Another Flogging

I have found that the kind of stories that people often contact me about are the ones with some public flogging or the like. There is obviously something in those themes that speak to you Readers. I wouldn't have written those stories if they didn't speak to me too. Here is another one.

They were all there, every man, woman, child and animal had left their homes to gather at the square. They fought for the best places, for the best view, everyone wanted to watch. They battled but they were happy, happy and excited. They had gathered for their favourite entertainment.

It was not a long way from the dungeons of the City Hall to the scaffold in the square. The guards were smiling when they collected me.

'Quite a crowd, lass.'

'They are happy to see you.' The other guard laughed heartily, thinking he had cracked a really good joke.

They secured my hands behind my back and didn't care much as I gasped when the ropes hurt me. My dress was flimsy as it was and with my hands behind my back I could do nothing to prevent it from sliding off my shoulder. The guards looked at me and thought I was presentable.

I walked on trembling legs and as the door opened and I met the mob, my heart began trembling as well. The excitement and the cheer that greeted me almost encouraged me, almost made me as excited as they were.

The strong guards protected me as we made our way through the crowd. I hesitated at the stair to the scaffold but was pushed onto the stage. The guards were not late to lend a helping hand that made me aware of how thin my garment was.

As I stood in front of the crowd I felt small. They shouted at me, smiled at me, welcomed me. There was no friendliness in their smiles, no kindness in their words. They had come for the entertainment, they had come to see me entertain them.

I had to stand like that for a while. The mob became impatient, urged the guards to get on with the show. I could do nothing but stand there, bound and look out over the multitude of faces. Should I keep my head high and antagonise them, or should I bow my head and be humble? Neither alternative changed what was going to happen.

Then the crowd broke out in a frenzy. They were taken by their own madness, shouting and cheering and staring. I turned my head and saw what had sparked them. I saw him.

He was the real performer, the one they had come for. He was the master and artist. They had come to see him work. They had not come for me. I was the clay he would work on, I was a tool for his skill. I was the one to be mastered by him.

He was an animal. He was clad in red trousers of leather, clinging to him like a second skin. He wore boots, heavy boots that would have crushed my bare feet had he chosen to. Around his hips hung a broad and heavy leather belt. His upper body was bare, his well tanned muscles glistening in the sun. He was at least a head taller than the guards, who, in turn, made me look small. His shoulders were broad as a bull.

His face was covered in a mask that left his mouth and jaw uncovered. He smiled. His lips were curled in a self assured and mocking smile. I saw his eyes glowing through the mask. This was his moment.

He was not a man but an animal, or if he was a man, he was twice the man compared to the ones around him. I could not look upon him without trembling and feeling faint. He was not a man you had an opinion about, he was a force of nature, far removed from sophistication and civilised life.

He was the master and this was his stage. I was to play a part in his performance. I belonged to him.

I stared at the whip that hung from his belt. It was a vicious thing, a wooden handle, worn and well used, and from that handle hung three braided tongues of leather. I knew he was master of that whip, I could almost feel the power from his body transmitted through the whip already. My body was shivering.

He had his moment, walking around the stage, bowing, smiling, raising his hands, playing the crowd with his movements, his body and splendour. They loved him.

Then he stopped. He made a gesture and the guards pushed me forward. I was stood before the crowd, at the edge of the scaffold, alone with the crowd.

I stood in silence, staring in awe at them. I was waiting, the crowd was waiting. I didn't see the gesture, I felt it. The crowd felt it. The guards took hold of my flimsy garment and tore at it. I gasped as I almost lost balance and fell. The fabric was torn from my body to the cheering and cries of the crowd.

There seemed to be one violent movement that rocked my body and tore away my clothes and when I gained my balance, I was naked. I had been stripped before the crowd and they knew they would soon be treated to their entertainment.

The guards pulled me away from the edge of the platform and pushed me towards the sturdy pole set in the middle. They pushed me against the rough surface of the pole with such force I almost lost my breath.

The ropes around my wrists were loosened and my hands were pulled forward, one on each side of the wooden post. My wrists were retied in front and to a rope that ran through a hoop at the top of the pole. Strong arms pulled at the rope and my hands were hoisted in the air.

I cried out in pain as my hands were pulled upwards. I could hardly breathe as I was lifted from the floor, only my toes in contact with the wood. When they were done, I was almost hanging from my bound wrists, my body tense and pressed to the unforgiving whipping post.

I was prepared. I had been made ready for the whip. Now it was time for the entertainment.

The man with the whip, the master of the stage, didn't speak. He just held the whip out to me, made sure I could see it. It was as if he wanted to show me the whip that soon would fall on my naked skin.

He took a step to the side and I turned my head to look at him, but I could hardly see him. The crowd fell silent. No one spoke, no one moved. They were waiting. I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead on the wood. My heart was beating hard, so hard that I wondered if not the whole town could hear it.

Then I heard the hiss of the whip. It was a short, menacing sound, sudden and merciless. My body exploded with pain in the next instant, together with a sharp and terrible report as the leather made contact with my skin.

It seemed like an eternity before I began breathing again. The chaos of pain and sound became focussed and I felt the burning marks on my body where the whip had hit me. He had chosen to whip me across my bottom, but one of the tongues had bitten my thighs.

Then came the next lash. This one took more of my breath away, since it hit higher, a little higher. I cried out in agony and pain, panicking, terrified.

He took no heed. He showed no mercy. He let the whip fall, time and again, on my unprotected body. Relentlessly did the leather tongues of the whip dance across my skin. He hit high and he hit low, concentrating on my buttocks. The whip curled around me, stinging my belly, the front of my thighs, my breasts and even my sex.

I became a wriggling, helpless body, crying in utmost agony. I didn't hear the cheering crowd nor did I see their cruel faces. The only thing that existed was the whipping post, my trembling body and the merciless whip.

It continued for an eternity but at last it was over. I hung in my aching arms, not believing another lash wasn't coming. I realised it was over, when I was let down, when eager hands took hold of my body, kept it standing when the ropes were untied.

I could hardly stand, I fell, but was held. I was not completely aware of what happened, but I was taken from the platform, back into the City Hall. I remember a dark room, a hard wooden bench, my aching body on fire and drifting off.

What happened next is another story. I was given my torn dress and left the building sometime later. It was dark outside and the town square was not crowded any more. I hurried away, didn't want to meet anyone, didn't want to be found out. I wanted to hide. I was no longer entertainment, I was just a whipped woman.

Touching Happiness

This time I will use my blog to write about me. I always do, you know, but this time directly and not through some story or fantasy. Maybe what I write will be sad, I don't know, but this is how it is.

Don't get me wrong, most of the time I am a content person, happy with what is there, able to see the good things in life as well as the bad things, with a fairly real view of life...I think. What I wanted to write about is something else. I wanted to write about that underlying, always present, experience of being outside.

As long as I can remember I have had that feeling of being outside, left out and that things don't really happen to me. Reality is always beyond me, too far away. I am still like that.

Most of the time I don't think about it, but occasionally this sensation surface, becomes real. And then I know it is always there, always present. Holidays sometimes have that effect, emotions catch up with you and hidden feelings become real.

There is a longing, of course, to be able to reach that which I feel is real, that which is beyond me, that place where it really happens, where I am whole and complete and not lonely. Growing up has to some extent been realising that life is here and now and not over there, not that which I really long for. It is hear and tangible, at times, and not there and perfect.

When I met my first love, when my love, for the first time, was answered, I became happy. I was struck by a sense of reality, that things were really happening, now and to me. Whatever it was, it crashed through the barrier and became real. I was truly happy in all senses of the word.

It didn't last. The real reality made itself known, the distance between people became real and I crashed. I can't call it anything else. This was a terrible time, a crisis, almost madness. Not to the extent that I was admitted anywhere or treated it with anything, drugs or medication or that sort of thing. But I crashed and it was hellish.

I have had similar experiences since, not as powerful and not as terrible, but it has always been connected to powerful emotions, when I break through the barrier, when something good happens. The truth is that I cope better with misery than happiness.

The barrier is not complete, not impenetrable. There is sweetness in life, sweetness that makes me feel real. I can see that now. A caress can be so immensely sweet that I can feel that this is the only reality I ever need. Sometimes a smile or a kind word can get through and touch my heart. Growing up has been to learn to see these small holes in the wall, the moments when I am not alone and miserable. It makes me more content, more satisfied with life.

I will not return to blogging and connect it to what I am doing here. Fantasies are to some extent a way of dealing with that longing, that desire for not being outside, but being inside, where things happen to me for real. Entering into my imagination is to enter into a world where I can create that reality I deep down long for.

Fantasies are not just about sex but they are fuelled by desire. This is because sex is real, sex is something that breaks through, a little, and at times. Not always. Sex is something that really happens and that makes it real. It is dangerous too because when it is really good, the returning to the world can be harsh.

Fantasies about things that are arousing, is a way of being transported to that other world of real things, that world of longing, where things are simple and sweet and delightful. Sex and arousal are good things in that world and that is why they are so prominent in fantasies. But they are not the only thing I long for.

Maybe the kinky side of fantasies functions as a battering ram, to break through the wall. It is by shocking the system, by breaking the norms that I am crashing through and can allow myself the sweetness of my fantasies. I don't know, I am just writing down my thoughts.

Blogging, for me, is not just about writing stories, it is about admitting to that strange inner world where my longings and desires exist, even those that are truly beyond anything that can ever be real.

I see, now, that I have used 'reality' and 'real' in two different ways. On the one hand it refers to the world where we live, where we watch tv and eat food and can be lonely, and on the other hand it refers to that other existence, that inner world, the one I long for, that world where things really happens, the imaginary dreamworld. I hope I haven't confused you too much.

Hello

Hello, Dear Readers. I am back from a loooong holiday. I know I am supposed to be relaxed and refreshed now. The truth is that I am much the same as before. This doesn't mean I didn't have a brilliant holiday, I had, a very lazy one, with lots of reading and just staring into nothingness. Thing is with holidays that they tend to make you more like how you are, so if you are content you feel more content but if you are sad, sometimes, the sadness catch up with you. I think, however, that this is a good thing, that you have time to become more who you are, warts and all.

No new stories, today, I just wanted to say hi and let you know I am still here. I hope you are still there. Take care and be kind to yourselves.

Summer

It is time again, Dear Readers, for the summer holiday. I will be away, longer this year than usual. There will be no blogging until I come back and that is in August. I am a privileged person, I know, but I can assure you I will try my best to make the most of my summer...smiles.

Take care and be kind to yourself and don't forget to let your minds wander. We need our imaginations, that is something I am sure of. Have a great time.

Another Strange Dream

I have to say that you are a very encouraging lot. Thank you for all the support. You are, really, the best. What can I do in return? Publish the things I write, strange and weird. Here is a story (note my choice of words, here). Be kind to yourselves.

'It is strange how you dream.'

'Well, yeah, that's true.'

'Sometimes you don't know where your mind wanders in the night, or why.'

'I gather you have had some weird dream.'

'Very weird.'

'Won't you tell me?'

'Something tells me I shouldn't.'

'But some other part says you should?'

'Yes, I did mention it, didn't I?'

'You did.'

'It was terrible.'

'What happened?'

'I was in this city and it was dark. Or maybe I just saw it. Anyway, I had this sense of danger or like if there was a disaster happening. Perhaps it was war and the city was being sacked. There were fires and light so I could see quite clearly.'

'Light and dark, dreams are strange.'

'Well, this was more or less a sensation, a mood, or something, or a part of the dream that I have forgot. I remember the rest much better. I am not sure it was me or if I just saw her, but there was this girl, not like a young girl, more like a young woman. She was slender and thin and very fair, almost pale. I think it was me, or I became her, later. I don't remember. There was a crowd gathered and they stood around her...or me. She was being held by these men. And they were like black clad, in leather jackets and boots and that sort of thing. They didn't look like soldiers but somehow I knew that it was they who were sacking the city or whatever it was that was happening. In front of her was this man, also dressed in black, he was quite young, had long dark hair, looked like a rocker or goth or whatever it is called.'

'Emo?'

'Whatever! He looked at the girl, woman, and had this terrible grin on his face and in some way I knew she was the enemy, a spoil from the plunder or had done something terrible according to the man in black. He made this sign with his hand, quite elaborate and strange and although I can almost see it before me, still, I can't tell you what he did.'

'Dreams!'

'The men holding her grinned in response and began tugging at her clothes. She was dressed in red shorts and a striped tank top. When I think of it now, this is weird, the modern clothes. I got the impression that it was some ancient city being conquered but the clothes were modern. Anyway, they tugged at her clothes and made clear they wanted her to take them off. She looked around and saw that there was no escape, then I slipped my top off. They all looked at me. The leader, the man in black, made another sign and I was dragged backwards and thrown on the ground, on my back. There was this wooden beam I was held down onto and my hands were pulled out. And then, this is really horrible, they brought big nails, like those you see in museums, that are made by hand, by some smith. Then they nailed her arms to the wood, like if she was being crucified. I remember seeing her bend her back, in agony. But it didn't hurt.'

'It didn't?'

'No, I remember no pain, but it was horrible, all the same, like some kind of terrible fear or anxiety cutting through my body. The worst thing was that she was beautiful, in a way, something about her arching body, her outstretched arms and her agony was weirdly beautiful...beautiful but terrible.'

'Sounds grim.'

'Grim is the word, it was like some dark horror painting, with me in the middle of the darkness, all pale and white and being nailed to the crossbar of a cross. The beam was lifted and I was pulled backwards to some great pole or pillar, the cross. There was a strange silence in the crowd but I had this sense of animals, of predators licking their lips, eager to watch, but also full of pity and anger.'

'Pity?'

'Yes, some kind of pity, that kind of pity that almost enjoys it.'

'Glee?'

'Perhaps, I don't know. Then came the harsh bit. I had to be lifted and they had ropes and ladders and it was a lot of people around me. And when the girl was hoisted in the air, she cried out. There was a bit of panic, as if she couldn't believe she would be able to hang from her arms, her nailed wrists. Still there were no pain, no proper pain.'

'Haven't thought of it, maybe it doesn't happen in dreams?'

'What doesn't happen?'

'Real pain.'

'Perhaps. She was lifted and she was hanging from her arms. The crowd didn't cheer, but there was this sense of a wave going through it, a kind of awe or fascination, as they saw her breast heave in agony. Then I was hanging there, overlooking the crowd and I remember looking down on my body, thinking of those red shorts. Remember, I was dressed only in those shorts and they were quite small, not extremely small but I felt them to be tiny. For some reason, that seemed to be more on my mind than having my wrists penetrated by nails, that I was almost naked, that everyone could now look at me, on display, so to speak.'

'Stranger things happen in dreams.'

'They do. There was this weird sensation in me, as if this terror, this agony, this horrible thing happening to me, was, somehow, also satisfying. Maybe satisfying is the wrong word, maybe it touched something in me, that wasn't just horrible, something that, somehow liked it.'

'You weren't crucified for real, dreams are symbolic.'

'I know, but it didn't feel symbolic while I was there. But as I was hanging there, feeling looked at, ogled and exposed to this horror, I thought how utterly helpless I was. If someone wanted to do something to me, I could no longer defend myself. I hadn't thought that thought to the end before the guards came up to me and reached out for me. I was suddenly terribly scared they would take my shorts. This was something I really didn't want to happen. They reached for me and unbuttoned the shorts and I remember sighing in frustration. The crowd was silent, as if it was holding its breath. Then the guards yanked my shorts down from my hips and there was a giant sigh and I whimpered. Strange thing, that I heard myself whimper! Or maybe it was me hearing the girl whimper, I don't know? Anyway, shorts were removed and she was naked, I was naked. And somehow this seemed to be the worst humiliation of them all, that I was denied the last item of clothing. And yet, there was a kind of surge in me, as if I found this exciting, arousing or something.'

'Not so strange.'

'I think it is strange.'

'Naked on a cross, in a symbolic way, it can be sexual.'

'I suppose. Then they nailed my feet to the cross and I could see in the body of the girl, that it hurt. Then something happened that was like in a film. The sound seemed to disappear and I began to see the cross from a distance. I clearly saw the naked girl on the cross, the girl who was, or had been, me. And there was like a circle around her, a circle of black clad people, with torches and banners and then I think I woke up.'

'Some dream.'

'Why do I dream such things? Why does it happen like that?'

'Why should you worry? You weren't crucified for real, it was a dream, it didn't happen and it was just an image.'

'It was scary.'

'And nice.'

'Scary and nice, yeah.'

Coincidence?

I know it is a dangerous thing to start looking for coincidences, things that seem to have a hidden meaning or being set in a pattern, in films or book. You tend to find what you want to find, so it is with some trepidation I will now write about something of the kind, which I found quite amusing.

Colin Dexter created the character of Chief Inspector Morse of the Thames Valley Police. His stories and some have been transformed into a very brilliant series of films, or episodes, where Morse is portrayed by the late John Thaw. The brilliant detective has an assistant called Robert Lewis played by Kevin Whately and after the death of Inspector Morse he solves his own murder mysteries in a tv-series that is showing at the moment.

Not long ago the 4th episode of of the 4th series was aired and the title was Falling Darkness. It begins with a gruesome murder of a Professor Ligeia Willard. She has been knocked down and a stake has been driven through her heart. The murder was committed at All Hallows Eve or Halloween.

Some of you may have reacted to the name Ligeia, which is the title of a story by Edgar Allen Poe, the brilliant American horror writer and inventor of the detective story. A coincidence, a reference to the great master? Perhaps? But there is more.

There is an Alec Pickman among the characters and this struck me as interesting. Richard Upton Pickman is a person in some stories by Howard Phillips Lovecraft, another brilliant American horror writer. Pickman is found in the stories Pickman's Model and The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath.

Coincidence, perhaps? To add to the pattern, there is a Mrs Renfield. She has the same surname as the poor fellow who visits Count Dracula's castle and becomes mad in the novel by Bram Stoker, another writer of horror fiction, Irish this time.

At this time I began to check out the other names in the list of roles. Some of them may be long shots, but I will mention them anyway.

One character is called Victor Clerval and if you know your Mary Shelley, you will know that the mad scientist is called Victor Frankenstein, and to add to it, Henry Clerval is another character in the very same book.

Ursula van Tessel is an unusual name and as it happens, I found a Catriena Ecker van Tessel who is said to be the inspiration for Katrina in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

The list of roles contains a Charlotte Corwin and this is the same surname as one of the judges of the Salem witch trials and the old name of the Salem Township, Warren County, Ohio, USA, was, you have guessed it, Corwin.

Professor Rufus Strickfaden has a very unusual surname, one that he shares with Kenneth Strickfaden, electrician and film set designer who is mostly famous for creating the laboratory of Victor Frankenstein in the 1931 film, directed by James Whale.

Lastly, and this may be the worst of all these long shots, Rowena Trevanion, may be associated with a building, Trevanion, famous for its Gothic architecture.

This could all be in my mind, I know that, or maybe someone with a sense of humour and a knowledge of horror fiction in writing and on screen put these references there for anyone to find.

At least one other person found this interesting.

Blog and Blogging

As you may have noticed, I haven't written much for the blog lately. It's not as if I am running out of ideas, more that I am not sure what happens in my head is good for the blog or is about fantasies, about the delightful pastime it can be.

I do often question my reasons for blogging. I began because I needed to know that I wasn't alone, that I wasn't the weirdest person on the planet and you have truly helped me with this. You have given me confidence in my writing and that means a lot to me, more than most other things, really.

The way I feel now, I find it hard to sit down and write stories for the blog. Maybe I am becoming to cautious, thinking that what I write will be too weird. This, I think is being unfair to you, Dear Readers, because you have always been very kind and not the least judgemental. I tend to write things that are too grim or too silly, and not fantasies as such and I fear they won't fit the blog. Maybe I am just being unfair to you, I don't know.

Maybe I am taking my writing too seriously and is becoming bigheaded. I have always felt that fantasies, for me, are about more than just something nice and exciting I can use when I don't have anything else to do. I am not implying it is like that for anybody else, but I think that some people take it far more easy than I do. For me there is the matter of deeper emotions that are expressed through fantasies and I think I am moving on to more painful things, and the images in my head sometimes appear strange and unappealing.

And, again, you have always told me to just write and don't be too bothered with what you as readers will think. Yes, there is a lot of agony in this, because I have truly loved blogging and now I don't know what to do. It seems a bad thing to abandon it, because my mind is moving somewhere else, but on the other hand, I am not so good at writing the kind of stories I have so far been doing, anymore.

I know my blog isn't the most popular out there, but I also know that you who come back to it are very caring and kind people and I do care about you in return, in my own strange way. I don't want to let you down but I am not good at trying to please you either with the blog. It has been too personal for that and that has been the magic of it all, that when I am personal and selfish, you have enjoyed it too. I really don't want to lose that.

Maybe there will appear a weird and unpleasant story here, now and then, we'll see. In the meantime, take care and be kind to yourselves.

By the way, I am fascinated and a little surprised by the comments to my last piece. It is amazing how the minds works. I have replied in the comments, which I always do (almost), although it takes some time.