Tuesday, February 6, 2018

Blank Canvas


I've been recently struck by the soft nude photography of the early 70's. Having mostly grown up in the 80's, I didn't appreciate the decade prior. It wasn't so long ago as to be retro, and with The Future right around the corner, who had time for recent history? Now, it's as if I've stumbled across a treasure trove I didn't even know to hunt for.

Mr. W texted me this photo a few days ago. I thought it appropriate to share here, keeping in mind the idea of this lovely unmarked bottom as a blank canvas, if you will.

Claudia Jennings
photographed by David Hamilton
(c. 1971)

Monday, February 5, 2018

But Where are the Birches?

For the sake of getting back to blogging, I'm going to try to start posting every day. Let's see what happens.

Should I start writing book reviews? Or perhaps I will do more of a brief feature, just a peek into part of our collection. Here's the next book on my nightstand, along with a couple volumes of philosophy and Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood.



Our Fair Flagellants was included in a lot of twenty vintage erotica novels Mr. W purchased, most of which turned out to have been published in 1967. This particular novel, however, was published in 1972 in the US, though it refers to having been originally published in France. I then learned via Book Tryst  that it is in fact a translation of Nos Belle Flagellantes, published in 1907.

Click photo to expand

Melanie, the narrator, is both flagellant and flagellator. We see her explore F/f, M/f, and F/m scenarios. I have only flipped through the book so far, but it does appear to flow from scene to scene, with little nonsense in between. Ah, the good old days of erotic writing.

I opened to a random page and found this to be delightfully representative of what I have seen inside. I did use one of those philosophy titles from my nightstand to hold the book open for the photo. I couldn't resist being a little tongue in cheek.

Click photo to expand

SPOILER ALERT: In the following pages, ALL the nuns end up stripping for whippings. Go figure.

Providing I do end up writing daily, I'll let you know my final thoughts on the book. This turned out to be an entertaining exercise and I think if nothing else, I will feature other titles from our bookshelves soon.



Monday, December 4, 2017

Alicia 006 - An Experiment in Turning Porn into Literature


I started work on new fiction! I haven't worked on fiction in quite a while, so I'm excited to have new characters and relationships to explore. Not to mention, more spankings to describe in detail.

The new story started as a writing exercise. Short on ideas, I thought I'd try turning a spanking video into a short story. That way, I wouldn't have to come up with a plot or characters. I could just describe something dirty. I even decided to tag it #porn2lit and make it a feature here on the blog.

However, I quickly got off track when I decided to use the Lupus/RGE film "Uncle." It just recently came back into my rotation and was stuck in my head. If you're familiar with it, you'll know it's from their "Dream" series and isn't heavy on plot - or English. So, left to my own plot devices, I began describing the scene and the characters soon took on a life of their own.

Since I haven't posted in a few weeks, I thought I'd share a snippet. To set the scene, the story is being told by a male. I've never written from the male point of view and I'm curious to see where it takes me. He is about to spank a woman who has shown up in his office with a list of misdeeds, but we don't know what they are. As he tells her how hard he's going to spank her, she wets herself a little in fear. This "accident" is from the video, as is the rolling of the shirt cuff that follows. The narrator's secret thoughts and desires are my own doing, as is the dialogue and relationship of the characters.

A snippet from "Alicia 006"


“Uncle, Please,” she whispered.

“Fine. Go clean up. Come back without the panties and return to your position.”

While she was gone, I sat back down at my desk so she wouldn’t see my hard cock trying to escape my trousers. She wasn’t really my niece, of course. Some might call her my patient, though the form of counseling I provided was not sanctioned by any health association, medical, mental, or otherwise. In my record-books, she was client number 006. In my fantasies, oh, she was something else entirely.

When she came back, she nodded in my direction, lifted her dress again, and bent back over the bench, hands clutching each side so tightly that her knuckles matched her white socks and shoes. I walked to her slowly then picked up the paddle from where it still lay on the bench. Tapping my palm with the paddle, I began the lecture I knew she needed.

“You are a grown woman, Alicia. You are strong. You are in control of your own destiny. Why are you bent over half naked in my office, then? Hmm?” When she didn’t answer, I had an idea.

“Roll up my sleeve, so that I can spank you more soundly,” I commanded. “Yes, stand up. Roll my sleeve up, all the way above the elbow.” She followed my instructions, hands trembling. I tried not to meet her eyes as she did so. “That’s right. Prepare the arm that beats you,” I told her, my voice steadier than my heart felt. With her shaking hands, her fingers were like little electric birds fluttering against my skin. I could barely contain myself and was relieved when she bent back down and I could stand behind her, my erection hidden, albeit that much closer to its desired destination.


More to come, I hope!

Wednesday, November 22, 2017

The Wisdom of the Octopus


the octopus in his glass cage hides in the corner,
clinging to shadows, and tries not to feel

the pummeling of small hands on the side of his house
and the eyes seeking him, begging him
to bare himself, to expand himself -

to be the version they know from documentaries
and library books about creatures of the deep but

that octopus does not live here in this tank
by this concrete coral reef. it cannot live here.

in the midnight hours he practices the art of escape.
one day, he will slide over glass down grates
through pipes and finally to swell into his ocean’s waves:

he is renewed as he propels himself though her currents,
diving deeply. she runs every drop of herself
over him in celebration of his return.

the rippling suction of his every arm pulses
against her, through her, within her in longing to grasp –
but it is she who holds him.

as he settles into the cloak of her depths he disappears,
his freedom found in the opaque darkness of his home.

~Abby Williams, copyright 2017


About the Poem: I couldn't get this photo out of my head. I intended to write a poem that simply sexualized the octopus and imagined the shared sensations between it and the model. Instead, it became a metaphor for wanting to be the comfort and safety for Mr. W when he's having a rough day and feels trapped at work. I hope he always thinks of his place in my arms as both his freedom and his home. There's also an element of encouragement about breaking away from who we are expected to be, about knowing that acting the part isn't a way to truly live.


Photo: Anna and Barney, Untitled. Appears on page 73 of Hot Cheeks edited by Martin Sigrist, Edition Skylight, 2003