On my knees, I pause. Waiting, anxious,scared.

You whisper against my neck: spread wider.

I do. I push my legs apart until I feel my hips creak the muscles gently whining that they are at the limit.

Slowly, you take my ass.

You tell me to not be afraid-your cock loves my ass, it needs it.

It is not my ass I am worried about being bruised.

My heart is the fragile orifice.

Guest Post: Diary of a Changeling parts 6 & 7

The next 2 installments of the series by Lady Nyo : Diary of A Changeling.


Diary, June 28, 1940 (#6)

I was at S.’s today, telling her about our night over in the countryside.

How MN filled the wood-stove with splits stacked in the kitchen, how the stove puffed and groaned and how good the three eggs I found in the old hen house tasted. I heard a rooster crow so there must be hens around. I took a chance but the eggs were fresh.

S. laughed, she seemed at ease.  She said I am good for MN.  He needs a diversion in his life. He needs a woman to fry him eggs in the morning. He needs a woman to warm his bed at night.

MN has never told me about his past.  I thought it would come in time.  There is such little chance now, with him scarce and not even S. knowing where he is from day to day.

But I do miss him, and wonder what he is up to.  When I see him, I fall under his spell, and my body responds to his presence faster than my mind.  My skin seems softer, my movements more languid.  S. laughs when she questions me, saying all this is natural.

He is a man and I, a woman.  What could be more normal?

S. and I were having our usual talk when the maid informed her the German, Lieutenant Wolflauf was downstairs.

This German is very cordial, quiet, but commanding.  He kissed my hand, which I thought outrageous considering his army has just invaded Paris.

I sat and said little. S. was her usual self, elegant and unflappable, but I could tell a bit nervous.

I kept staring at his shiny black boots.  They seemed more than boots, and they made me nervous for some reason. They were like mirrors into the future.


Diary #7

S. rang me up this morning. She wants me to consider moving to her apartment.  She says she has too much room, and she gets lonely for company.

I think she is worried about me and wants me close.  That is fine, MN also stays there on occasion and we would have more access to each other.

It would be nice to be able to sleep with him in a big, comfortable bed.  That lumpy mattress did little for my bones.

S. is worried because I am thinner.  It’s hard to get a normal diet with food rationing and the stores depleted.  The Germans are getting the milk, butter and meat. We are seeing rutabagas and turnips showing up more and more and bread and cheeses are almost non existent.

There are posters appearing all over the boulevards, condemning the Jews, even saying “Kill the Jews.” Saying they wanted the war, let them have it.

Idiots!  These have to be the French collaborating with the stupid Germans.  Decent French would not sully their minds with such crap.

S. said we are living in dangerous times and it will get worse. We are surrounded with enemies posing as friends.


Jane Kohut-Bartels © 2008. All right reserved.


You were supposed to shield me from this raw, throbbing place called Life.

Your eyes were the braces. Your skin under my fingers was the shield.

But like all things artificial, you collapsed.

Faced with high heat, you warped and melted, leaving nothing but an acrid smell.

A misshapen lump that used to show strength but in fact, was only a flimsy construct.




At some point, the small things were not enough. You told me that happiness was only reached when you had your whip in your hands, snaking through the air, seeking skin.

I pressed my lips together and nodded assent. Turned my face away, gripped the wall.

You hit me so hard, that it didn’t hurt. Until I looked down and saw my blood.

I dipped my fingers into the crimson drops and held them out to you, as I slowly sank to the ground. Eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar.

You face shifted, just a bit. Within that small moment, I knew I had won a coup.

I wait, fingers curling and then flexing. Eyes locked to your feet. Ears wide open. Heart thumping like a rabbit in my throat.

You are frozen, abnormally still. All I hear is your breath, rasping in and out your lungs.

There is power in the blood.

Will you triumph over it?

Guest post: Diary of a Changeling, part 4 & 5

To continue with the story by Lady Nyo : Diary of A Changeling.


Diary: June 21, 1940 (#4)

MN is back. I was at S.’s and he just appeared!  It’s been a week and of course I had questions, but S. warned me. Don’t ask him anything.

MN seemed tired, his face thinner, paler. But looking at him, my own gut clenching, there is little difference. Still that same full mouth, that smile which touched on a cynicism with all life, those eyes so expressive, or maybe I am so much in thrall with his power I can’t see the truth: he is just a man.

No, he is more.  He is much more, now.  And he knows it.  There was almost an invisible thread that connected us across the room. All propriety with S. there, but when she answered the phone across the room, MN turned to me, his hand across his mouth, hiding his smile.  Only his eyes danced over his hand, and it was enough for me to feel this flush of lust.

S announced a Lieutenant Wolauf was to visit.

MN left too soon.  Only a kiss on the cheek and a whispered “a demain, a demain” and he was gone.

Two cold words to warm me.



Diary: June 24th, 1940 (#5)


The division of France is done, and no one is happy except the Germans and Marshal Petain.  S. is puffing her stinky Gauloises, nervous. I can’t stand to be around her.

Petrol is scarce, but MN took me in S’s car out to the countryside.  He has use of a farmhouse and this was new for us.

The house is old, with beamed ceilings and a stone sink in the kitchen. We ate bread,. stinky cheese, drank a bottle of wine.

Upstairs in the bedroom, MN said we shouldn’t ‘waste’ the beams and tied me with ropes he brought.

Perhaps it was the wine, or perhaps I am ‘getting tougher’ but he gave me more lashes than usual.  I didn’t want to stop, but he was still careful.

This pain gets my attention fast, radiating  outward and inward at the same time. MN stuck his hand in my crack and rubbed, cooing in my ear, whispering French nothings, soothing my tears with his breath.

We made love for the first time, MN slowly touching my body from my feet to my neck with his tongue and hands.

Why am I doing this?  I have no choice.


Jane Kohut-Bartels © 2008 All right reserved


He hated her.

Her arrogance, her smart mouth, her ability to not need him as much as he needed her.

He would say he loved her. Parts of her, not in her entirety. But he was too stubborn to admit it.

He made her dinner. It was his turn; don’t think that love motivated him.

Because malice was growing in his guts, spreading  tender tendrils in his soul, a few twined around his heart and trailed up to his brain. Causing him to add just a bit of a spice to the soup that he knew she was allergic to.

But just a bit, not enough to make her cry. Or  need to go to the ER.

Smiling, he ate. Loaded the dishwasher with cheer and one eye on the clock.

Instead of sitting up with TV, he suggested they go to bed.

He always wanted to fuck, so she didn’t think twice about it.

She was reading and distractedly, began rubbing her right elbow. He watched with interest.

She began to rub her neck, her shoulders, behind her knees, and her left eye. She did not connect the dots but he did, as it looked like little paw prints were springing up in a red trail across her skin.

He slyly got the handcuffs from beneath his pillow.

As she finally put her book down and realized that she was having an allergic reaction, he straddled her and deftly cuffed each wrist to a bedpost.

She worriedly told him that now was not the time for sex; she needed her pill and her cream.

His erection was so strong and hard, it took his breath away.

He began lightly scratching the inflamed places on her skin. Knowing it helped yet made things worse. Knowing that she was being driven crazy with the stinging itch.

Hovering over her, watching the shock spread to her eyes was almost enough to make him cum right then.

Almost, but not enough.

He licked her nipples, then her cunt, as she pleaded for him to help her.

He only stopped to scratch her hives, and went back to tonguing her.

When he heard tears choking her voice, clouding it so sweetly, he spread her legs apart and entered her, sinking balls deep.

He was hoping her pussy was itching, as he slowly drove in and out of her.

Her face was turned away from him but he made her look at him, made her focus her eyes on his face.

Looking at her, knowing she was helpless, was what he wanted. She needed him. For everything.

He was not able to hold on to that feeling for long. His body took over and he plunged in and out, faster and faster until her head was knocking against the headboard. He jerked, once, twice, emptying into her.

Sitting back on his haunches, breathing heavily. Enjoying her soft weeping.

He got her a glass of water, a pill and her cream. Because he loved her.

But he made her beg for it and lick his sack and her juices off his cock, before he gave them to her.

Because he hated her, too.

He did.


That is what pain does –burns your chest, lungs, heart and soul. Nothing is spared, as you weep, rail, rage or crumble in defeat.

When the wounds are caused by the special one, the one that is beloved, it is worse than imagined.

Your tears are lava, you cough out smoke, your kisses taste of cinders. Everything is overcast with a hazy darkness.

The need to spread the hurt, to make others share it, grows. A vain attempt-the pain is all and only yours.

But pain can either paralyze or transform.

Something always does come of it. Either growth or desolation are the fruits of the harvest.

Reap as you will.


Guest Post: Diary of a Changeling, part 3

Diary: June 14th, 1940


I was looking out the window with S. and watching the Germans march past.  They passed forever, seemingly endless supply of men in black boots.

I was very nervous and puffed on her terrible Gauloises. I could have screamed but we are all bundles of nerves. She said things would radically change and we will have to  ‘make do.’

I don’t know about S. though. She is well placed and has lovers in the government. She has the best brie and wine.

I can’t get back to England now, am dependent upon S.  MN.disappeared this last week, but S. tells me he will be back, he is on ‘business’.  What kind she doesn’t say.


He was a bit too lavish with the whip this last time, and my back and buttocks are still bruised.  It is strange how these bruises have become something different to me than just examples of pain.  His whip stings me, but he knows to wait and in the waiting something happens.  I am resolved to find out more.  Of course, this is rather outré considering what is happening outside the windows now.

I have become obsessed.  Pain is the portal.




Jane Kohut-Bartels © 2008 All right reserved.

Musical Interlude II

For those who don’t have hearts but would love if they could:


For those who were blind but now can see through the glass darkly:

Guest Post: Diary of Changeling, part 2

Continuing the fascinating story, presenting Part 2 of Diary of a Changeling, written by Lady Nyo:

Diary Entry 2.

I saw S. today.  She smoking a stinky Gauloises and looking so chic.  French women are born this way, with no efforts to be so.

She asked me how it went with MN. I struggled to answer, my hands shaking, my teacup rattling in the saucer.

I told her ‘it went well.’  How could I explain??

We made small talk for she was expecting a guest and I was leaving anyway.

But my mind recalled when MN. traced the whip handle down my back, making me shiver. I remembered his breath in my ear, the scent of him close to my skin, the cuffs on my wrists, how he stroked my flesh, warming it with his hand, cupping my breast and my ass. Dipping his hand in my wetness.

Nothing could have prepared me for that first strike. The sting was like a hornet, the pain radiating outward, making me gasp. His whip owned me with the first blow.  What had I done? I wanted to scream.

Rising to leave, MN. walked in. I froze. I saw S. smile.  MN. kissed her hand, and turned. I must have looked the fool.

Jane Kohut-Bartels © 2008 All right reserved


Uneasy pieces

I wonder if you are  truly happy, with what we do.

I’m not rich; the catalogues of shiny overpriced implements are useless to me.

When I bind you, it is with simple rope, an old tie, twine leftover from wrapping the hydrangea bushes.

When I spank your ass, I use my old belt that I wear everyday. The improvised paddle is a piece of wood, left over from when I repaired the deck.

The flimsy handcuffs we use come from that Halloween outfit I bought a few years ago.

Blindfolds are whatever is at hand–sometimes your headband, other times a folded bandanna.

Your collar is homemade, a leftover leather remnant that I picked up from my brother’s workshop.

Everywhere I look, I see people dressed in the finest money can buy, trussed and tied in expensive rooms, outfitted with elaborate toys and furniture.

Those are not things have. I can’t offer you any of that.

My cock only gets hard for you., My thoughts stray from whatever I am doing to you., No music is better to my ears than when you call my name, laugh, tell jokes. And cry for mercy.

You are ornamented in your humility, which is more glorious than any outfit sewed together to fuel  fantasies.

I give you my devotion.

You give me your love.

That is enough.

I hope.






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