In a Pickle

I can imagine that some of you will find this story a tad insensitive. I guess it is. Still I decided to write it and publish it. If only to show that imagination is strange and that mine is not always doing what it should. If you are a tinsy winsy bit like me, your imagination wanders off in very inappropriate ways when it shouldn't. It doesn't mean you condone the things that made it wander. I think you will understand this and forgive me for this story.

It goes without saying that I do not condone the gadget riots in UK, and I do take them seriously. It's just that my mind got some strange ideas at the same time, quite detached from my moral compass.

There I was, standing in a room, in front of four sturdy policemen, dressed in nothing more than a neon green t-shirt. It was long and covering, almost like a very short dress, but the fact that it was the only thing I was wearing, made the stares of the four men much more intimidating than would otherwise have been the case.

It started as a very ordinary day. I was walking home and noticed that there was some commotion in the streets. There were policemen and people in a angry mix. I didn't care that much, instead I tried to keep away from the crowd and found myself walking down a small lane.

As it happened I came out on a larger street where chaos had already started. Now I began to realise that something was, indeed, happening.

I had not much time to think about it, before I was grabbed by a motley crew who pulled me aside. They were a mixed bunch of mixed colours and creed and the only thing they seemed to have in common was their audacity and desire to take what they wanted.

They began immediately to help themselves to my clothes. They were very efficient, I must admit, and soon I was lying on the ground, quite naked, and held by my arms and legs. The gang was about to help themselves to more than my clothes when I heard the clang of metal.

The hissing sound that was heard made them release me and scamper away like frightened squirrels. The white smoke and the pain in my eyes and throat suggested that a cannister of tear gas had fallen nearby.

I fled down an alley as I saw the riot police rush forward. Out of the immediate danger I found it appropriate to try to take care of the fact that I was stark naked.

After have been running for my life, I started walking cautiously, scared that I would cut my bare feet on glass or other debris on the ground. I heard the fighting behind me, but found no one in the alley. I thought this was a good thing, since I was not keen on being stared at in my present condition.

I got to a street that had already been affected by the riots and found myself standing by a smashed window, staring at a neon green t-shirt that someone had dropped. It seemed like a heaven sent gift, so I took the shirt and donned it. I found that it was long enough to cover me and thought that now, at least, I was more able to get home with a minimum of embarrassment.

My plans had to change when I turned around and was confronted by the riot squad, complete with helmets and shields and very nasty looking sticks. They wasted no time and arrested me and bundled me into a police van.

I was glad the others were equipped with handcuffs too, their eyes told me that otherwise they would have taken the opportunity to strip me of my last vestiges of decency, and probably more.

The police station was brimful of looters locked up in the cells, so I was ushered into a room where the situation was explained to me. It was very simple. I had been caught looting and would be charged for it.

There was an alternative, though. If I was willing to accept them dealing with my case immediately, they would let me go.

So there I was, standing, facing the four sturdy policemen who where about to deal with my case. The way they said 'deal with' made me understand that it would be something quite unpleasant but temporary, as opposed to the drawn out process that otherwise would have been my fate.

As soon as I had nodded, accepting their suggestion, I was gripped by my neck and my upper body was forced down on a table. I saw the glaring eyes and the evil smiles and began to regret my decision.

Soon I saw one of the policemen remove his belt from his trousers, while another pulled my shirt up.

I must admit I was embarrassed as he stopped short and started chuckling.

'This one has made it easy, no knickers.'

'What a pity, I quite like that.'

'What?'

'The getting rid of knickers thing.'

'Well, you do it with some gusto.'

'I can't help it they tear so easily.'

One of the policemen grabbed my wrists and the other held me down with a grip around my neck. The third one had the belt, while the fourth was just staring.

A strong policeman with a belt in his hand, trying to make you suffer while your bottom is naked and exposed to his efforts, is not a nice thing. The impact was terrible, my body rocking forward while my buttocks exploded with pain.

He seemed to be skilled with the belt. And he was not keen on mercy. No, he let the dreaded belt swing through the air and land on my unprotected skin, time and again.

I did cry. I did yell and whimper. It was hard to avoid it. And it never stopped. I guess he had a lot of frustration to take out on me.

I was quite numb as I was finally let up from the table. The smiling policemen said I was now free to go. I nodded. Before I had time to leave they told me that the shirt I was wearing was looted and had to be returned.

I did hesitate. It is understandable, considering the fact that it was the only item of clothing I was wearing. But the smiling policemen were very helpful and soon I was stripped of the neon green t-shirt.

I was embarrassed walking through the reception on my way out. Once again, I found myself in the not so enviable situation of having to get home through the city wearing absolutely nothing.

How I got home is another story, a completely different story.

Summertime

Well, it is that time of year when you go on holiday, and go visiting relatives and you generally are busy with things not blogging. It is the same for me. And I am afraid I won't be back here until August, or at least I don't think it is fair to promise to do anything before that. So, I am writing this just to let you know that the blog is not abandoned, just temporarily a little lazy.

Summer is a good time, a time of light dress, bare legs and no shoes, sun (even in UK we do have sun from time to time) and softness. Enjoy your summer and be kind to yourselves (antipodeans have to enjoy the winter or wait some time).

I will just post a silly little nothing I wrote the other day. It was one of those things when you start with just a phrase and then just write and see what happens. It was just that 'I want to see you in bikini,' that started it all, just a thought, and when I added 'she said' to it, it became something that made me continue. I honestly think this is a silly dialogue, but what's wrong with silliness?

Thank you ever so much for your kind words about my last post. It was very heart-warming and encouraging. I haven't forgotten the suggestion, some time ago, about writing about writing, about the blog, what has happened with the stories, if they have evolved and that sort of thing. Take care, Dear Readers.

'I want you in bikini,' she said and smiled to me.

'Why would you want that?'

'I think you are pretty in bikini.'

'But the others won't be in swimsuits.'

'No, but that doesn't matter, I want you in bikini.'

'That would be strange, I mean, with them in whatever they wear and me in just a bikini.'

'That's why I want it, no explanation, no reason, just having you there in a bikini, displaying that sweet little body of yours, for all to see. And hopefully you are a little embarrassed, that's very fetching.'

'I will sure be embarrassed.'

'Good. I haven't decided which one, though.'

'Oi, I haven't said I would yet.'

'I think, perhaps, the white one, with red polka dots, it's very cute.'

'It's also very small.'

'Not like the black one, the one with just a string.'

'No, that's true, but it is very low cut and the top is not big.'

'But you don't need a big top.'

'My bosoms is so small, you mean?'

'It is the perfect size, it looks lovely, really delightful.'

'I am glad you like it.'

'Don't be stupid, you know I love it,' she smiled.

'Yes, yes, I know.'

'So why not show it off?'

'Because it is very private and you don't go round and show your breasts to people.'

'That's true, maybe you shouldn't wear the top.'

'I'll take the bikini, no protests.'

'But that's a good idea, you there without a top. I can imagine what they would look like. I can see you standing there, greeting Brian, and how he wouldn't know where to look, if he was allowed to look at your bosoms or not.'

'How do you know he would want to do that. Maybe he likes bigger things.'

'I know he loves your tits.'

'How do you know that?'

'He told me.'

'He told you?'

'Yeah.'

'You have talked about my breasts with Brian?'

'Yes, and not only with him.'

'With others?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Why is that of course?'

'Because you have very lovely breasts and it's nice to share the thought with others.'

'So you have discussed my breasts with people who appreciate them?'

'Yes, most of them.'

'Who didn't like them?'

'Don't focus on the negative.'

'Who?'

'Tanya.'

'You discussed my bosoms with Tanya, a girl?'

'Yeah, why not. I am a girl and I love your boobs.'

'Boobs?'

'Yeah, or tits, or breasts, or bosoms.'

'But Tanya didn't like them?'

'She's envious.'

'How do you know?'

'Because yours look nicer.'

'Have you studied hers, then?'

'Yes, of course.'

'I haven't, but as I remember they look nice.'

'But not as well shaped. I didn't say they were ugly.'

'No, you didn't.'

'No.'

'But still, I can't believe it, you talk about my breasts with others.'

'And the rest.'

'The rest?'

'Yeah, Eric adores your tummy.'

'My tummy?'

'Yeah, he told me it was the softest, sweetest tummy he knows.'

'How would he know it is soft, he hasn't touched it?'

'It looks very soft.'

'So you agree.'

'Wholeheartedly.'

'This is mad.'

'And Rebecca loves your bottom and Mark is a sucker for your legs.'

'I don't believe this, I am just an ordinary woman.'

'No, you're not. You are special.'

'For you, perhaps, but I don't look special.'

'You do.'

'I don't.'

'Do you know what Rebecca said about your bottom?'

'No, I have no idea.'

'She praised it highly and then she said it was a spankable bottom.'

'Spankable?'

'Yeah, that she would love to spank your bottom.'

'Doesn't that hurt?'

'Of course it does.'

'But why? Does she hate me?'

'No, she adores you. She just wants to spank your bottom. For the joy of it.'

'That's mad.'

'No, not at all. I might try it myself.'

'You wouldn't dare!'

'Don't tempt me. And maybe I should let her do it.'

'You are mad.'

'Madly in love with you. Go and change to the bikini now, the guests are here soon.'

'I will, for you I will do it. But don't you dare let Rebecca get close to my bottom.'

'All right, but I am not sure I can stop John, though.'

'John?'

'He expressed something along those lines. Maybe you should take the string, it would make it easier for him. Without too much embarrassment for you.'

'I'll change into the polka dot now.'

'Yes, you do that.'

Before the Party

I know, I am hopeless. Here I bang on about a darker side and daring to write something that scares me, and when I sit down and write, this kind of story comes out. Well, I can't deny it, I am a hopeless romantic, so here is a kind of love story...of sorts.

She was beautiful. I know it is shallow to begin with that, but she was. She was blond, narrow shoulders and narrow hips. She was quite small. She had the greenest of eyes and a very serious mouth, a mouth I couldn't help wanting to kiss. And a smile that made my knees week.

Somehow it seems even more shallow to try to describe her character, or what I liked about it. She was clever, that goes without saying, but she had humour and she was kind and she was a good person to be with.

The real truth was that I loved her. Whatever her looks or her mind or whatever it could be, I just loved her. And best of all was that she loved me.

This particular night we were on our way to a rather formal dinner. I wasn't used to it, neither was she, but we knew it was good for both of us to attend. And besides, who could be sure it wasn't going to be nice?

I had tried my best to dress up in black tie but that was nothing compared to her. When I got to her flat I was amazed by how she looked.

She had dressed in a black dress, it was almost shining, some kind of satin, I suppose. And it felt really nice to the touch. It was a sleeveless dress with a wide neck, but quite modest. The upper part fit her quite snugly while the skirt was wide.

The way she smiled at me, and how she looked with her hair in a ponytail, necklace and earrings and everything. I thought it would be hard to keep my hands off her.

She didn't make it any easier by standing very close to me and inviting me to take her in my arms. I kissed her, and she kissed me. I didn't want to go to the party.

'I love you,' she said.

'I love you too,' I replied.

'I don't think you understand,' she said and tilted her head, 'I love you so very, very much.'

'You do make it hard to leave the flat.'

'You do want me then?'

'I want you,' I said, 'I want you so very, very much,' echoing her words.

'You can have me,' she said and looked almost serious, 'I mean it, you can do anything you want with me. I am yours.'

'That sounds very nice,' I said.

'I mean it, anything.'

'I like hearing you say that, but you don't mean it.'

'I do.'

'Anything?'

'Anything.'

I looked at her. I can't describe the expression on her face, but I knew it was something deep and profound, something I may not ever understand, but something that was there all the same, there for me.

'If I make you regret those words?' I said.

'Make me regret them.'

I looked at her. She smiled. I believe it was in that moment I decided what to do.

I left the embrace. Took a good look at her, then I looked around. I moved in a strange kind of haze, but I was determined. For some odd reason I knew exactly what to do.

I took the wooden chair that stood in the hallway, the chair she used to sit on when putting on her shoes. I turned it round. I then took her hand and pulled her towards me. She look amused and curious as I sat down on the chair. She made no efforts to defy me when I pulled her down on my lap. Maybe she knew what I wanted to do, maybe she just read my movements in that moment.

'Careful with the dress,' she whispered.

'Don't worry,' I said and flipped her skirt up. 'Nice, black,' I said when I saw her knickers.

I leaned to the side and picked up one of her plimsolls. It was a grey shoe that seemed to fit well in my hand. I then looked at her knickers. There was really no reason to hold back. I took hold of them and pulled them down. She gasped a little but said nothing. She even lifted her hips to make it easier for me to pull down her underwear.

I didn't say anything. There were no words for this. Instead I smacked her bottom with the shoe She jumped and gasped but didn't say anything.

Then I began spanking her in earnest. I let the shoe fly through the air and smack down on her naked bottom, time and again. There was a very special sound that resounded through the hallway, a sound I knew I liked.

It had been just an idea, maybe born from a deeper longing, a fantasy or desire I had born inside me for a long time. When I decided what I was to do, I thought only of teasing her, of challenging her words, trying to make her regret them, prove that I was right. But now when I was really sitting there, letting my hand with her grey shoe There was something compelling, something quite exhilarating in spanking her.

There was not he slightest hint of anger in me, no desire to hurt or harm, or even to get the better of her, just an overwhelming and childish delight in seeing her bottom get hit by a shoe I was wielding.

I wasn't soft with her. No, I spanked her good, let the shoe hit her quite hard. I knew, I could feel in her body that she felt it. It seemed the right thing to do. Or rather it seemed the thing I wanted to do, the thing I challenged her to accept, to take because of her words.

'Done,' I said, 'on your feet.'

She slowly stood up. Her face was flustered and she stretched her back, taking some deep breaths. She hadn't said anything during the spanking, no cries, no protests, no words at all. Now she stood up and pulled her black knickers up. Then she looked at me.

'How is my face?' she said.

'Still in its place,' I said, 'you look gorgeous.'

'It's time to go.'

'Yes, it's time to go.'

There was tension in the air. I couldn't really read her face. She looked serious, but not angry. She didn't smile, but she didn't look unhappy either.

When we went out into the soft evening, she took my arm and leaned against me.

'You will have to work harder to make me regret my words,' she said and I heard in her voice she was smiling.

'Why?'

'Why what?'

'Why did you let me do it?'

'Because I love you.'

'Oh.'

'Have you wanted to do it for a very long time?'

'I believe I have,' I said.

'That counts for something.'

Then she didn't say more.

I couldn't keep my eyes off her the whole evening. She sparkled like she had never sparkled before. When she moved about a little at the dinner table, I thought of her red bottom and her very black knickers and I almost dropped my spoon in the soup.

Then she looked at me and I knew then that she wasn't angry. She looked at me and I knew she loved me. And in that moment I could have jumped on the table and shouted to the whole world how much I loved her. I knew then that she didn't regret her words.

*

It was a quite formal thing, that party, which he had been invited too. I think he was a bit nervous, thinking that he had to make an impression, to further his career, and all that. It was quite sweet, actually.

At the same I think he was excited, men like to dress up too. I was very nervous but very excited about the idea of being formal and all that. I had found a very lovely black dress. It looked really strict, in a sense, but lovely, in black satin, with a wide skirt.

It didn't look like it but it was really nice to wear, felt soft and good against the skin. I felt good about myself wearing it and when I looked at myself in the mirror I felt that I had changed, become someone else, if only for a night.

When he arrived he was dapper in black tie. There is something special with a man in black tie. He stood taller, moved with more confidence. There was something absolutely irresistible about him and for a moment I was touched by a dreamy sense of everything happening out of time, in some special place, where we were a very gorgeous couple, at least he.

It was easy to allow myself to be childishly, overwhelmingly, and irrevocably in love with him. It was like all what was hidden below the surface, all those aeons of talking and sharing, and lovemaking and touching, all those memories sped to the surface and seemed to sparkle on my skin, to fill my head and permeate my body.

I had to embrace him, I had to be near him. He kissed me, we kissed, and I didn't really want to go to the party. I wanted to be with him, be his, completely, and lose myself in it, forget all that was me, all what I was during the days.

I meant it when I said he could do anything with me. He took it as a challenge. He is a man, after all, that's what men do.

I think he thought he challenged me too, that he wanted to provoke me to go back on my words, to show me I didn't mean it. The truth was that I enjoyed his grip on my hand, how he directed me across his lap. I wanted him to do things to me.

I wasn't even surprised that it was a spanking he had in mind. I knew that about him, that he hid his fascination, could never admit it, not openly. Those things show in tiny details.

I wasn't surprised when I realised what he had in mind, but I hadn't expected it, I hadn't expect it to surface there and then.

I placed myself across his legs with a tingling and overwhelming thrill, the thrill of handing myself over to him, let him decide, let him do what he wanted.

I felt warmth and a spark when he dared to pull my lovely black knickers down. I didn't mind the boldness, the audacity. I didn't mind his undressing me, I was swept away by it, let myself be swept away.

Then came the beating of the heart, the fear of pain. But I handed myself over to that too.

He took one of my new plimsolls to my skin. It was daring, almost insulting. But there and then, he could do it.

The spanking, the pain was the real challenge, the moment when he tried to make me go back on my words. There is pride in me, and it helped me take it, but the pride was not so much in proving him wrong, as to be true to my own conviction, and my own emotions. I bit my lip and took it. I had no other desire, I wanted to take it, with all my heart.

The sense in my body when we came to the dinner was special. My bottom was aching, smarting, still sore, and the warmth seemed to wash through me completely. I felt I was glowing with it and it made my skin hot. I blushed when I walked beside him, a spanked woman, a woman he had just taken over his knee. The thought was outrageous and very, very delightful.

The way he looked at me, the way his gaze seemed to caress me and see through my clothes, it was not just lust or desire, there was something far more beautiful in it too.

I would do it again, any time, for him, with him.

Just About...

Some people have made the assumption that I have stopped writing for the blog. I hope that is not the case, although I know my posts have been few and far between, lately. The urge to write down and share my fantasies are not as powerful as before. Maybe it has worked, in the sense that some of the demons are gone. Still I enjoy writing. It's just that I more seldom, these, days, sit down and write something that would work on the blog.

It is strange, I still see the blog as a labour of love and it has meant so much for me. Maybe I should try something else, try to find new ways for it, make it meaningful and worthwhile in some new and interesting way? As always, I am open for suggestions, and I am happy discussing things related to fantasies and imagination and that sort of thing. Communication has always been at the core for me.

I do believe the odd story will still appear here, but if you talk to me, suggest things, debate and discuss with me, maybe this could be something good. What do you, my dear Reader, want to read and see here, what do you want to discuss? What's on your mind?

The Park

Do I still love him? Of course I do. Why shouldn't I still love him? Yes, I know, what he did was unforgivable. It's not easy forgiving something unforgivable. You just have to...accept it.

What happened? I don't really want to talk about it, but I guess everyone knows about it anyway, so I will brace myself and tell the story.

It happened in the park, not long ago. It was a glorious day and there were plenty of people out and about. It wasn't exactly a milling throng, but it would be wrong to say it was deserted, far from it.

We were walking along a path, like any couple, that day. The sun was hot and the lawns were littered with people sunbathing and enjoying themselves.

We were having an argument. It doesn't matter what we were arguing about, but he was wrong and still is wrong. This latter fact doesn't exactly make it any easier.

The debate was quite heated, we are both passionate people who don't easily step down from our positions.

I think he knew he was losing the argument, because he began to use other means to get the upper hand, hinting that I didn't know what I was talking about, and telling me that I should know better. In the end he said that he should really take me over his knee and spank me.

My reaction was natural, I simply laughed at him.

It was then it happened. He stopped. Without any warning he grabbed my arm and dragged me along to a bench near by. Before I knew it, he was sitting on the bench and I was draped across his lap.

This he accomplished with not much effort. He is a strong and powerful man after all, a real delight to look upon. My strength is not much in comparison. Compared to him, I am tiny.

I don't know if the passers by thought much of what he did, but when he, without further ado, began smacking my bottom, I saw that they took notice.

He used only his hand but I knew he was angry. I had to admit that I yelped. It was not one of my most glorious moments. The fact was that it hurt. But I was to overcome by the suddenness of his actions and the firm impact of his hand, to say or do anything. But yelping.

After the first shock, I looked up and saw that more than one curious onlooker had their eyes fixed on us. I was taken by rage and began telling him what I thought.

'You can't bloody...you brute...it bleeding hurts, you son of a dirty armadillo.' Or something along those lines.

He was upset, I could hear that. He was panting his replies.

'Long overdue...you really need this...bloody know it all....'

Suddenly he stopped. I thought that his sudden anger had passed and it was now over. I saw that people were looking and I considered just sneaking away, instead of standing up and giving him a piece of my mind.

I don't know if he is a performer at heart, or if he just didn't care. The presence of our audience didn't dissuade him. Not at all.

Instead he decided that the indignity of my present position wasn't enough.

Funny how you notice small details in such situations. There was no crowd around us, but I saw that some people had stopped some distance away and pretended to enjoy the sun. Now they couldn't help turning the heads towards us. Or raise their eyebrows.

He turned up my skirt and gave me a couple of hard swats on my bottom. Since I had hoped it was all over, this came as some surprise, and I yelped again. He didn't continue for long. Instead he took hold of my knickers and yanked them down. In his fury he pulled them down to my knees, making sure they wouldn't interfere with his further actions.

Then he began again. I did feel his hand connecting to my bottom more acutely now, but I can't tell if this effect was worse than the humiliation of it all.

The fact that I now was lying with my bottom bared, getting it smacked, seemed to have changed the setting of the scene. Some kind of boundary was crossed, because now the onlookers seemed to feel more free to watch. It was as if the scene had gone from a domestic row, something that shouldn't really be enjoyed in public, to something unusual and weird, something you could be excused for desiring to watch.

His smacking was, perhaps, not as hard and angry as before, but the determination and the consistency with which it was performed made the whole thing quite unbearable.

The indignity receded into the background only to leave the centre stage to the burning pain. I was squirming at this point, no longer able to curse, only to whimper and gasp.

The crowd grew steadily and came closer. I guess they wanted to take a good look at us, at me and my now, without out doubt, reddened bottom.

Generally they were nodding and smiling and no one seemed to be too upset. No one decided to be my champion and try to rescue me.

He is a big fellow, that is true, but they were many and he couldn't have fought them all. The truth is that they enjoyed it too much

I could have understand if they crowd had consisted of his friends, the rowdy crowd that thought I had snatched him from them, and had made him into something less manly than they aspired to. Their view of manliness is not a pleasant one, I can tell you. Anyway, I could have understood if they wanted to see me getting spanked, but these were ordinary people, of all ages. Some of them far too young to be allowed to watch.

Then it took a turn for the worse. A well dressed, quite young man, approached us.

'Excuse me,' he said and cleared his throat.

My man stopped what he was doing and looked at him.

'Your hand must be sore,' the stranger said.

I was too relieved that the spanking had stopped to explain to this man that if something was sore it wasn't the hand that was spanking me. But before I could express my disappointment in his assessment of the situation, he continued:

'You should use this, instead.' With this he handed over a switch he most likely, and against regulations, had cut from one of the trees in the park.

'Thank you,' my man said and took the switch.

'You are welcome,' the other man said and nodded friendly.

Then it began again. My bottom was already sorely affected by the lengthy spanking I had received, but now it continued, this time with the help of a sturdy and supple switch.

Words failed me. I think I must have struggled quite a lot, because I noticed how my legs were locked under his leg and my arm was bent behind my back and was held fast. I had no means of escaping and for some reason I had decided that protesting only added to my humiliation. Still I couldn't endure the switch without a sound.

The impact was sharper and more poignant and to use the word unbearable wasn't wrong. He whipped me good and to my shame I had to admit that I was crying.

After a while I noticed a certain slacking of the pace and knowing my man I was sure he began to feel that it was enough. Not that it stopped him from keeping on for a good while, but I was right. My spanking was nearing its end.

He stopped short for a moment, then he gave me he a series of really hard quick licks with the switch, and I had no option but crying out loud.

Then it was over. He threw away the switch. For a moment there was silence. Then the crowd began to clap their hands. The bastards thought it was some kind of entertainment.

I don't exactly remember what happened next. I scrambled to my feet and noticed that I had no knickers to pull up. They must have fallen off during my ordeal. We hurried away from the crowd and I was more than happy to leave.

Soon afterwards everyone knew about it. As I said, this is nothing I really want to talk about, but since it is no secret, I have chosen to tell the story in my words. The fact that there was a picture in the local newspaper and two columns of text describing the event, didn't make it easier to pretend it never happened.

Do I hate him for it? I should. He is a bastard and he was wrong. No, I don't hate him. I love him. How could I not love him?

I told him what I thought about his actions and we had a row about it. This time there was a compromise. He didn't give in to my demand never to spank me again, on the contrary, he promised to do it more often, 'every time I need it'. But he promised not to do it in public, at least not as public as this time.

A Place of One's Own

At the very end of this month, I will present you with a lovely little piece by someone I have known for some time, through my blog. I have the permission to post it although I don't know what to call the author. They will have to get back to me to let me know. At the moment they are just Anonymous.

This is not, as you will see, a story about whipping and slavery. This is a story about devotion and determination. It is also, I believe, a story about pride. Anonymous mentioned Jane Eyre in our conversation about this story and I didn't understand. The more I think about it, the more I believe it really has to do with pride. And the thought of Jane Eyre makes sense then.

I think this is a really beautiful story and I am proud to be able to put it on the blog. Read and enjoy.

With much bowing and murmuring, they brought my new slave girl to me. She was a small thing, thin-boned, high tight bosom, slim hips. Everything about her was tiny, in fact, except her darting almond eyes and full lips. Rather plain, I thought. Quite unlike the ripe beauties who waited, each evening, for the golden apple that summoned one or two, or ten, to revels and games in my bedchamber.

My eunuch detected my indifference to her. "She will serve you well," he said. "She is obedient and clever. She has been trained in all the arts. She can dance and sing and ... of course..."

"No doubt," I replied. "Leave us."

"Nearer, girl." She stepped forward on slim, long-toed feet. "Kneel." She sank down smoothly, eyes slightly downcast. Her training, no doubt.

"What," I asked, "do you do best?"

She paused. "My Master will learn, and perhaps tell me."

"The proper answer," I said sternly, "is that the thing you do best is to serve me."

She nodded.

"And will you serve me?"

"Oh yes," she said, "yes."

"And how will you serve me?"

"By being for you what no one else will be. By doing for you what none else would do."

I shook my head. "You'll have to better than that. My slaves do what I tell them, always. They become whatever I require."

"I offer more..." she whispered, head still lowered. "More than that."

Her vanity amused me, momentarily. I would test that vanity, I thought. I shall let her observe me with my favorites -- let her see these exquisite girls, so much lovelier than she, give a man everything he could dream of. Let her watch, and find herself untouched, unseen, unnoticed in our frenzy. Let her ache.

"No doubt," I replied. I sipped my wine, planning.

"Master," she said quietly. A statement, not a question. "Yes?" "Master may I ask a question?"

Surely she knew better. But I was amused enough to say, gravely, "You may ask a question."

"Your servants told me that you punish slaves who disobey you."

"Of course."

"They told me that your arm is strong, your whip cruel."

"Why would you ask such a question? Are you afraid of being whipped?"

"No," she replied. "I am not afraid..."

"Perhaps you should be." My voice was cold.

"But they said... they said..."

"What? What did they say? Speak up."

"They said that if I obey you I would not be punished."

At last I understood. "They speak truly, little slave girl. Obey me and you will not be punished. Obey and you need not fear my strong arm or my cruel whip."

She nodded.

"Now leave," I ordered, "until you are summoned."

I turned to the window, savoring the tart wine, watching the sun set. Then I rose. She was still there, kneeling.

"I told you to go," I said, my voice all menace. I expected her to flee. She remained, still kneeling.

"Leave, I tell you." She said nothing. "Are you deaf?" I thundered. "Leave!"

She stood now, feet apart, gazing into my eyes, silent.

"So be it." I strode to the wall, where the whiplash hung on a peg. I snapped it. She jumped, but held her ground.

So be it.

I took her two little wrists in one hand and pulled her into the antechamber. She moaned when she saw the hook in the ceiling. She resisted with her little strength as I bound her small hands and secured them over her head.

I clapped three times. My servants rushed in, then stopped short as they saw her, helpless, awaiting punishment. "Watch and learn," I told them. I ripped open her tunic, baring her back. I pulled it down, exposing her bottom. I leaned close to her. "As for you -- FEEL and learn."

I stroked her back with the long whip. Her breath was fast, her eyes closed.

She endured the first lashes in silence. I stood farther off, bringing the whip to play over her maiden breasts. Now she danced and sang.

I struck harder. I used all my cunning to time her stripes. She hung in her bonds, exhausted, overawed. I struck between her legs and she rose up again, shrieking piteously.

I could feel every nerve in my body, feel my strength coursing through me. I felt... I felt pleasure at teaching this sylph a lesson in long, hissing strokes.

"Leave us now." The servants backed away quickly. As obedient as they had been, as eager to please, they would now be abject, driven, unrestrained in their duties. I imagined my buxom lovelies -- how industrious they would be tonight, how creative, how artful, how abandoned...

I held her pretty face in my hands. Her ... pretty face. Pretty? How odd.

And then a thought.

I took a dipper of water from the jar and held it to her lips. Still sobbing, she drank greedily. I gave her another drink of water, and another. I could see how the blinding agony of her flogging was receding just a bit, to a dull, more distant pain. How her dread and fear and humiliation were giving way to exhaustion and oblivion.

"No," I said. "You may not sleep, not yet."

"Then I shall not," she whispered.

"You fool," I said, "why did you disobey me?"

She shook her head. "No..."

"I ordered you to leave, and you defied me. Why would you disobey me, knowing what would come?

She was still shaking her head. "Ssss...." She couldn't get the word out.

"What are you trying to say? 'Sir,,' is that it?"

"No," she murmured.

"Say it. Say it now. What were you trying to do, in my chambers, when you defied me?

"Sss... serve...serving you... master..."

"What?" I sputtered. "Serving me? How?"

The words came slowly. I ladled more water into her parched mouth. "Giving you....the one thing," she whispered. "That ... no ... one... else would do for ... you."

"Giving me disobedience? Defying me?"

She nodded. Her reedy voice was stronger now. "I told you I was not afraid of the lash. Plain girls must be fearless."

"Go on." I stroked her cheek.

"Everyone is so terrified of my master. Too terrified to ever..."

"Disobey me?"

"To give you leave to whip them. Too terrified to give you what you truly need, as a man, as their master. Selfish slaves. All they offer is their beautiful pampered bodies, their perfect, skilled caresses."

I nodded.

"I gave you that. I am not beautiful..."

"Shhh," I whispered, feeling suddenly tender. "Hush, slave. You are beautiful."

"No," she replied sadly. "They are great beauties, your many women, your harem, your slaves. But plain as I am..."

She paused. "Plain as I am, I have found a place."

I released her. She slumped to the floor.


I had my six girls that night. I took my pleasure from them roughly, imperiously. I grabbed, I sucked, I bit their perfect breasts. I plunged into their mouths, their cunts, their bottoms. They groaned and endured.

A week later, I took the little slave girl to my bed. I used her a bit roughly, marveling at the fading weals. "Serve me..." She was generous and graceful then, as in all things. But she was still ...

As I lay back, she knelt by the bed. "Next week, master..."

"Time will tell."

"Next week," she said, insistently.

"Next week, what?"

"Next week I shall be... strong enough to disobey you again."

I nodded. "So you say. But the second offense merits harsher punishment than the first. Think on that."

She thought.

"It is my place, to serve and not obey."

Authorities

I have noticed a certain reluctance among people who declare their interest in anything kinky, for explaining or understanding the interest. I can understand that this has to do with a refusal to be regarded as deviant or, even worse, perverse. We know that kinky people are like any people; jealous, petty, evil, loving, nice, caring, cautious, intelligent and generally wonderful.

If you, like me, are blessed and cursed with an enquiring mind, you can't help asking the questions. Why? And how? What's behind it? And that is not confined to kink. Most things pose questions, make you wonder.

I thought I would share a thought that is very personal and maybe an answer to some of the whys of my imagination.

Tying people up, stripping off their clothes, and whipping them have a lot to do with power, the uneven distribution of power. This leads me to think of authorities. We have all been faced with people with power, teachers, parents, coaches, clerks and officials.

Our experiences of people with authority may be varied. Except my parents and a few others I have always been suspicious of authorities, scared of people with power, and especially if they have power over me.

I didn't grow up in a time when those people had the power to deal out the kind of punishments I so happily include in my fantasies. But I have always been aware of being quite powerless before some of those people.

In addition I have a history of disappointments in authorities, of teachers who taught me things I knew were wrong, and who wasn't adult enough to admit it, and the arbitrariness of some of them. I would have loved to have had a good teacher, one I could trust and whom I believed was right, who was able to teach me something of the world, about living in it.

The very thought that one of those people would have been given the power to punish me with, for example, a spanking, is terrifying. I could think of few things as humiliating and abhorrent. There is not even the slightest fascination in it, the idea is really terrible.

So, there is it, a person with a profound distrust for authorities, and a similarly overwhelming dislike for the idea that they should be given any power over her. And yet this person is obsessed with punishments and the unfairness of it all, the very difference in power between people.

Could it be that fantasies are, somehow, fuelled by the unfairness of childhood, the fear of humiliation and that sense of helplessness, and that one way of dealing with it, is to take control over them and approach them in an environment where they can do no harm, any more? To turn it into something good, something you enjoy?

Some people seem to have similar experiences but take another path, they want to be the ruler, the one who punishes and decides. It seems logical. I still struggle with the fact that I tend to go there on another path, let myself be humiliated and punished. I am still not sure why I so want it in my imagination.