutor and I didn't need any training.

I thought a lot about what he had said about skirts and showing of bodies. I knew he desired me, but I still couldn't understand it. It was still unbelievable. I had never been a woman who thought she was beautiful.

As a woman I thought about my appearance, how to look good and present myself. I liked clothes and was quite confident in my choices. But I knew I looked upon myself differently from other women. I knew many women were attractive to men and they knew it but that sort of thinking was a stranger to me.

I could see what it was that made them attractive. I could see that they were attractive, I felt it myself. I knew how they did it, how they showed a little bosom, or a bare midriff, or a tight top or a short skirt. But it had never been for me. I knew how to look elegant and stylish but I never dared pretend to be sexy.

I had always been amazed by young girls who browsed through the bathing suits and could hold up a tiny bikini and think about what it would look like on their own bodies. They wanted to be sexy, they wanted to show off their bodies. They enjoyed the attention and were confident that a certain bikini would give them that.

He wanted me to wear a shorter skirt because he could see more of me. That thought was shocking and new to me. The rational part of me knew I shouldn't be surprised, that I played a prim and innocent fool but the thought still was revolutionary for me. It was like a part of me that had been dormant, that had been rationalised into a desire to look right, to be proper for my job, look professional and elegant. I was baffled by how naïve I was.

As I walked to his flat in the evening I wondered what he would think of me. I was wearing a striped top I loved but thought to be a little too revealing as it clung to my body and I had donned a dark green, straight skirt that was rather short, one of the shortest I owned.

I blushed as I thought how my bare and skinny legs were on full display and I wondered what I looked like. My thoughts went back to my walk of penitence, the green summer dress and what it had looked like. I hadn't been wearing any knickers then and I had taken the dress off in the stairwell. I felt ashamed.

He had talked about training and I wondered what it meant. Was I to be trained by him? For what? What was it I was supposed to learn? To sit by his feet?

He was happy to see me. He smiled at me, hugged me and kissed me. I melted in his arms. His embrace was the sweetest thing and when he held me I truly believe I could do anything for this man.

He stood back and looked me over. He smiled that private and introvert smile I had come to love. Did it mean he liked what he saw? Or was he just amused at my pathetic attempt?

The Student

And now an original short story, a newly written Janice story. With some naughtiness in it. Hope you are well out there, Dear Readers, and not being too fed up with the long story. I know some of you like it but some don't.

The sun was setting and she lifted her eyes from her book and stared out through her window. She let her gaze jump from rooftop to rooftop, dance around the chimneys and then take to the sky over the red coloured sea, flying high above the ships of the harbour.

She closed the book that was lying in front of her, put it away on the shelf and switched on two small lamps. It was still light from the window but soon there would be darkness and she needed the electric light, although not much.

She stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself. She took a hairbrush and ran it through her hair. Her hair fell to just below her shoulders, was a little red, a little blond. She gathered it to a ponytail, looked at her profile and nodded.

She took from her wardrobe a black skirt, and a striped long sleeved top. From her drawers she extracted a pair of black cotton knickers and a pair of over the knees, fishnet stockings.

In front of the mirror she watched herself transform. The knickers were tiny, not the minuscule string variety that the teenagers insisted upon believing, they would become the catch of the day. No, these were simple, low rise cotton knickers with no frills.

The fishnet stockings were extravagant but suited the knickers in a way. There were no need for garters or anything, these stayed in place by themselves.

Then she put the top on. She looked at herself and turned this way and that way, studying the shape of her body. The black and white striped top hugged her body tightly. She needed no bra and wore none. It made her breasts look softer and more natural. Some men liked that and some disliked it. Hers were small and proud enough to look better that way.

The neckline was wide and made the top want to come off her shoulders, at least one of them. The question was deciding which one. She pulled at the shirt and let it hang looser on the right side.

Then she donned the skirt. It was short and wide and came to half her thighs, perhaps a tad below half way. It was short but not provocatively short, just enough to allow her to show off her stocking clad legs without showing any bare skin.

She looked at herself and wondered what she saw. She looked ordinary, not sluttish, not held back, an ordinary girl, colours matching, fishnet stockings, a little bit of provocation but nothing too revealing. Her top was tight, hugged her body and anyone looking at her would notice her nipples. That was allowed, no one would be shocked, still a little enticing, and a little embarrassing.

She then put her shoes on, black ballet pumps, almost like slippers. They were no frills shoes, elegant and simple with a tiny little bow on the toes. They swish-swished as she moved over the floor.

From under the bed she extracted the suitcase. She put in on the bed and opened it. The crop was braided in black and white leather and quite sturdy, the two canes, one thicker and one thinner, were supple and hard. Her hands caressed the thick wood of the paddle. It was a sturdy but elegant thing, soft to the touch but heavy and hard, with holes drilled in it. There were some fine and soft ropes. Finally she took the hairbrush from the case. It had a long heavy head, with a flat surface.

She put the suitcase back under the bed and hung the tools on their designated hooks on the wall above her bed. Then she got a glass and a bottle of whine, poured some wine and sat down in the armchair, waiting.

She sipped the wine and looked at her room. It was simple and rough, had wooden floor boards and a worn rug. The wallpaper had been striped in white and gold but time and light had made them lose their lustre. At least the room was warm. She liked it, it was her hideout, her burrow.

He announced his arrival with a violent knock on the door.

'Let me in!' he roared when she didn't answer.

He banged once more on the door.

'Open the door,' he demanded.

She thought of the Queen and the Parliament and smiled to herself as she rose from her armchair.

He knocked on the door once more before she opened it. She stood back and let him in.

'Why didn't you open immediately?'

She didn't answer. He closed the door behind him. He took his coat off and handed it to her. She hung it on a hanger and took his hat and his gloves.

He was dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and dark red satin tie. His shoes were shining. He was a pedant when it came to his shoes.

He walked in and sat down in her armchair. He looked at her wine glass, not emptied. He looked around the room and saw the tools on the wall.

'I want wine.'

She got him a glass, placed it beside him and poured some wine.

'Come here!'

She put down the bottle and stood in front of him.

'Lift your skirt!'

She lifted her skirt.

'Did I tell you to wear those knickers?'

'No, you didn't'

'And you are not wearing heels.'

'No.'

You didn't open the door. You are sloppy.'

'Yes.'

'You know what this means?'

'Yes.'

'What?'

'A punishment.'

'Indeed. I will have to punish you.'

'I understand.'

He sipped his wine, looked at her. She stood in silence.

'Go and get the cane and the ropes, put them on the bed and then get my gloves.'

She did as she was told. His eyes followed her as she softly moved through her room. He likened her to a cat. There was something graceful about her as she stretched her body to reach the ropes.

'Which one?'

'The sturdier one.'

She took the thicker cane from its hook and placed it besides the ropes on the bed.

She got him his gloves.

'The rope.'

She got him the rope.

'Turn around.'

She heard him rise from the armchair and come close to her. He encircled her wrists and tied them together. She felt his gloved hands touch her skin. He was very efficient with the rope. In an instant she was bound, her wrists parallel behind her back.

She felt him sling the rope around her arms, and how it cut into her skin as he pulled it tight. She gasped as she felt her elbows being pulled together. He spun her round and looked at her.

'This is how the Egyptians tied their prisoners, although they weren't bothered to bind the wrists.'

He scrutinised her, standing quite close to her, still.

'You don't have a big bosom, but it looks lovely this way.'

He smiled.

He directed her to the other end of the room, turned her round so that she faced the armchair. He then took hold of her top, pulled it up, up and above her chest, releasing her breasts.

When he thought she was quite exposed he stood back. The top was tight enough to not fall down. He stared at her breasts.

'Now, stand on your toes.'

She rose to the tip of her toes.

'Heels had made this easier. Stay there now.'

He returned to the armchair, took his gloves off and sipped his wine. He smiled and hummed a tune, took the paper from the sideboard and sat back to read.

Occasionally he cast a glance at the woman, standing, facing him, her arms tied behind her, bosom exposed, struggling to stay on her toes.

He took his time, reading, drinking his wine. He spoke to her, telling her of his day, what he had done, whom he had met and talked to, what they had said. Sometimes he asked her about her doings and she promptly replied.

The glass was empty and the paper read through and the man donned his gloves again.

'Come here.'

She walked towards him, gingerly, her feet aching.

He made her stand before him and he reached out and unbuttoned her skirt and let it fall to the floor.

'I like those knickers with lace, you know that. Still you insist on those cotton, boring ones. If you at least could wear string knickers.'

He sighed and took a firm grip on the offending knickers and yanked them down. He pulled them down her legs and down to her feet and she stepped out of them.

He rose to his feet, took a firm grip of her neck and directed her to the bed. There he pushed her down on top of it. She was lying face down with her knees on the floor.

He took the cane from the bed and swished it through the air.

'Do you want to know how many you will get?'

'Yes.'

'You will have to count them then.'

He placed the cane against her bottom and she stopped moving. It appeared to him that she took a deep breath, bracing herself.

He lifted the cane and looked at her. Then he let it fly. It hit her across her buttocks with a sharp report and she jumped. He saw her move her hands, the hands that were still held in place by the ropes.

He studied how a red welt formed on her fair skin.

'The thing about counting was an order.'

'One.'

Then he hit again and she jumped.

Two.'

He took his time. He smiled to himself as he once more placed the cane against her skin.

The third made her jump again and cry out a little.

'Three.'

The fourth made her take a deep breath and slowly wriggle her body. It took some time before she counted out loud.

After she had gasped 'nine' he stopped.

'Do you think you have had enough?'

'I don't know.'

'Do you want me to stop?'

'Yes.'

He replied with a blow of the cane.

The eleventh hit her across the thighs and she dug her face in the mattress and wailed. He smacked his lips and thought that he would direct more of the strokes to the thighs.

'Twenty-four.'

'I am quite done with this now.'

'Thank you.'

He loosened the rope around her wrists and then the one around her elbows. She moved her arms forward, shook her hands a little.

'Now, turn around but stay on your knees.'

She slid down from the bed turning around so that she ended up standing on her knees.

The man had returned to his armchair.

'Now, take the top off, but keep the stockings and shoes.'

She slipped the top from her and was now quite naked.

She let her hands hang by her sides. He saw the red marks from the ropes. He looked at her body, her small breasts and her soft belly. He liked what he saw. She didn't look at him, she lowered her gaze.

'I am in the mood now.'

She approached him on her knees and unzipped his trousers. She helped his member out. He stood to attention and she leaned forward and kissed him.

The man leaned back and closed his eyes as the woman closed her lips on his precious friend. She could hear his breathing getting heavy and a feel a slight trembling.

'Stop!'

She sat back.

The man was staring at her, something wild in his eyes. He rose to his feet, his attentive friend the only part of him that wasn't well dressed.

He pulled her to her feet and shoved her before him to the bed. He pushed her down on it, this time on her back. He took hold of her legs and stepped forward.

He wasted no time. Without further ado he entered her. She closed her eyes and so did he. She listened to his breathing as she felt her body being rocked by his onslaught.

He grunted loudly as he reached his goal. He didn't listen to her sighs. He didn't know if she was after him or before him. He didn't ask her.

He stood in silence for a while, panting. Then he withdrew. He replaced his little warrior and stood back. He looked at the woman, naked on the bed, her legs slightly parted.

He said nothing as he went to the door. The woman rose from the bed and came after him. She was still naked as she handed him his hat and helped him put his coat on. They didn't speak.

He turned to her and leaned forward and kissed her cheek, gently and softly. Then he opened the door and walked out.

The woman turned back and stepped out of her shoes, took off her stockings. She went into the bathroom, took a long shower and then she donned her pyjamas.

Again she stood in front of the mirror and looked at the white flannel with teddy bears on. She hung the cane back on the wall and the ropes. She took the book from the shelf, slipped between the sheets and made sure the light was right for reading.

She opened the heavy book, Calculus, and began to read. She yawned a bit, felt sleepy and wondered if she would be able to pick up any of the formulas she was studying.