We dance a fine line, sometimes, with this kinky stuff. ‘Perverting reality’ is fine: I’m sure it’s clear that, in real life, I never would condone the punishments and abuse about which I fantasise and write on such a regular basis.
But the boundaries seemed awfully uncomfortable in a Budapest museum last week, when I wandered into the former office of the head of the communist secret police:
I’m sure some of you are thinking similar thoughts. A girl, terrified, sitting or standing as she was politely questioned. Her story slowly unravelling and her complicity in acts hostile to the State being duly ascertained – or, perhaps, her stubborn refusal to give him the answers he was seeking leading him to require more persuasive means of interrogation. Or, maybe, she’d simply been snatched from the streets or selected from one of the cells, being the sort of pretty thing that his staff knew he liked…
But… but. Bad things did happen here. For real. Things I couldn’t and didn’t want to imagine.
I can separate fantasy from reality. But for once, I was disconcerted. How do others square this difficult circle?
Abel, I am sure that certain females, that reluctantly had to visit that office. were commanded to bend over that desk, whereupon their dress or skirt were raised waist high, their knickers pulled down to bare their bottoms, and were corporally disciplined. And such discipline was severe. With a birch rod, cane, or whip, their naked rear ends felt the stinging pain of these implements. Be it six, twelve, or twenty-five lashes.