A New Way

I am sorry to keep you waiting but now I am back. I haven't written anything for you now so I have to look in the archives. This was, perhaps, meant as a beginning of a longer story but works, I think, as a short one too. Change of roles but hope you like it anyway. Don't let the picture decide the story for you.

'Are you angry?' she said, looking at me.

That look was very cute, very adorable but I was determined not to let it affect me.

'What do you think?' I replied.

'I was held up.'

'There is always something.'

'But I missed the bus.'

'You said you should be there.'

'What can I do about the buses?'

'Get an earlier one.'

'I couldn't know this one was to be late.'

'I don't care!'

'You are angry.'

'Yes, I am angry.'

'I am sorry.'

'Sorry isn't good enough.'

'I am really, really sorry.'

I looked at her. She looked miserable.

'I am going to punish you,' I said.

She stared at me. Part of her wanted to laugh, the other was bewildered.

'You are what?'

'I am going to punish you, for being late.'

'That's ridiculous, the bus was late. Are you going to punish the bus too?'

'No, only you.'

'But why?'

'Because I want to.'

She shook her head.

'So how are you going to punish me then – sulk?'

'No, I am going to spank you.'

She started laughing. I wasn't.

'I am serious,' I said, 'I am going to spank you.'

'You spank children,' she replied, 'or not even that, nowadays.'

'No, not children, you shouldn't do that to children.'

'But you want to spank me.'

'Sloppy girlfriends, that is a completely different matter.'

'Come on! We live in the 21st century.'

So what?'

'That kind of things belong to the past'

'Are you sure?'

'This is silly, it won't happen.'

'Won't it?'

'You have no right.'

'No, I have no right.'

'It won't happen.'

'It will.'

'How is it going to happen, then?'

'You will let me.'

'Never!'

I rose to my feet and went into the bathroom. I saw how she looked at me, her face a mix of ridicule and worry. She wasn't sure of me. She didn't know what I was going to do.

When I returned I held her hairbrush in my hand. It was a wooden brush, with a flat back. It wasn't big but heavy enough for its purpose, I thought.

'Stop this now!' she said, staring at me, 'it is silly. I said I was sorry and it won't happen again.'

'Too late now,' I replied.

She stared at me. She seemed to take a long good look at me. I don't know what she saw. Maybe she saw that I really wanted this, that I was determined.

'You really are going to spank me?' she said, her voice a little broken.

'I told you so.'

She stared at me. She hesitated. This was a strange kind of stand-off.

'If I let you spank me,' she said, 'if I let you spank me, will it make you feel better then?'

'Yes, I would think so,' I replied.

'You will have to promise not to be too hard, if I let you.'

'I won't promise that.'

'You have no right.'

'Unless you let me.'

'I guess I could let you do this, this once, just because you are angry.'

I felt the hairbrush heavy in my hand. The thought of using it on her made my hands tremble.

'It is a punishment, after all,' she continued, 'I guess it is only fair you decide.'

She looked at me. I was still standing, she was sitting down. Her face was changed, she looked worried as if she wanted to plead with me. She looked very small.

I turned around and took one of the wooden chairs and placed it on the floor. I sat down on it and looked at her. She looked at me. She pretended not to know what she was supposed to do. I was not going to tell her.

She seemed to take a deep breath, swallow, shake her head before she rose to her feet. She walked hesitantly towards me. She stopped short some distance away. She wanted a prompt.

I tapped my knees. She looked scared.

'You have no right to do this,' she said.

'No right, whatsoever,' I replied.

She came forward and awkwardly leaned forward. She knew what to do, where she should be but she wasn't sure how to get there, where exactly to put her body.

I took her hand and directed her. Something in her stance made me think she appreciated this guiding hand. I wasn't sure either how to place a girl in your knee, whom you are going to spank.

It took some adjusting, some nervous action before she was lying in a way I deemed suitable for a spanking. She was hanging her head but I couldn't see her face. I couldn't see what she felt. I knew this was beyond that. Now it was me and her bottom, her jeans clad bottom.

I took a firm hold of the hairbrush, lifted it, hesitated a little. This was a strange moment. I really wanted to spank her. I was angry but I knew I wanted it for more reasons than anger. Still I was going to punish her, punish her because she had made me angry. That was the plan.

I smacked her right buttock. She drew her breath. I didn't hit very hard but I knew she felt it. She didn't protest. I couldn't know how much it had hurt her. She didn't say. She seemed to be determined now.

I smacked her left cheek, a little harder and I heard her sigh and felt her tense her body. I knew she felt this. But did it hurt? Did it really hurt? Did I want it to hurt?

I gave her a series of smacks, alternating between buttocks. I was still too afraid to put some real power in them but the series of five-six smacks made her squirms a little. She was affected. I knew that now.

I began to spank her bottom with a series of smacks, in a steady pace. I started not too hard and soon, after three or four she seemed to settle into it, squirming a little and moving her head. I then felt the urge to increase the power, to make them count. It was a punishment, after all, she was to feel pain.

She seemed to brace herself for the harder smacks and held her breath, sighed and moved her head, determined to endure. I liked this. I felt how much I enjoyed this. I was punishing her and I felt I had the right to do it but I couldn't explain the elation I felt.

Then I stopped. I knew what I had to do.

'Is this it?' she said, turning her head.

She was a little flustered.

'No, there is some more,' I replied.

I reached my hands under her belly, trying to find the button in her jeans.

'What are you doing?' she squealed with a hint of panic in her voice.

'Taking down your jeans,' I said.

'Why?'

'Guess why!'

'You can't do that.'

'I can.'

She protested but she didn't resist me. She just didn't help me. I managed to dig in, under her, and unbutton her jeans. I started to yank them down. That was not easy, her jeans fitting her quite snugly.

'Get up!' I ordered.

She scrambled to her feet. She made no effort of stopping me as I yanked her jeans down to her knees. She gave me a strange look that seemed to coincide with a sudden flash of arousal that traversed my frame.

I guided her to lie down across my lap once again and this time it was a little less awkward. Soon she was lying there, this time I was looking at her knickerclad bottom. She was wearing red, cotton knickers that partly covered her bottom cheeks. They were thin and would not protect her much. She had a small, round and very lovely bottom. That could not be denied.

I gave her four more smacks and she seemed to sense the increased effect of them. I felt that this more like the proper way of spanking a girl. I was amazed that I thought like that, 'the proper way of spanking a girl.'

Something in her body, how it moved made me know,, for sure, that she felt the impact of the hairbrush more directly now. I felt a strange excitement at that, the added cruelty of it. I struggled a little with that sensation. I was excited by the fact that she was less protected, felt it more, that it was crueller to spank her on her knickers. At the same time I felt a little bad for wanting to be cruel to her. I decided to go with the excitement. It was meant to be painful after all.

My qualms about being cruel gave away and soon I felt a strange and evil urge to go all the way. Although her knickers didn't give much protection it would be even crueller, even more humiliating to smack her bared bottom.

I stopped again. This time she didn't ask and when I reached for her knickers something strange happened. Instead of hearing her loud protests she gently lifted her hips and, thus, helped me pulling down her knickers. This gesture was a humble gesture, allowing me to bare her, to make it worse for her, making her punishment harder. Helping me was humiliating her but she did it, all the same.

Her bottom was a little pink at places and I resisted an urge to squeeze and caress it. Instead I lifted the hairbrush and smacked her.

She felt the impact. I doubt it hurt her more but she felt it directly on her skin. She knew she was bared for it.

I felt that sense of elation again as I smacked her and I decided to let go of my inhibition. I felt that it was time to spank her for real.

I began smacking her in earnest. I put some power in and felt how the impact affected her. The strange thing was that she did not protest. She struggled and squirmed but she didn't struggle with me. She struggled with herself, struggled to stay put and endure.

I spanked her for quite some time and I felt that she was on the brink of losing control. I felt that this may be it. I could go on longer but I felt that it was enough. I ended it with a series of really hard smacks and she squealed out loud as the hairbrush made hard and brutal contact with her beautiful and very naked bottom.

'You may rise now!' I said when I had stopped.

She scrambled to her feet. I expected her to pull up her clothes but instead she turned to me.

'Please forgive me!' she said.

Her face was flustered.

'I am not angry any more.'

'Then there was some meaning to this.'

We both started to laugh.

'May I pull up my jeans?'

'Yes, of course.'

She sighed deeply as she pulled her knickers and jeans over her newly spanked bottom. I could tell it hurt. She buttoned her jeans, let her hands stroke her bottom, looked at is, as if the redness the spanking had caused was visible through the fabric of her jeans.

She was in pain, that was sure but she seemed amazed more than upset. I didn't understand that. She had been spanked.

Hello

Slow and low seems to be the order of the day. Thank you for the comments. You are really wonderful, dear Readers. I have no good excuses for not posting anything today, so I won't try to explain it away. It has been one of those weeks, or two, that makes you want to forget about everything and just sit in a corner and stare at the world.

I will be busy this weekend, relatives coming to visit, so any blogging will have to wait till next week. But then I will put something up, if nothing else, something from the archives. Take care and thank you, again, dear Readers, for your comments.

Love Our Lurkers Day

You mean a lot to me, Dear Readers, and your comments are much appreciated. Still I don't want to force anyone to delurk just to be kind. Still it would be nice to hear from you, you who read but don't comment.

I do imagine my readers to be a fairly small but dedicated group of people, at least the ones who comment are very nice and kind and enthusiastic. I can't tell you how much your encouragement means. I do welcome critical voices too, of course, even if it may not seem that way. More than anything, I want to share and talk about fantasies with you.

This doesn't mean you have to have anything important or clever to say to delurk, no, a simple 'hello' is very welcome.

This idea about delurking comes from Bonnie over at the My Bottom Smarts. Go and visit her cracking blog.

Oliver

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Awakening

More from the hidden archives of my strange scribblings. This you may find a little strange but this is the right place for that, don't you think? This is a piece I wrote for myself, not really intended for the blog.

When did it start? Who knows when it started but I know when I discovered it. I was not old, not a child either. My mind was still susceptible to all sorts of strange influences, even if I thought of myself as strong willed and independent.

The change, or discovery, took place in an odd place, indeed. It may not seem an odd place to discover something crucial about yourself but, regarding the nature of my new-found knowledge, it was a strange place.

I wasn't alone when I entered the church. I was one of twenty-five others, both girls and boys. We had travelled by bus to this ancient university town and now we were taken on a guided tour through this very old church. None of us were really very interested but we had been told to behave and most of us did.

I had always been fascinated by churches and this one was very old and very peculiar. This excited me although I did my best to hide my excitement. We were taken through the different chapels and told the old stories about the students and deans that had been buried there and the saints that had been worshipped there.

In the chapel behind the high altar hung a crucifix and before it I stood as struck by lightning. No one should think that there was any kind of religious awakening that was happening. That which made me stand, as if frozen to the spot, was something completely different.

I stared at the cross and the man nailed to it. I am not religious. Still I do not wish to degrade or insult any religious belief. I know about the symbolism of Christ and the Crucifixion. I am too ignorant to know the religious significance of it all but I know about the sacrifice and how Jesus died for our sins. I know about it but it doesn't make much sense to me.

I stood there, overcome with a tidal wave of the strangest sensations. I stared at the man on the cross. It was sculpted in wood and made with much detail. It was very delicate and skilfully done. I stared in awe and amazement at the crucified man, because it was a man I saw.

The details, the intricate woodwork, made him come to life before my very eyes and I saw in that sculpture his agony and suffering. It came alive and suddenly I almost felt the nails through his hands and the strain in his body as he hung there.

In my overwhelmed mind I knew I should think of the suffering of Christ for our sins, but what I saw was the body of a man, a man they once nailed to a cross. I was staring at his body, a body that looked so real, almost as if he was alive, and I felt his suffering.

And I felt something else too, as I let my eyes caress the suffering body of the man on the cross, something that made me ashamed of being in a church, made me think I was the worst of the worst, the one in that church that should not be there.

I saw how naked he was. I saw his naked agonised body, stretched and tormented. I stared at his loincloth threatening to fall off. My mouth was dry and my head was humming as I felt how terribly excited I was at the sight of that naked body in agony.

I marvelled at the cruelty, the immense brutality in nailing someone to a cross and at the same time I felt my heart thumping in my chest for the horrible arousal I felt as I stared at him.

In my mind the agony became beauty and the suffering became passion and the nails were burning marks that filled the man with agonising pleasure. Lost was the religious meaning and left was only the blasphemous passion the sculpture evoked.

And then I took a step further. Instead of turning back, instead of sensing how inappropriate my staring at the crucified man was I choose to go deeper into my pulsating and blinding imagination.

In a flash I swapped place with him. I was the one nailed to the cross. I was the one whose naked body was stretched out and bound to the cross. It was I who was hanging there, in the church, in front of my peers, in front of all the visitors to the church.

Perhaps the cross was on a hill in the city or on the town square and all had gathered to see me crucified. and I was hanging there naked in front of them all and they could point and stare and mock and taunt me. I was helpless and lost.

And in my feverish thoughts I found I was naked, not even wearing a delicately arranged loincloth that was waving in the wind but nothing. I was hanging there stark naked, not a single piece of clothing was I allowed. And they could all see me in my misery and agony. And they all enjoyed it, laughed and watched as I hung in pain.

And as I stared out over the crowd, I knew I was not crucified for their sins, to take on me the evils of others. No, I was me, only me, naked and miserable, crucified for breaking all the laws of all the religions in the world. I truly deserved hanging there, stripped of all honour and decency.

And as I hung there looking at the crowd, knowing that they looked at me, looked at my body, I felt a thrill, a tingling in me, a strange sensation, that started between my legs, that trickled through my whole body and grew to an all encompassing wave. I knew then that what they looked at was a girl in agony, a young body nailed to the cross for her sins, a girl deserving her punishment. And I knew that they enjoyed it, I knew I was sexy.

The spell was broken as we were ushered on, to the next tomb, to the next chapel. I was shivering. I was changed. I knew then, that I was changed. I knew I had discovered a new kind of pleasure.

Spanking Story

I don't know what I said that made some of you think I had some kind of writer's block. That's not what I meant. It was more to express a kind of weariness with the kind of stories I write for the blog, me being weary of my own thoughts. I am not judging kinkiness and saying it is bad or anything, I am just a little fed up with the way my own mind works.

Anyway, I have read through what I have written the last year and was especially interested in the things I didn't want to put on the blog. I decided that I should take some of the texts I didn't find suitable and put here.

I am not sure I can resist the temptation to comment on the reason why I didn't think a certain text was suitable for the blog. I know I shouldn't, it will sound too much like a disclaimer, but I think I will do that from time to time anyway.

Here is a rather long spanking story I wrote a year ago. Too many words for too little action, is my comment to it. I will put it here, anyway, as it is, how I wrote it (just some light editing).

'Do you know what this is?' he said and put his hand on the wooden pillar that supported the roof in the barn.

'A beam,' I replied looking at him.

He smiled. That smile scared me but it also intrigued me immensely. He had something in mind and I knew it wasn't just a pillar, or a beam or some piece of wood.

'It is a whipping post,' he said, his smile just a tad menacing.

I strange kind of charge surged through my body. I blushed and felt silly for doing it.

His smile changed the whole atmosphere in the room. The mentioning of the whipping post had shocked me, hit me between the eyes, made me aware of what that smile meant.

His hand caressed the surface of the wood.

I nodded.

'You see the rope here?' he said and took hold of a rope that ran through an sturdy iron ring high up on the pillar.

'Yes,' I said, unable to say much more.

The rope was smooth and rather thin, but strong enough, I was sure, to bind, to tie someone like me with. I blushed again.

'If I want to whip someone,' he said, 'I will tie them with this rope.'

There was nothing in the tone or the prosody that told me who he meant but I knew who that someone would be. I knew he spoke of me.

It could have been a silly display of a man's toys but his way of saying that he may want to whip someone made it seem frightening, rather than ridiculous.

I drew my breath. I was scared. I felt it in my whole body. The strangest of things was that I didn't fret. I was scared but I felt that I wanted that fear. Maybe it wasn't fear, maybe it was anticipation, expectation.

'If I was to whip you,' he said, his words coming closer to me, 'then I would have you stretch out your arms on either side of the post.'

He looked at me, making sure I was listening. He scrutinised me for a while as if to try to figure out what I was thinking.

'Then, you see,' he continued, 'I would tie your wrists together, with this rope, so you were standing, facing the pole embracing it.'

He looked at me. I nodded.

'To secure you to the post, I would pull at the rope so that you had to lift your arms. Maybe I would be cruel to you and pull so hard that you had to stand on your toes.'

When he talked about being cruel to me, that strange charge surged through me again. I held my breath, felt my heart beat faster, my cheeks burn.

'Then, when you were standing like that, hands above your head, embracing the post, your body pressed to the wood, then you would be ready to be whipped.'

He looked at me, scrutinised me.

'What are you thinking of?' he asked.

'How helpless you would feel,' I replied, my mouth dry.

'Indeed,' he said, 'you would. That is the very point, to tie you helpless, ready to be whipped.'

I nodded.

'A very cruel thing too,' he continued, 'to whip a person, like that. She is helpless, at your command, at your mercy and all you do, all you choose for her is to whip her. You deny her the possibility of defending herself and then you beat her with a whip, just to make her suffer. That is cruel.'

He enjoyed it. He enjoyed the thought of being cruel to someone. He enjoyed the thought of being cruel to me. I was scared but I stood there. I didn't run.

Did I want him to be cruel to me? Did I want him to tie me to that pole and whip me? In my mind all of this seemed so romantic, the passion, the whip, the agony, the ecstasy, the pain as a companion to lust. But standing by this pole, this sturdy, wooden post, with its iron ring, its ropes and with this man, it all seemed so real, so frightening, so full of real pain, real unforgiving pain, real relentless pain, pain that seared through you and was just horrible and cruel and excruciating.

'It is of course worse if you are naked,' he said.

His words brought me back to reality. It brought me back to the unforgiving pain, the cruel pain.

But his mentioning of being naked made my body shiver. There was true fear, the fear of being bared to the whip and its pain, but also the charge, the red wave that shot through me and seemed to focus between my legs.

He walked over to the wall and now I saw that this was were he kept his tools. Neatly hanging side by side on hooks were horsewhips and crops and canes and some menacing looking whips. I didn't know the names of half of them.

He took a horsewhip from one hook. Held it out, looked at it, swished it through the air. Seemed to decide it was a good tool, turned to me and approached me.

I almost took a step back as he came closer.

'Of course it seems rather pointless to allow the one you are whipping clothes,' he said, 'it seems to defy the very purpose of whipping them in the first place.'

I didn't answer. The very matter of factly way he spoke of whipping someone made it seem even crueller, even more menacing.

The idea of baring the skin, that was to be whipped, seemed logical to him, a rational part of the overall plan. But to the one being whipped, to me, if I was tied to that pole, it would mean something completely different. It would mean more excruciating pain, and the baring a deliberate and humiliating part of something immensely cruel.

'This horsewhip,' he said, 'is designed to sting through the thick hide of a horse. It is not meant for the soft skin of a woman, not the bared skin of a woman.'

He swished the whip through the air and I had to take a step back, my heart beating wildly.

'This makes it a good tool for whipping a woman.'

He looked at me.

'It must really hurt,' I said, sensing that this was a very trivial and obvious thing to say.

'It is meant to hurt,' he said, smiling.

He looked at me and I knew he was intent on hurting me, whipping me. He wanted to tie me to the post and whip me. This thought made me dizzy.

Did I trust him? Would I let him do it? Would I be sure he wouldn't harm me, hurt me but not harm me? Did I want him to hurt me?

'Are you ready?' he said.

How could I know if I was ready? Could you be ready for such a thing? The pain, the excruciating pain. And the humiliation. How helpless wouldn't you be, tied to that post, unable to defend yourself and knowing that he was to use that helplessness to make you suffer. How could you possibly want that?

I nodded.

It was easy to nod. It was easy to just tilt your head a little and set it all in motion. He made it easy. I was in the middle of a turmoil of emotions and sensations and I had no idea what I wanted, if I wanted it, what it entailed. It was easy to nod and say yes and let it happen. It was like pulling a trigger, a tiny movement of the finger that could kill someone. From this moment, from this tiny nod, he had to do it, he had to help me through. I couldn't do it alone.

'Take your top off!' he commanded.

I was shocked by his bluntness. Having me taking my top off meant he was really baring me for the whip. There would be no protective cover. He had said it would be pointless to whip a woman unless her skin was bared but it all seemed too cruel to imagine.

I slipped my top off and in an instant the scene changed. Up to this point, everything, the post, the ropes and even the whip in his hand had been something we talked about, something we imagined. We were two people talking about cruel things, or rather he telling me about them. Now I was changed.

He was still clad, in his jacket, his black trousers and his shoes. I was not fully clad. I stood there with my top in my hands and my bosom bared. I was no longer just an ordinary person listening to his talk of cruel things. I had become a half naked woman standing by a whipping post.

The room was charged with the new tension. He looked at me. He looked me over. He took his time. He smiled. He showed me he liked what he saw. His gaze lingered on my breasts, my bared breasts and he showed no hesitation, no shame. I blushed.

He took my top from my hands and put it on a crate that stood behind him. I felt even more naked as I saw my top be moved further away from me and with him standing between me and it. It was beyond reach and I was just a woman with no top on, with her breasts on full display.

I didn't try to cover up. It seemed pointless. And there was something in the situation that compelled me to accept his gaze, accept him being able to look at me. Maybe I felt as if it was a kind of punishment this would be part of it, the baring of the breasts and the man looking at them and the woman not allowed to cover up.

Standing there being looked at with no top on made me feel embarrassed, self conscious and scared but there was also a strange kind of satisfaction, a hidden excitement that lurked inside me.

'Come here!' he said as he stood by the post.

I knew it was time for me to be tied to it. My heart was beating hard in my chest.

He took hold of the rope as I approached the post and I walked close to it and stopped. I waited. I didn't stretch out my arms. I didn't know what I was supposed to do now.

'Arms!' he said.

I stretched out my arms on either side of the post. The closeness to the uneven but smooth surface of the post made me aware of my nudity. I didn't want my skin to touch the post. I don't know why I feared it. It seemed cold and unwelcoming and I wasn't prepared to feel the rough world against my skin at that moment. I knew it would come but not just yet.

He grabbed my hands and gently crossed my wrists. I held them like that when he let go and encircled them with the rope and tied them. I was bound.

It struck me that I was no longer in control of my body. Up till that moment I could have turned and run, but now I was bound. Now I couldn't even take a step back.

I thought about the fact that he had allowed me to keep my jeans on. Did it possibly mean that I was going to be whipped on my jeans, that this taking off of my top was just to make me feel more naked, more vulnerable but he would be kind enough to whip me on my jeans?

I thought of the fabric in my jeans, the denim and how much it would protect me. I supposed there would be a difference. Why else this talk about baring a woman for the whip?

Or was he going to whip me on the back? The thought startled me. After all, that was how it was done in the olden days. A real flogging was on the back. For some reason I had imagined being whipped on the bottom. You were spanked on the bottom, it all seemed natural but this may be different.

I was strangely disappointed. I was shocked at this realisation. I was really and truly disappointed. I had imagined the embarrassment and the humiliation of having my jeans being lowered, my bottom bared, being stripped naked and although I felt only shame and fear I knew, deep in my heart, that I had wanted it, had expected it.

He took his end of the rope and started to pull. I felt my arms being lifted in the air. Up until that moment I had been able to stand with my arms away from the post and my upper body some inches free. But when my arms were lifted I had to come closer. My arms touched the cold surface first and I shivered, then I had to lean my upper body against it. I struggled to avoid it although I knew it was inevitable in the end.

First my nipples touched to wood and then my breasts and then I pressed even closer. The surface was smooth but uneven and very cold. Having my arms hoisted in the air made me feel more helpless and exposed to this whipping post than before and sensing my naked skin, the sensitive skin on my breasts and belly press against its surface made me feel very naked.

He pulled me skywards and I felt the strain in my arms. He stopped just short of forcing me up on tip toes.

'Now you are almost ready to receive your whipping,' he said and I was startled by his words. He brought me back to his grim reality and all the dread of his whip returned to me.

I felt my body tremble as I prepared to feel the whip land on my back. My mind was blank and I could only think: 'now it happens, now it becomes real.'

'Just one thing,' he said, 'those jeans. I hope you didn't expect to be allowed to keep them on.'

I gasped. I was not prepared for this. I almost cried out in agony. I was trembling as I felt him approaching.

Suddenly there was intimacy. He was close to me, I felt his closeness sensed his smell, heard him breathe. He stood behind me and his jacket brushed against my naked back and it made me feel even more exposed, more vulnerable.

I gasped as I felt his hand find their way over my hips. He was so close it made me tremble. That red wave surged through me again and my cheeks burned as I felt his fingers take hold of the button in my jeans.

He worked with it, not being able, at first, to undo it. And all the time he was leaning close. I felt him close, both as a threat and a comfort. I felt naked and exposed and touched and this filled my body with a strange arousal that I didn't choose.

The button became undone and he unzipped my jeans. I held my breath as his fingers came close to my sex. I gasped as he let go and took hold of my jeans and started to pull them down from my hips.

I was utterly embarrassed as I felt him yank my jeans down from my hips. I felt exposed and wondered if this was what I wanted because I was overcome with arousal as the jeans came down over my hips.

I wasn't to be disappointed, I wasn't to be whipped on my jeans. I was to be undressed at this post and my shameful arousal surged through me and I could do nothing to stop it.

I was ashamed because I wanted to be stripped naked. At that moment I didn't care that I was to be whipped on my naked skin. I just wanted him to take my clothes off and I felt guilty for feeling like this. Maybe even the thought of his whip on my naked skin added to the sense of a guilty pleasure, something I shouldn't feel. I was frightened but that was not all I was.

He made sure I kept my knickers on. They threatened to come down with the jeans but he made sure they stayed in place. He pulled my jeans down my legs and I helped him by lifting my feet as he pulled them free. With my jeans came my shoes off and I felt how cold the floor was as I now stood on bare feet.

I was naked bar my knickers and I felt the cold surface of the whipping post against my thighs and my lower belly.

Again I went through this strange sensation of wondering if he would remove my knickers, that mixed feeling of being glad I wasn't completely naked and the disappointment that he would let me keep them on.

I figured that the thin fabric of my red cotton knickers wouldn't make much difference when he whipped me and perhaps he wanted to grant me this modesty.

Still I had expected him to expose me completely and I wondered why he let me keep my knickers on.

'Almost there,' he said, and I knew he was smiling.

'I wanted you to think that I may, just may, grant you the mercy of keeping those knickers on. But, don't worry, they will come down.'

I felt caught out, as if he had read my mind and knew about the turmoil in my head those knickers had caused.

I held my breath as he took hold of my last item of clothing and gently but swiftly slipped them down my hips and legs. I lifted my feet and stepped out of them. Now I was naked. Now I had nothing that would protect my body against his whip. I was ready.

I froze when he placed the horsewhip across my buttocks. My heart stopped beating. Now I realised that I was, really, going to be whipped. He was, really, going to hit me with the whip across my naked bottom and it was going to hurt. I knew how much it hurt to hit your own leg with a horsewhip, through the fabric of your jeans. I knew the force and power of it. Now I was going to be hit across my buttocks, my exposed and naked buttocks with the cruel whip.

'I am not,' I said, my voice weak, 'I am not sure, I can do this.'

'Take a deep breath,' he said reassuringly, 'you don't have to do anything.'

I closed my eyes as I felt the whip leave my skin. It was all silent. My mind was racing. How painful was it going to be? How horrible would it be?

I was startled by the hissing sound of the whip through the air and the sharp report when it made contact with my skin. This was the sound of a whipping, the sound of pain.

My bottom exploded. It burned with fire. I wasn't prepared for this. Nothing in my mind could have prepared me for this. I gasped. I squirmed. I couldn't believe how painful it was. It took over my body and exploded in my head. It was unbearable, unthinkable.

As I came round I felt as if a red hot iron was pressed against my buttocks. I was shocked how painful it had been. And in that moment I couldn't imagine this to happen again. Surely this was it, surely he would let me go now?

The hissing sound and the sharp report told me otherwise. I cried out in agony and shock. It hurt even more the second time. I heard myself whimper.

'Please, please, I can't take it, please, no more,' I heard the panic in my own voice as I pleaded.

'No, my dear,' he said, his voice calm, 'it is too late now.'

He whipped me again and this time I lifted my feet in agony as I cried out.

'Take a deep breath and calm down,' he said with a soothing voice, 'you are doing fine.'

I cried out in misery and at the mockery of this. It seemed cruel to say I was doing fine and to suggest how I should do to cope with it. He wanted this, he wanted me to suffer so why mock me by pretending to help me?

I cried out again as the fourth lash hit me. I squirmed in panic, desperate to get away from this. It overwhelmed me. I wanted it to stop.

He hit me again and I felt how tears came to my eyes, how I started to sob, feeling utterly helpless and miserable.

I braced myself for the sixth but when it hit home I still cried out. The seventh made me whimper. It slowly dawned on me that there was no escape. I had chosen to let me be tied and I had let him whip me and now he wasn't going to let me off the hook. I had to take whatever came my way.

Eight and nine was pure agony but somehow my mind started to settle in a kind of grim determination. I had to brace myself, I had to take this.

'And now, one on the thighs,' he said and immediately he hit the back of my thighs and another kind of pain filled my senses. I can't say it hurt more but it was different and I screamed in pain.

Next one hit across my buttocks again and I jumped.

I can't say I accepted what was happening to me but the pain swept my mind clean and I was thinking of nothing else and how to survive the next. I stopped thinking about when it would be over, I just concentrated on the next one to come.

I settled into a pattern and took what came my way. I cried because it hurt but I didn't think of the unfairness and of his cruelty. I just let it happen. I desperately wanted it to stop but I no longer expected it to stop. I was there, I was only my body being whipped and I was, in one sense, whole.

Then he stopped. I didn't believe it at first but he stopped. I hadn't counted well but I think I had got 23 or 24 plus a couple more on my thighs.

My bottom was numb and there was a certain throbbing, rather than searing pain. I knew, somehow, that when the numbness would disappear I would be very, very sore.

I gasped as I realised he was standing close to me.

'You did well,' he said as he placed his hand on my bottom.

He gently caressed my hot aching skin and it was both cool and soothing and agonising and painful.

I wasn't prepared to sense him this close and in my sobbing, sweaty and exhausted state I was unprepared for his touch.

A touch is a touch and it is sweet and in this state I didn't care who touched me. It was sweet even if it was by the one who had caused me this misery.

'Your bottom is hot,' he said, 'you won't be able to sit on this for a couple of days.'

I sighed at this remark. It seemed so deliberate, so cruel to point it out, to talk about the obvious, as if he enjoyed the fact that I was marked, the fact that I would feel this whipping later. It was as if he was happy and proud he had whipped me. I had suffered and he had enjoyed it. The unfairness of it made me whimper.

But that was not all I felt. This strange cruelty, this unfairness made my body react. His words sent the red wave through me, it started where he touched me and it surged through my body to end between my legs. I trembled.

His hand travelled over my hip, forward, onto my lower belly. I held my breath while his hand moved over my skin. It started fires in me, fires I couldn't resist.

I wondered if his hand would go upwards or downwards. I feared downwards but was still disappointed when it went upwards. It stroked my belly, a finger in my belly button and I gasped as he caressed my breast.

I heard him humming. He liked this. He enjoyed first whipping a woman and then caressing her.

I held my breath as his hand went down my body, over my belly, over my lower belly and in between my legs.

I cried out as his hand rested on my sex, held me there, made my heart beat faster. Then he slipped his fingers into me and invaded me.

I was helpless and I felt ashamed and humiliated by his touch, still I wanted it, still I yearned for it.

I lost track of time but I don't think he held his fingers in my sex for a long time. Still the red wave surged powerful through my body. It was as if the whipping had not brought just pain but also this readiness to being touched. It surged through me and down to his fingers and I couldn't stop it.

As if I had waited for a long time and the mere touch brought it to a conclusion I came with his fingers in me. I whimpered and gasped as I came, still bound to the whipping post. My legs were weak and I was hanging in my bound wrists.

As I came round he was standing by the rope, ready to untie it. He waited for me to stand on my own legs and when he saw I did he loosened the rope.

I stood trembling as my arms were no longer stretched above my head and when he untied my wrists. I still shivered as he turned me to him and took me in his arms.

I found it strange that he would embrace me, he who had whipped me, and I found it strange that I would find comfort in his embrace.

Still I cried against his shoulders while he held me and told me how brave I had been. I didn't feel brave. I felt small and whipped. But I cried.

'You may dress now,' he said, after a while when he sensed that I had composed myself.

As I walked over to my clothes I felt as if the world was returning to me. I started to see the things around me. I started to return to myself.

Gingerly I donned my clothes and when I was done I turned to him. He smiled. He seemed happy, almost cheerful. I found this reassuring and I felt no bitterness. He had whipped me and he had been cruel to me but I felt no bitterness. I wondered why?

I wondered why I had let this happen, why I had let him whip me. Did I want it? I couldn't possibly want it. Why did I let him do it? Maybe I did want it. No one forced me. That must be it. I wanted it. I know I wanted it. I had gone through with it and I had survived.

I looked at him and felt a kind of tenderness for this man. He was handsome and very attractive but I didn't love him. He had done something for me, with me, and maybe I had done something for him.

'I will be here if you ever wish to come back,' he said.

I nodded. Then I turned and went, out into the world. I think I had a faint smile on my face. I think I had.