Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Subtype (New Fiction)



Sorry, all, this is just set up, it never gets to the spanking and I never finished working on this story. The set up is decent, though, I should really get back to writing this one.

Anita had been sent to the headmaster's office - again. She fidgeted as she waited on the knotted oak bench outside his office, reserved for situations much like this one, for girls much like herself. This was her third time on the bench in as many weeks, and the seat was successively less comfortable each time she visited it. She silently chastised herself. The likelihood of Anita ever becoming a good girl and avoiding the bench entirely was highly improbable, but she knew both her permanent record and her backside could do with longer respites in between the disciplinary punishments she was apparently fated to endure while attending Saint Geoffrey's Academy of Creative Arts.

She wondered which implement of Headmaster Arnold's cabinet would be waiting for her on his desk when she was finally summoned by Claire, the Headmaster's new assistant. Claire was an alum of Saint Geoffrey's, and rumor had it that she'd spent a good share of her own four years at the academy bent over one piece of furniture or another in the same office outside which Anita now sat. Some girls even claimed that Claire advised the Headmaster on how to punishment his wayward students. If she liked you, she was said to convince him to lean towards lighter discipline. If she didn't, it was the cane, never less than six of the best, and rarely only six at that.

After the semester she'd had, Anita was certain that Claire did not like her one bit.

The fidgeting turned to silent fuming as Anita considered the reason she'd once again been sent for punishment. Didn't Mr. Bloom realize that she was never going to finish her novella assignment if she couldn't sit down at her desk? But when she'd complained to the professor after the first time he'd sent her to the headmaster's office for failing to complete a writing assignment, he'd told her she would just have to learn to type standing up.

Now the semester was nearing Winter Break and she was supposed to have forty pages of her senior novella project finished. "Fifteeen pages, Miss Birchthwaite," Mr. Bloom had intoned upon flipping through Anita's homework submission, "are hardly worth turning in. Are these the same fifteen pages you turned in last Friday, and the Friday before?"

"No, sir," Anita had stammered, knowing full well what was coming no matter what sincere excuse she gave.

"Unless you can provide me with an excellent explanation, you will find yourself in Headmaster Arnold's office after class, Miss Birchthwaite."

"They're not the same pages, sir. I've been editing, and rewriting, and I know it keeps coming out to the same number of pages, but I've been working very hard. There's a new character on page four, you'll see, and I've tightened up the structure, and I've changed the setting a bit, and I've added more allusions to Japanese mythology, because I thought that might..."

Bloom shook his head. "Thought it might what, Miss Birchthwaite?"

"Get me another free trip over Headmaster Arnold's desk, sir."

"Anita!" Bloom did not consider himself to be an especially strict or difficult professor. He taught creative writing, a subject in which he prided his own endeavors and lauded that of his students. He had never had to send a student for discipline so many times, and never one as gifted as Anita. She was correct in that her incessant rewrites were always improvements on the previous versions, but the assignment, at this point, was not to have the best fifteen unfinished pages. The assignment was to get through the story. She would have the entire spring semester for revision. If she had written ten more pages, even five, he would have considered an alternative to more forceful punishment. Anita's flippancy, unfortunately, confirmed his suspicions. Anita didn't want to write another five or ten more pages. He had begun to think that she didn't want to write at all.

As Anita sat in her hallway purgatory, she recalled Bloom's face when he'd handed the unfinished story back to her. His cheeks were red and his eyes were watery. She'd thought he was about to yell at her, but instead he spoke very quietly. "Take this back. Over the weekend, write at least five more pages. They don't have to be perfect. They don't even have to be spell-checked. Just write. On Monday, you will turn in twenty pages, or you will turn in your resignation as a member of the Senior English Honors Society. You can finish out your year as a regular student, and your diploma will reflect none of the work you've accomplished over the past four years. Do you understand?"

Anita had not been able to look her professor in the eye. "Yes, sir," she said to his desk. "Twenty pages, or I'm out."

"That's correct."

Anita had looked up from the desk then. "And Headmaster Arnold's?"

"Go there now. You will wait until he is ready to see you. After that, I suggest you go back to your room and begin writing. Even," and at this Anita realized Bloom was blushing, "if you have to do it standing up."

Dirty old man, Anita thought, squirming on the uncomfortable oak bench. I bet he sends me down here just so he can think about me bent over and getting my ass spanked later on.

But even as she thought it, Anita felt a twinge of guilt. It wasn't Bloom's fault that she couldn't get past her writer's block. Moreso, it wasn't his fault that she didn't really care about the story she was writing. Maybe he was right to threaten expulsion from the honors program. If she couldn't write five more pages, what right did she have to call herself a writer anyway?

A pit had begun to grow in the depth of Anita's belly, and it had nothing to do with the punishment she was about to receive. She had to come up with something to write about. She had to make that story work. Just five pages. Come on, brain. Don't you have something to say?

"Anita!" Claire stood at the open door to Headmaster Arnold's office. "I said, what do you have to say for yourself this time?"

It was Anita's turn to blush. "I guess I'm not a very good writer."

Claire's stern expression softened. She put her hand out until Anita rose and placed her palm against the older girl's. Claire squeezed. "I don't think that's why you're here, though, is it? I think you're here because you're a very good writer, but you're not fulfilling your potential." Anita was confused. Claire had never spoken to her more than was necessary to escort her in and out of a disciplinary session. Now she was offering advice?

Claire stepped forward into the hallway and let the office door close behind her. "Why do you think you're at the headmaster's office again, Anita?"

Anita shook her head. "I didn't do my assignment."

"And why didn't you do your assigment?"

"I tried. I started by doing some editing, and then I just couldn't go any farther. The story stops at page fifteen. Nothing I do to the pages before that makes me want to write the sixteenth page. Nothing."

Claire tilted her head. "So you don't believe in your first fifteen pages?"

Anita's eyes flared. "I do! They're great, I just," she lowered her voice, "don't think I can write anymore."

"So you can write fifteen good pages, and that's it? Did the story decide it didn't want you to write it? Or did you decide you didn't want to write the story?"

Anita let go of Claire's hand and stared determinedly at the floor. "Neither. Both. It doesn't matter."

Claire took Anita's chin gently in her hand and guided her gaze up to meet her own. "But it does. And so does what happens in the headmaster's office. If you think you're being punished for failing to write x number of pages, you might write more to keep from being punished, but those pages are going to come from your sore backside, not your heart."

Both young women started to giggle at Claire's words, but Claire had meant to be serious. She pressed her lips together for a moment, then continued. "What if this time, you don't think of it as punishment?"

Anita started to laugh again, but Claire pressed her finger to Anita's lips. "I mean it. What if you think of it as the means to a new beginning? As a way to clear your inhibitions, your writer's block, whatever's going on in that head of yours?"

Claire let go of Anita and opened the office door. "Remember, you decide why you're here, and what happens when you leave." Through the doorway, Anita could see the senior cane resting on Headmaster Arnold's desk. She met Claire's eyes once again, this time with disgust. "I hardly think that's the case."

Claire winced. Her voice was back to it's usual icy tone as she left the office, pulling the heavy door closed behind her. "It's not for the reason you think." The door latched quietly, an insufficient punctuation to Claire's enigmatic statement. Anita was left trembling out of anger, confusion, and, despite being all too familiar with the headmaster's office, fear. Everything was happening differently this time. She no longer felt like she was about to be punished for being a bad girl. This time, her nerves told her, she was in for something much, much worse.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Restoration

From The Tarot of Casanova. Not quite 1660's, but lovely and evoking a certain innocence nonetheless.

Back in 1660, the Restoration was a period of social and artistic renewal following the reestablishment of the British, Irish, and Scottish monarchies under the helm of Charles II. Theaters reopened, women took to the stage, painters rendered canvases with an unknown realism and subtlety. Civilization - in all its plagued and painful glory - was back in action.

Call me vainglorious, but my return to blogging has arisen from a Restoration in its own right: the restoration of my bottom to its pre-spanked condition. There was a time, many years ago, that the slightest bottom-smack stung with the fierceness of a sadistic wasp. I could barely stand a palm to my backside, nevermind the increasingly agonizing implements of my years with Mr. Williams. I yelped, I screamed, I howled, I bruised from a good ten slaps. I was a tabula rasa so easily turned rose that it often seemed like I had taken far more punishment than I'd actually received.

It seems, Dear Reader, those days have returned. I was lying belly-down on the bed the other day, playing a video game with Mr. W. I get a little feisty when I play, and probably made some smart-aleck comment that caused him to smack my denim-clad bottom. It hurt! Really hurt. Reach back and rub hurt. And it was only a playful slap on my jeans! He did the same thing a few more times, and the truth hit me along with his palm: it has been so long since we've played that I have regained my sensitivity. My nerve-endings, my bruisability, my fear of pain have all been restored.

So much for that year of working towards accepting myself as a masochist.

Now that I stop to consider, it must be at least six months since my last spanking. I must be an angel to have been that good!

No, that can't be it. I don't think there is one single reason. I was worn out with the Naughty Abby videos, so we took a break, then both our jobs changed, then both our lives changed, and now? Well, I'm blogging again, so the subject is at least on my mind. Maybe, having finally accepted it as a definite and unchangeable part of myself, I can more easily set it aside and focus on the parts of me that are not so clearly defined. Maybe I like the thought of it more than the act of it right now.

Every fantasy I have these days is of Mr. Williams coming home and deciding enough is enough, and off comes the belt or out comes the cane, and then... that's it. I don't need more than that right now. I don't want to be hurt, I don't want to be in pain. This, then, is my Restoration, though it sounds like more of a regression of sorts. Perhaps I just need to be coaxed back into it. Or maybe even just told to take it.

The true Restoration of Abby will be the day I can write that I, in all my plagued and painful glory, am back in action. And then maybe I'll show you a picture to prove it.

Monday, August 25, 2008

Pretty Ugly

"Les Folles" (1970) by Bernard Buffet

Mr. Williams found this image in The New York Times under the headline "Pretty Ugly," a review of an NYC gallery show of the same name. The show features 75 artists across two galleries, and is summed up by Times writer Holland Cotter as merely weird for weirdness's sake, and therefore a waste of time.

The painting remains of interest because it should be erotic, but it is not. A painting of a group of nearly naked red-haired women, one of whom lies over the lap of another, ought to be a favorite of mine, but the description hardly fits the tableau. I am instead reminded of John Lanchester's fictional memoir-cum-cookbook The Debt to Pleasure, in which the narrator explains the "erotics of dislike:"

"To like something is to want to ingest it, and in that sense is to submit to the world. To like something is to succumb, in a small but contentful way, to death. But dislike hardens the perimeter between the self and the world, and brings a clarity to the object isolated in its light. Any dislike is in some measure a triumph of definition, distinction, and discrimination--a triumph of life." (Lanchester, The Debt to Pleasure, pp. 6-7)

I dislike this image, especially the girl turned over another's knee. The dislike truly is a physical reaction, a knot tightened in my belly, an active response. It's not that I simply do not like the painting, I actively dislike it.

The core of my dislike is my perception of the image as mirror. In this case, art imitates life. The women portrayed are withered whores, weary of their wantonness. They extend their tongues, not in lasciviousness, but as if they are dogs gasping for breath. Their wrinkles deeply set; this world, the world of the beautiful unclothed woman, the dancehall, the cabaret, is no longer theirs.In their blank eyes I see myself, or the woman I was about to become. In disliking their image, I separate myself from them, I defy commiseration. By defining myself as other, my own life triumphs.

I don't think anyone will be surprised when I note that I am closing down the Naughty Abby website. It was an utter joy while it lasted, and I can honestly say I am more myself for having that experience. It could return, in another form. To those who contributed to its modest success, I thank you from the bottom of my heart and from the bottom of my bottom. You have a piece of me that I am happy to have shared. The moment I began to feel that filming was required of me and that my heart was no longer in it, we stopped filming. There are no Naughty Abby videos extant that are anything but honest and joyfully experienced.

The day I looked in the mirror and saw one of those withered women was the day it ended for me. That day came early in the summer, when I was worn out with work, with writing, with the demands of being anyone other than a woman curled up with a glass of wine and a good book. Knowing that I could not allow myself to be a painted shell of a voluptuous and sensuous creature, I began instead to explore the parts of me I had ignored. My quest for my individual spirituality and sense of bodily self returned. I also began to explore new perspectives on my fetish, although the explorations so far have been more theoretical than physical. My day to day life has changed as well - I began a new job, albeit within the same company, two weeks ago, and while I finally have my own office, I am completely out of my element. There are even changes within our family structure. I'm not pregnant, but a course of events has occurred that finds me in a distant but distinct motherly position, and I am not ready to be both porn star and parent.

I am, however, ready to continue writing. I am keeping this blog, for when inspiration - ahem - strikes, but I also started a new blog today. It's called (link defunct), and my intention is to write about the rest of my internal and daily life (i.e. those aspects that have nothing to do with my own naked arse). I'm keeping my pseudonym. Much as I don't want to be Abby the fetish film star right now, I do want to continue on with this course of writing and adventure that I began in that naughty Puritan's name.

Abigail Williams: Writer. Spankophile. Seeker. Philosopher. Woman.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Torture for Fun and Profit

Issue #4 of Raulo Cáceres' erotic horror comic, Elizabeth Bathory, in which the infamous countess is portrayed (quite logically) as a demoness from Hell


Every Wednesday night, I watch a television show on the Sci Fi Channel called Ghost Hunters, in which skeptical plumbers use their logic, home improvement skills, and New England accents to try to capture paranormal events on film. I appreciate their understanding of the difference between an orb and a dust particle, between an apparition and a finger in front of a camera, or between an EVP and a cameraman in the next room. Their goal is to disprove claims of paranormal activity, not celebrate the mere chance of ghostly happenings. For that reason, when they do capture something inexplicable, it's all the more interesting and exciting.

This past week, they didn't capture much in the way of the paranormal, but it was one of my favorite episodes to date. The reason? Every other word was "torture" or "whip" or "punish." References to a torture device called a Spanish horse were made a number of times. I misheard the phrase every single time.

The reason for the erotic magic words? The team was investigating two Slovenian castles, the first being Predjama Castle, which contained the equivalent of a corporal punishment courtroom, as well as its two verdict options - a giant pit and a torture chamber. The second was none other than the ruins of Cachtice Castle of Elizabeth Bathory fame.

If you, dear reader, are not familiar with Vlad Dracul's spirtual sister, vain torturer and mass murderer extraordinaire, get thee to a copy of Andrei Codrescu's The Blood Countess immediately! This novel is the most erotic novel I've ever read - and that includes any actual spanking fiction. It is the story of Countess Elizabeth Bathory, a sadistic Hungarian royal who believed she had found the secret of cosmetic beauty after slapping a maidservant so hard that blood landed on her cheek, only to discover that the skin beneath the blood had a more youthful appearance after the human stain was removed. Cleopatra's baths of ass's milk was no match for the blood of virgins! So, naturally, Elizabeth went on to have approximately 650 women killed over the course of 25 years, in order to bathe in their blood. Like any good sadist, she couldn't just kill the women - she had to main, torture, and coax the blood from their flesh. Nonetheless, Codrescu tells a sensual tale of historical quest and iron maidens, untouched round bottoms and woman's eternal struggle for beauty. And if it sells the novel any more, I got off to it when I was seventeen. So there.

I always have had a fascination with suffering, with torture, with man's connection of body to soul. I've been reading up on the early Christian hermits, the Desert Mothers and Fathers, as of late, as well as a brilliant novel, Liz Jensen's Ark Baby, on evolution. I've been struggling to find my place in the society of mankind, and of spankingkind. It's interesting that this episode featuring torture chambers was aired at this of all times. What if what I find erotic isn't spanking, pain, punishment, discipline, girls' bottoms, or any of our favorite subjects? What if the true heart of my desire is suffering?

What does that mean for me? And if that is the direction my writings will be taking, reader, what does that mean for you?


Here's Elizabeth getting ready to take a bath.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

She Served


France was once overrun by dragons. I know this because last Tuesday heralded the feast day of Saint Martha of Bethany, dragon-tamer and patron of servants and cooks. That morning, before heading off to slay my own daily dragons, I read about her commitment to hospitality in her small home just west of Jerusalem, where she was overshadowed by her siblings' ostentacious foot-perfuming and rising from the dead. She was often chided for her diligence to the hearth rather than contemplation. While Jesus proseletyzed to the rest of the family, Martha bustled about the house, the consummate hostess.

At the after-party following the resurrection of her brother Lazarus, you know what Martha did? Did she celebrate? Did she borrow some fancy foot perfume from her sister Mary and toast to the newly undead? No. Everyone else got to party, but Martha served. (John 12:2) Is it any wonder that later in life, she ran off to evangelize France by vanquishing it of mythological beasts?

The story goes that after the Resurrection, Mary and Martha traveled to Gaul in order to spread the good word. However, the people of Provence were spreading another word, Tarasque, the name of a dragon-like beast tormenting the countryside. Martha, who apparently liked to clean up messes, thought that a dragon sounded like quite the messy way to keep house, so off she went to see the beast. Upon meeting him, she sprinkled him with holy water, explained that his behavior was not to be tolerated, and looked upon him with love. Naturally, the dragon realized the error of his ways and became docile, whereupon the Tarasque was either kept as a pet or torn apart scale from limb, depending on the tradition.

Of course, depending on the tradition, this feat was not accomplished by Martha of Bethany at all, but by a Phoenician goddess named Martis, or in other versions, a Syrian prophetess named Martha, who accompanied the Roman general Gaius Marius in his campaign against the peoples of the north. At this point in human history, most of us know that early Christians often begged, borrowed, or stole mytholigical traditions in order to assimilate entire cultures into the new patriarchy. But why take Martha, servant of God, and turn her into Martha, slayer of the Beast? Why did Christian tradition turn the perfect submissive girl into an action hero?

I wonder if Martha watches us from her place in the pantheon of saints and cries out, "Why? Why wasn't I good enough? Why has my broom been exchanged for a staff? My dust bunnies exchanged for monsters? I served, but you held out your bowl and wanted more."

In every spare moment since her feast day, I've been considering the dichotomy of Martha in Bethany and Martha in Provence. I have been relating to her story in my own identity as a submissive, dedicated wife and my invented identity as Abby Williams. I've been taking a break from blogging and filming because I have become so comfortable in my own skin that suddenly, I don't have the drive to expose myself or my internal search for meaning in my fetish because I can see myself fully, as I am, for perhaps the first time in my life. I am Martha in her humble home, serving as I serve, allowing those with fancy perfumes and attentive contemplation to shine while I do those things that make me whole in the background.

But the dragon of the blogosphere still looms. For a while, my actions were based on its existence. Martha demonstrated the power of her faith when a dragon was put before her. I demonstrated my adoration of spanking and receiving discipline when a camera and the Internet were put before me. Perhaps the story of Martha and the dragon was meant to prove just how powerful her faith was. A faith so strong that it doesn't just serve bread, it slays demons! And perhaps my exhibitionism was meant to show that I had a fetish so strong, I didn't just submit to my husband, I submitted to computer screens across the world!

But the story of Martha is no less admirable when we remember that there were no dragons in France 2000 years ago. After all, she served. And I serve. And some days I want to continue to build on the story of Abby, the trials and tribulations of her bright red backside, her battles with the twin dragons of Cane and Strap. But sometimes I just want to clean my house and bring Mr. Williams milk and pancakes in bed. There will be days when there are dragons. But on the days when I'm just reading a book and baking muffins, don't worry that I won't come back to slay your beast. I find it wonderful and sexy that you want me to slay your beast. And I will. Right after I get those dust bunnies and refill that glass of milk.

Friday, July 11, 2008

Little Fun to Be Had in Explanations


I've recently become compelled by the unknown. In my quest to ascertain the necessity - the readability - of plot in spanking fiction, I've allowed myself to explore the darker half of my fantasies. These are the ones that make me squeamish with myself, the ones that make me wonder if I'm actually on the other side of this whole cruel business, if I am a sadist out to wound the helpless and it just so happens that too often, one of the helpless is me.

In exploration of plot, I've forbidden myself to imagine reason in the scope of punishment. I envision harsh canings solely because a girl has had the bad luck of the draw. I picture being tied down and strapped for longer than I can take, crying "Why?" until I am gagged, no explanation forthcoming. I foster the feel of cobwebs in my hair, flung to the floor of an unused basement, no light by which to see a tormentor, hands bound and unable to soothe anguished skin. No reason to be there, no sign of escape, nothing, nothing, nothing but punishment for a crime never committed, never accused.

I used to cling to reason, even in play, even in rushed fantasy. I'm not sure I ever used these words aloud, but I can recall thinking, "Tell me what I've done so I can repent." I do remember asking for a reason and there being no reason, that the spanking, albeit not much like the less savory scenarios above, continued despite neither of us coming up with a cause for discipline.

Perhaps I've molded to the style of play we've embraced. Maybe that's why I seem to have lost my desire to repent imagined sins. Real ones, too. I've made plenty of bad judgement calls recently. It seems they have nothing to do with my identity as a spankophile. Life itself deals out the consequences for human error. My fetish, these days, is about punishment dealt as nothing more than the consequence of being human.

In last week's issue of Entertainment Weekly, Stephen King wrote about the scariest films being the ones with no explanation. "But nightmare exist outside of logic," writes King, "and there's little fun to be had in explanations; they're antithetical to the poetry of fear." I've been thinking about that phrase all week, the poetry of fear. The punishment, as they say, must fit the crime. Knowing twelve strokes are to come for talking back? Any of us can handle that. But if there is no crime, how does the punisher know when to stop? Or does he stop? Is it discipline or cruelty? Is it punishment, or only stark, unending, blissfully blinding white pain?

If we skip the plot, isn't that all that's left? Meaningless chaos wreaked upon the bare flesh of the innocent? Or is that pain the plot itself? The poetry of punishment, of pain, of fear, with little fun to be had in the explanation, and all of the fun to be had in the execution.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

The Tower, a Retelling of the Tale of Rapunzel, Part One

Please pretend this long-haired girl is not wearing shoes.(www.perfectasses.net)

Zee stood naked in the center of her tower chamber, her slender right foot arched across the throat of a diminutive blonde. The blonde's age was in her graying temples, her crow's feet, the defiance in her gaze even as Zee controlled the woman's breath with just the pressure of her toes. Zee swung her floor-length hair, uniform in its sleek ebony plait, across the woman's body like a scythe, sometimes whipping it across the blonde's flesh so quickly that her skin reddened, stung.

"My father," began Zee, "went to his grave believing he had traded his first born child for a handful of root vegetables." She laughed shrilly then hardened her face to meet the blonde's tense stare. "Would you say I'm worth a handful of vegetables?" She increased the pressure of her foot. "Turnips? Radishes?" She let the woman on the floor breathe a moment, a gasping, rasping breath, before shoving the tips of her toes between the woman's lips. "Rutabagas? Carrots? Suck, you withered harlot. Spring potatoes?"

She removed her foot and turned her back on the woman, pacing the short diameter of the circular room. She stopped at a knotted oak chest by the window, opening it to reveal a strange collection of objects. The fork-tailed strap, a well-oiled, shining length of mahogany leather, called to her. Its weight was tested in her hands, approved, whisked through the air.

"Hands and knees," she commanded. Resuming her pacing, she struck the woman's exposed backside with what seemed to be accidental precision, the blow stretching across the underside of both buttocks and leaving an even pink glow. With each pass, she let the strap flare, sometimes gently, caressingly, sometimes with a cruel snap of her wrist, the leather cracking so loudly as to echo off the stone walls. The blonde woman's cries birthed and mimicked the echo until the room was a riot of the leather's fleshly wails and the woman's wailing flesh.

Finally, Zee stopped whipping and pacing and stood behind the blonde, now pressing her face against her own tears on the cool wet tile of the stone floor. Their breathing heaved in time together. "Strega?" asked Zee.

The blonde looked up, her face nearly as red as her bottom and upper thighs, the harsh edge now gone from her silver eyes. "Rapunzel?"

"Why did my mother tell my father to gather vegetables from your garden that night, when she knew you were there to catch him? Why did she trick him?" Zee swallowed shallowly and closed her eyes, the strap now hanging limply at her side. "Why did she give me away?"

Tentatively rising to her feet, the blonde woman, Zee's Strega, smiled softly, wincing at the bodily pain she had not allowed herself to feel for so many years. She touched Zee's cheek with one hand, taking the strap with the other. "Because she loved you, even before you were born."
"And why did you want me? Why did she want you, of everyone, to have me?"

"Because there is pain, and there is pain. No woman should know the pain your mother felt, the pain I have felt. But there is power in this," she held up the strap, "and in this," she stroked Zee's forehead. "Now." Her voice changed, turned crisp and cold. "I allowed you this rash transgression because you felt betrayed, and I was the source of that betrayal. I kept this from you for eighteen years, and you have every right to express your anger as I have taught you. But I have also taught you the rule of three, that your actions come back to you threefold. Today is no different. Go to the bed."

"But Strega," began Zee. Strega grabbed Zee's braid, quickly wrapping it around her forearm so that Zee had to twist her neck to keep from crying out in pain. The younger woman was pulled to the bed, tears already gathering in the corners of her eyes from the pain at the nape of her neck, from the pain she knew she was about to experience, and from the sudden sense of shame that was the source of it all.

Strega told Zee to lie upon her stomach on the bed. "Face down," she demanded. "You won't be getting up again tonight. Threefold, Rapunzel. Let this be a lesson on wielding your heart along with your implements in the future."

"Yes, Strega," whimpered Zee. She began to weep with the first stroke of her thrashing, as much from self-pity as from the agony to come. For the end of her eighteenth birthday, this was hardly the fairy tale ending she'd always had in mind.

Friday, June 27, 2008

Tale or Tail?


A page from Serpieri's Obssession. View more here.

Serpieri's graphic novel series Morbus Gravis kept a place of pride on my bookshelf for six years before I read them all. If you've seen them, or any image of Serpieri's heroine Druuna, you'll understand. What does plot matter, even when the plot involves drooling multi-penised horny mutants, when the artistry is an ode to the main character's glorious backside? Several other volumes, such as Obsession, Druuna X, and Druuna X 2, were published just of Serpieri's artwork of this ample goddess, justifying my inattention to the graphic novels.

Now, if it takes me the better side of a decade to getting around to reading the non-juicy bits of a graphic novel series, can you imagine how long it takes me to read the entirety of a blue piece of fiction? I am definitely guilty of reading only the "good parts," leaving the rest, often including character development and plot, for some other time, also known as never o'clock.

I would write more fiction if I treated it as I did my erotic reading. I get so caught up in the wheres and whys, even the last names, whether they're mentioned or not, that I never get to write those "good parts." I've started so many stories that I think would be really fantastic if I could just finish them. The naughty parts would be all the better for the care and attention I put into the reason for the scene, the mental space of the characters, the exact shade of grass outside the window. And why? Why? I'm an avid reader and writer, whether I ever finish anything or not, and if I don't bother with the pages before the panties come down, why do I think anyone else will take the time to get to know the tale before the tail?

I started writing a handful of stories based on the suggestions you shared with me over the past week. If I ever actually finish anything, I'll start posting them on the Naughty Abby site. That's the plan, anyway. What I wonder is, should I mark off the good parts so no one misses anything in the scrolling? How important is plot in a spanking story? And is that really what I'm writing? Perhaps that's the real trouble. I haven't decided whether I'm writing literature with a bit of spanking, or spanking with a bit of literature. Is there a place for me in this genre? Does anyone care about punishment with plot?


This one was always my favorite. Wonderfully unsettling.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Subject Me



I've had trouble writing lately. I'm not out of ideas. In terms of fiction, I have countless documents consisting of one to three paragraphs, stories with intent but not content. For the blog, it's not as if the subject of spanking is suddenly uninspiring. I have so much I want to write about for you: the auditory experience of spanking, the notion of violence in what we do, the surprise places one finds corporal punishment--the all-too brief beating of the Russian prostitute in the video-game inspired action film Hitman comes to mind.

No, the ideas are in plenitude. What lacks, what I lack, is ambition. I want to write. I do. I want to "be a writer." However, dear reader, I'm having trouble doing the actual writing. I was briefly inspired by the list of crimes and punishments posted above, as found on a random Flickr page. It got me to start this post, all the way up to the phrase "dear reader," at which point I walked away, wandered into the kitchen, and forgot about writing entirely. It's now two days later and I'm back at it, but it's really more of a "yes I'm still out here" post than it is one of reflection or eroticism.

That said, I wonder if your ideas would benefit me. Get me back into finishing fiction, or inspire brief sexy tales to be told for your more... um... immediate enjoyment. Mr. W is working all weekend. Send me your story ideas, and perhaps I'll finally write something worthy of calling myself a writer, not just a naked blogger. My bottom is taking a break from taking requests. Subject my hands to your wishes.

Thursday, June 12, 2008

Unsolicited Nakedness

from photographer Spencer Tunick's Amsterdam shoot


I've become comfortable here. Comfortable spilling mental viscera onto the virtual page. Comfortable as part of the community, despite historically, in Groucho Marx fashion, refusing to belong to any group that would have me as a member. Comfortable in sharing my fetish, my fantasies, even my face. These comforts are the product of time, trust, and an ever growing comfort in being myself. If I were uncomfortable in any of these things, this blog would have faded to silence long ago.

My persistent nakedness, however, surprises me constantly. It is the result of being comfortable, yes, but it catches me when I'm not expecting it. I am Eve with short-term memory loss. At ease with my bare flesh, I take a bite of the apple, and oh-my-goodness I'm naked in front of God and everybody. Then the taste of the apple fades, and I am again posting screenshots and video of my backside, occasionally including the camera angle I call the "up-my-guts" shot, for all the world to see.

I had two moments this week when I realized that perhaps not everyone is expecting this unsolicited nakedness. The first was in an email, when I found myself using the phrase "unsolicited nakedness" for the first time, after writing something akin to "I was going to send you this, but--" I realized that perhaps not everyone wants an email full of porn. The second was in conversation with a friend who sought out the Naughty Abby site after I'd confessed my activities of late, and he commented, "It's all there, isn't it? Black bar and everything." He was referencing the picture I have illustrating one of the videos. To titillate, I'd included one of the "up-my-guts" screen captures, but to be tasteful (ha!), I slapped a black bar over the pink parts. My friend's comment was comic, but it also held a morsel of apple-flavored truth. Maybe everyone I know doesn't actually need to see my guts, or even the unclothed parts that hold them in.

I know this doesn't hold true for everyone. My visitor stats are heightened for about a week every time I post even a short clip. At this point, except for the stray or accidental reader, any nakedness you find here is by implied solicitation. You know that I'm going to bare something, my heart or brain or bottom, and sometimes you'll get all three. The trouble is that by becoming so comfortable here, I want to share this world with everyone--and not everyone is a part of this world. The very word spanking is unsolicited nakedness for some. When I first started The Little Red Schoolhouse, one of my constant struggles was balancing the girl who loved submitting to a spanking and the woman who needed to be in charge. Now that I feel like I've found that balance, it's about how much I can really be that person. I'm learning when it's time to eat the apple and when it's time to forget its taste.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

Spanking Abby, The Blog

I came home from work the other day to the most wonderful surprise--even better than the new spanking horse and umbrella stand full of canes that greeted me when I walked through the front door. Mr. Williams has started his own blog!

He found the most perfect picture to start it off, which I've copied here because I'm jealous that he found it first. Terrible beast that he is, he also created a poll for which implement should be used for my next spanking! I'm intrigued to see what he'll do with the blog in the future. Will my take on each of my spankings and punishments be countered with a description and perspective of his own? Will I get to know even better what he's up to when I'm not around? Will I get to know my own bottom even better than I do now, thanks to my own blog and the appearance of cameras in my life?

From some of our first flirtations as booksellers together, spanking has been our favorite subject. It was in the subtle and not-so-subtle conversations between helping customers at the Information desk. It was in the finding of intriguing titles, especially those by the ubiquitous Anonymous, that gave us both shivers and caused us to turn to each other with heat in our eyes, amongst other parts. It was even in late night drives through the less savory parts of town, at that time Los Angeles, in search of that one book or magazine or implement that would turn us from intimate friends to permanent partners in fetishism and in life. It took three thousand-mile moves and a few years in between, but we found that final connection in the bands we now both wear on our left hands. So what is left after all that time and conversation and discovery?

The world, it seems. My blog has enabled me to learn so much about myself. Surely he's learned a thing or two as well about myself, us, and our relationship with this thing we do. I'm excited to have the opportunity to learn from his written thoughts as well. The hands sometimes express what the tongue cannot or did not expect to say. As long as his hands continue to say the most important things on my backside.

Spanking Abby. The other side of the coin.

Sunday, June 1, 2008

Julie's Sixteenth Birthday

Number 36 on the list of worst album covers ever. Number 1 on Julie's list of worst birthdays ever.



One of my favorite newsletters seemingly has nothing to do with spanking, believe it or not. It hails from Very Short List and often contains pop cultural gems, such as this list from a newspaper in Florida featuring the top fifty worst album covers ever. But as tends to happen with most things, there's always a way to tie a subject back to spanking, and this list was no exception. I just knew there would be something I could post here, and sure enough, number 36 did not let me down. "Julie's Sixteenth Birthday." Her worst birthday ever? Apparently!

I've been trying to come up with a story behing the image. Is that her dad? Her older brother? Her uncle? I figure Julie went to the pub to celebrate her birthday, but got caught. The man in the picture is trying to explain to her that beer and cigarettes are for grown-ups, not sixteen year olds. He's taken them away from her and is now explaining that just because she thinks she's grown up now, she really isn't, and sixteen isn't too old for a spanking.

In my version, Julie's family knows the pub owner, who doesn't mind when she's bent over the piano bench behind her and strange-hat-man takes off his belt. In an alternate version, she's made to lean over the table (elbows on the table being perfectly acceptable for this position) and the entire pub is offered a few swats at her. Birthday spanking, indeed! Poor Julie. Little did she know when she posed for this picture that she would be blogged about thirty years later by a dirty-minded girl like me. Not to mention retroactively spanked most unrelentlessly...

Friday, May 30, 2008

The Breaking Point

Oops! Poor little paddle! And poor me! This is only the beginning.

We didn't call our new film The Breaking Point just because Mr. Williams broke the new paddle on my backside, although it did have something to do with it.

Nor did we call it that because I took my punishment staunchly until something inside me twisted and broke open. No, I actually took to sobbing fairly early on. We'd both had a terrible few days and we needed this scene, but it nearly didn't happen because I was feeling obstinate and unsexy. When he bends me over the bench at the very beginning of the film, it's not so much the beginning of our movie as it is the end of Mr. W putting up with me. Guilt flooded me as I simultaneously began to release the stress of the day into the pain. Everything--my mind, my heart, my soul, my backside--hurt, and the tears flowed freely the moment the first one escaped down my cheek.

The real breaking point, the point when everything changes, occurs after the last stroke of what was to be punishment. I was to take eighteen strokes of the cane. After the first six, I begin to feel nauseous, dizzy, not certain I can take any more. At twelve, I feel thoroughly punished and ready to be held. For a moment, I even think I'm going to receive a reprieve and that I am finished. I'm wrong. I receive the next three strokes with squeals of agony, but then, with stroke sixteen, I am silent. I realize my silence with stroke seventeen, and ride the pain with number eighteen. The scene is edited to show my face during these strokes, and the transition from punished girl to woman craving discipline is palpable. After the eighteenth stroke, I ask, "Can I have more please?"

The answer, of course, is yes.

I think the perceived "breaking point" is often when a girl begins to cry, or moves from tears to sobbing. Even the phrase sounds like a shattering, not a union of body with pain. But I'm very vocal about my pain, and have been known to become a weeping wreck at sad sitcom episodes, nevermind physical duress. I'm not saying there have not been times when I've crumbled during a punishment--I have, and in those instances, the crumbling was my breaking point. This time, though, the stressed, panicked, crying girl was the broken one, and I somehow was the one to break through. I've rewatched those few strokes quite a few times now, and I can literally see me become myself. And then I become embarassed, because the strokes that come after the punishment was supposed to be over are fast and hard and hot, and I feel strange at being turned on by myself, and I feel strange that this intimate moment I've written about countless times has been caught on film. It's not just viable, it's now visible to others.

"Why do I like this?" That's a question I no longer ask myself. Now, during a punishment, I ask myself, "Do I like this?" Last night, for the first eighteen minutes of my discipline, the answer was no. The breaking point--when the answer became yes. Yes. Yes.

Mr. Williams, seemingly wondering if it hurts.

Yes. Yes it does.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

The Repentant Hat, and Other Retails of Terror


My salvation hat.

There's something to be said for having a hobby that allows every trip out to become the equivalent of a late night trip to the adult shop. The singular difference between the two is that I generally find what I'm looking for when I'm anywhere other than the adult shop. Whole Foods just brought in a new line of wooden cookware. The flat wooden spatula is quite appealing. Ikea has a chair we call "the sex bench," ideal for positions both erotic and disciplinary. In fact, we bought a spanking horse there this weekend. They seemed to think it was for holding up a draft table! Oh, Ikea. They also sold us an implement holder, primarily for canes. They had it labelled as "umbrella stand." Little did they know.

Most fruitful, though, are stores of antiques and collectibles, especially those "antique malls" that feature vendor after vendor of random pervertable items. In the past few weeks, we've amassed a whole new collection. There's the sewing table in the previous post. Last weekend, we found a chair to go with it, an old school chair, from what we can tell, complete with the piece of wood onto which it was bolted surely decades ago. We also had successful trips to Hillsboro (hi, people who visit me from Hillsboro!) and Aurora.

The mounted, and to-be-mounted, chair.

In Hillsboro, we found a fantastic antique store in an old movie theatre. If we'd had the funds, we would have bought the entire building and turned it into a playspace for local fetishists. It featured so many small rooms in an upstairs area, what once were most likely offices but are now perfect individual punishment rooms.... but I digress, as for now, they belong to individual antiques vendors. We found one vendor that surely had the same interests as us, as amidst other ass-centric items--paintings of naked cowgirls, canes, equestrian items--we found a strange riding crop, completely unused on horses but with an interesting curvature indicating other usage.

The coveted crop.

Mr. W had to take a phone-call outside while I made our purchase, so I was alone when the cashier became jealous of the crop. "Where did this come from?" she demanded. "If I'd seen it..." I thought perhaps I should offer her my backside, to make up for having purchased the crop out from under her. I very nearly did so when she asked, "Do you have horses?" I had to tell her no, hoping secretly that this lovely woman who wanted the implement didn't have horses either.

Things were a bit more obvious this past weekend when we bought a well-worn paddle from an antique store in Aurora, Oregon. Their entire small downtown is antique shops, a haven for collectors of antiquities and erotic collectors such as ourselves. In fact, to any Oregon locals, one of the shops (I'm sorry, I cannot recall it's name, but it has a sign about carrying your dog if you bring it inside) has a ridiculous amount of wooden kitchen spoon-paddles. They're not quite spoons, as they have flatter backs, thus making them a bit more useful for spanking purposes. I'm wishing I'd bought them up, but I didn't, so they're there for the taking. Anyhow, we found this light flat paddle in Aurora, and as I purchased it (for embarassment purposes, I always make the purchases), the man behind the counter laughed and said "I'm not gonna ask what that's for. Too much information." I laughed, then blushing slightly, commented, "Well, my smile gave that away." I found myself wishing I had a business card! How I've advanced in just a few weeks. I now want to tell even random strangers what I get up to in my private time.


The obvious paddle.

My favorite find of this weekend, however, is a peculiar hat with a cross on it. The seller said it was an old Salvation Army hat. Mr. W and I had both tried it on, and turned each other on immensely. We both have a thing for hats--something we haven't explored yet on film, as we need the right sets, but come the day, we have a great collection for starters--often in the vein of Russian military, so...ouch. I'm already fantasizing about scenes involving this hat. For example, I imagine it being found out that I haven't done my good deed for the day. Or that I've had an unrepentant sinful thought and I'm made to repent. Either way, despite the hat's inherent absurdity, I feel wonderfully sexy in it. And just, just, a bit silly.

Friday, May 23, 2008

Rattanniversary


Our new vintage Singer sewing table. Featuring our cats, rather than my ass. We meant to take the table upstairs and shoot in the attic. Instead, we took pictures of our cats and ate Chinese food. Please, please, wish us better luck for this weekend. Cute table, though, huh? Can't you just see me bent over it? Is it just me?

I was reprimanded by the gas station attendant this morning. It was the same man who always assists me, his bright blue eyes normally friendly and peaceful amidst the beard that is his face. This time, however, after he'd taken my debit card and my request for ten dollars regular, he returned to my car window, asking, "Did you say twenty regular?" I'd only woken up half an hour before driving up to the pump. Dazed, I responded, "Ten or twenty, either way." Obviously, that was the wrong answer. Those eyes flashed and I was actually frightened when he growled, "Well, what is it? Ten or twenty?" I ended up with ten dollars more gasoline than I wanted because I felt I had to appease the gas station gods.

I sometimes struggle with making decisions. It's not so at work, where I dislike having decisions made for me. This statement also isn't true when it comes to major life decisions, but when it comes to choosing dinner, I'd just as well be told what to eat, or even what to cook. Last night, when Mr. W asked what I wanted to do, I had no idea. I'd spent the day in supervisor mode, filling in where needed, aiding one of my employees in keeping her calm. "Supervise me," I begged him. He chose Chinese for dinner, then supervised me right over the edge of the bed. He's quite excellent at supervision.

These bouts of indecision, sadly, come from knowing exactly what I want. If I don't get what I want, I turn inwards, shutting down, hesitant to make my desires known for fear of denial. On Wednesday evening, I was to be caned. Strapped down, in fact, something I've been craving lately, and truly punished. I'll go into the reasons once the caning actually happens. The caning was to be on film; I'd even already named it and was looking forward to both the mental and physical release that was to be obtained.

I'd been thinking about it for days, but especially on Wednesday. I was having an especially difficult day at work and was so grateful that I had the evening to look forward to. I didn't allow myself to get too upset about anything because I knew I would have the catharsis I craved soon enough. In addition to the atonement I had already attached to the caning-to-be, there was now frustration with two of my employees (easily worth seven strokes each) and aggravation with three of my bosses (five strokes for two of them, ten for the third). Add it all together, and I was in for it--but desperately looking forward to it. At one point, I'd even texted Mr. W, "My soul needs this."

Unfortunately, he also had a bad day at work. The trouble is, when we've both had a bad day, and are both feeling, simply put, violent, there are safety issues at hand. My mental space is to risk my flesh for the peace of my psyche. Thank God, he thinks differently, and my bottom was spared what could have turned into an unnecessary ravaging. In retrospect it sounds delicious, but could potentially have ruined this weekend, the weekend of our first wedding anniversary.

The absent punishment turned me at first vile, then horribly complacent. By yesterday, I was a puddle of acquiescense. I wasn't about to put my own needs on anybody. By yesterday evening, when the time came round for the discipline we had post-poned, I didn't care so much. There was no passion, making it useless. I had even dressed for the occasion in a new plaid skirt and stockings, but I just didn't want it, not in a "No, sir, please don't punish me" way, but in a "Whatever. Do what you will," sort of way, which wasn't going to be fun for anybody. I'd spent the day trying not to get my hopes up because of the disappointment the day before, and perhaps that intentional lack of desire backfired. I did ask Mr. W to pull me into a scene, but he wasn't up for it either. Hence, getting yelled at by the gas station clerk this morning. If I was a puddle yesterday, I was a lake of both acquiescence and indifference today. If only he'd pulled me out of the car and over the hood. Perhaps this would be a far different blog entry...

But it's not. The good news is: long anniversary weekend! No work, no irritations, just implements, implement shopping, time to film, time to play, and time to actually be ourselves. They say the first anniversary is the paper anniversary, but for us, I'm hoping it's rattan.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Fierce Foreplay

Braced for Fierce Foreplay. I love this shot. I love this film!

The vocabulary of our fetish is not broad enough to encompass all we do. Some punishment truly is punishment, discipline in the old-fashioned sense, described by Merriam-Webster as "suffering, pain, or loss that serves as retribution." Those of us who make use of punishment as part of our erotic, domestic, and/or spiritual lives have surely experienced those punishment scenes that are based explicitly or loosely on actual wrong-doing. Our tops provide that retribution for us, usually not because they need to, as would a judiciary system based on corporal punishment, but because we need them to. Perhaps it aids us in forgiving ourselves, or in simply releasing ourselves from the perception of wrong-doing. Perhaps it allows us to perceive ourselves as forgiven. Cause and effect, naughtiness and punishment--the bread and butter of the spanking world.

But, as has been confirmed in blog after blog, comment after comment, email after email, there is something else we spankophiles do that has nothing to do with notions of wrongdoing and reprisal, something completely lacking in Dostoevskian drive. It's the thing that makes spanking a viable form of pornography. It's the thing that made my husband know that I was the woman for him. It's the thing that has been the basis of every masturbatory session I can remember in my adult life. It's the fact that spanking--in all it's agonizing, power-struggling, ripe-bottomed glory--is simply hot.

My fetish is multi-faceted, a spanking diamond, if you will. Hold it to the light this way, and when watching a spanking film, I find myself thinking the phrase "Beat her harder" during an already firm punishment. Held another way, all I can think is "Why do I like this?" well struggling not to cry so much it would worry the neighbors or the postman. Hold it one way and I want to hear stories of cruel Victorian canings on the bare backsides of non-consenting young women, but hold it another way and it's the most sensual, most fulfilling foreplay imaginable, the kind that could substitute or even has substituted for sex.

Getting beaten as foreplay is no less painful--some of my more erotically fulfilling spankings have also been the most severe. To a degree, those spankings are no more consensual, either, as usually at some point, my body realizes that a paddling or a caning is not sex, and that it hurts, and that it's going to hurt for days. They're often even more mentally challenging, because there is nothing to repent, no reason to explain to myself why I am experiencing the ordeal. It's happening only because it's what we do.

I came up with the phrase "Fierce Foreplay" in naming the most recent scene we filmed. Our only intention was to capture what it is Mr. W and I do together, usually when the cameras are off. We captured it so well it's taken me a few days just to brave watching the edited version, which Mr. W executed beautifully. The film is so me, so bare and honest that it terrified me a little. In the beginning, there's some giggling, some enjoyment. Then there hits a point when I think I don't want to go on, as a tawsing tortures me between the thighs. By the end, a caning takes me over the edge and leaves me bruised and a little bit embarrassed for days. Abby's fingers, at it again.

I'm really proud of this film, because I think it captures the intensity of what we do as well as the connection we share behind it. But I'm terrified, because if I can forget the cameras are there now, if I can be completely myself, then what might we capture next? I've always known I spent my days dancing with my demons. I never thought I'd have a chance to watch that dance on film.



My backside is Demon Number One.

Thursday, May 8, 2008

Who's That Baby in the Picture?


There was a Golden Book I liked when I was very small called Who's That Baby In the Picture. It was about a little girl who, dressed in her mother's finest Sunday hat, explores a closet in her house and finds pictures of a baby she does not know, a baby who turns out to be her when she was a baby. Because she is so tiny and just understanding her own self, she doesn't recognize herself as anything other than they way she looks then and now.

Though I am much older, I feel the same way. I look at the above photo, taken just last night before another filmed spanking, and I ask myself the same question as the little girl in the book. I look at that photo and see a beautiful girl. Who is that? I ask myself. I don't see myself like that. How is it that the camera, an entity that has always been cruel to me, sees the real me, when I can barely see myself?

This morning, I read a Powells.com blog entry by novelist Rabih Alameddine , who wrote about the nature of writers primarily being that of liars. Alameddine writes, "When I write, I fabricate. Art, after all, comes from 'artifice.' I've always considered novelists to be grifters, charlatans, the greatest of them marvelously proficient liars." I was once shocked by this same sentiment in college, when a man, a writer, whom I loved solely through letters and online conversations, told me the same thing. There are two phrases for which I will always remember him. One was simply, "You are like remembering dreams." The other: "Writers are liars." I have long sinced ceased worrying about the dissidence. The latter I somehow always knew to be true.

Now that my true self is revealed through words, and my false self, my bill-paying self, my actual self of artifice, is the one revealed during the course of the day, I can't help but wonder if a phrase I have long believed to be true, "Writers are liars," is a falsehood of the utmost degree. What if it's not that we are liars, but we have so disguised ourselves from ourselves that we express truth and claim it to be false because we can no longer tell the difference? With the exception of when I am solely with my husband, I am the most myself when I am here, or communicating with others I have met through this blog. You, reader, know me better than the people who see me a straight nine hours a day. That does not Abby a liar make. Rather, it makes the woman you know as Abby a liar. The real me, a falsehood. The falsehood, the truth.

Small pieces come out during the day. I handed a Papermate pen to my new boss this morning and remembered to remove the paperclip I had wrapped around it at the last moment. "You don't need to use a martyr pen," I said offhandedly. "Martyr pen?" he asked. "Like the monks who wear a cilice around their thighs? I had this paperclip around the pen and it kept poking me, but I don't know why I didn't remove it before now." "Ah, a penitent," he said, and he said it in the most lovely Australian accent, but he's my boss, and I can't exactly reveal the whole of myself to him.

I would tell everyone, if I could. I told my best friend from high school shortly after writing my last post about what I'm up to these days, and she applauded me whole-heartedly. A few people at work do know. The one friend from Southern California who has remained in contact with me found out this week as well, and received the information with grace and interest. Strangely, though, I still occasionally feel estranged from myself, as if this alter ego has separated herself from me, has declared the daytime me unworthy of her evening activities. Who is that baby in the picture? I wish I had the freedom to be myself. The baby in the picture, the woman staring directly into my eyes--that's me.

Monday, May 5, 2008

Riding-Cropgasm




I must have sounded like a small child in the backseat of a car all day, intoning, "Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" Only, my question wasn't whether we had arrived a destination, but whether we were finally at a point of being ready to film after a month-long hiatus. I'd been craving the scene all weekend, but especially after working on the NaughtyAbby.Com site all day on Sunday, transferring the short films we'd made already to a PayPal friendly agent and redesigning the current main pages of my little baby business. In other words, I was due for a spanking. Past due.

We'd played a bit since that last tawsing we'd filmed, but nothing session-like. As Mr. Williams set up cameras and I changed into pony-tails and the white eyelet panties I'd been so excited to wear since buying them especially for this purpose early this spring at Victoria's, tension resonated through our house. What were we going to play with? What was the scene? How long would it be? Was it a screaming scene? A crying one? A playful one? Neither of us knew. We'd spent the whole weekend talking about it, but we still didn't know what was going to happen once I was face-down on the bed and he'd hit record on the cameras.

The scene, as it turned out, was one of revival. I may have wanted to believe that the short lunchtime caning two weeks ago was was my return to form, but it was this, a full twenty-five minute scene that was, more than anything else, what Mr. Williams and I do together when there are no cameras, when there are no eyes on us other than our own. The scene turned out to be an example of our courtship, our marriage, our love. It was us.

He began with a hand-spanking. I was face-down on the bed and he knelt next to me. A friend the other day told me of how much a hand-spanking can really hurt when you're used to implements, and I thought I understood, but I didn't, not until his smacks started landing on my upper and outer thighs. Unlike last time, not once did I question my dedication to the pain. I rode every moment, experienced every sting without letting go of it or trying to send it away. I knew what was to come next was going to be good.

Oh God, it was. He paddled me with a leather bat from an equestrian shop. He strapped me with one of our favorite barber strops. He double cropped me with two riding crops, and I actually orgasmed as he struck me with one and rubbed me with the other. It was... it was phenemonal. And that was before the caning that made me want to beg for more. It hurt so much and I adored every second of it because it made me feel like me again.

Unlike during some punishments, when I have the agony of a misdeed or a bad day to release, I had nothing to release this time except the heaviness of winter, the fear that this wasn't my calling, my concern that in turning my passion into a business, I was somehow whoring a part of my soul. Two emails influenced my ability to let those worries go and to let go of myself into experiencing one of the most sexual and passionate scenes (and after-scenes!) I've had in some time. One was the one containing the content of my reader Jim. His comments about my tawsing film restored my faith in what I'm doing. I'm not perceived as being a tawdry woman in the face of my husband. Instead, we are perceived as joyfully celebrating this shared fetish, and it makes me both relieved and ecstatic that what we do is seen as being a true part of ourselves.

The other email was from my best friend from high school, who sent a link containing a You Tube clip featuring another classmate performing karaoke Neil Diamond, commenting that she never would have recognized him. I wondered if she would be surprised to know what I'm up to online, or if she might have suspected I had it in me all along. I found that I was and am proud of the Naughty Abby project, of the woman I have become and have decided to share with my fellow spankophiles. I wanted to send her a link with the subject line, "What I'm Doing These Days." I may still.

At the end of it all, we had issues with two of our three cameras. The good news is that the fully-functioning camera was the one focused (with zoom) on my backside. We'll post the full version once we have the Members site up, and for now, we're going to work on picking out our favorite few minutes for a short video feature, if only to share that surprising (but quite amazing, complete with an announcement of "Sir, I'm coming!") riding-cropgasm. The other good news is that Mr. Williams is home every night this week and Saturday. So despite my extremely sore bottom today, even more tender flesh awaits me as the week continues. With any luck, more films and posts await as well.



Thursday, May 1, 2008

Round Two!

At this point, this image is a golden oldie, but it has to do with what I'm posting about.
Bear with me!

The Naughty Abby site is taking forever to come to fruition. I've barely had time to write, nevermind film! I know that there have been a few people who have been curious about the movies I'm making, but didn't want to venture into a non-PayPal world, so I finally found a way of posting the same clips from the clip site onto NaughtyAbby.Com. I started with the tawsing clip, as that's one of my favorites, and I just put it on the front page tonight. I kept the pricing the same as the clips4sale site (where the prices were determined by the site, not me) in order to keep it fair for those who have helped me towards continuing to film. Please know that you have! We bought a third video camera and more memory and have been anxious to try them out! Bear with us and my bottom will be back soon. For now, I'll try to get some of the other films up on my own site as well, and that will at least let me know if there's still an interest in my poor red bottom. Also, a thank you to Pandora and Dave, both of whom have shown great faith in the future of the Abby site and have listed it on their own blogs. Thank you so much! For the Paypal people, let me know if there's a video you want me to post sooner rather than later, and I'll get on it as soon as possible. Comment here or email me.

xoxo,
Abby

Thursday, April 24, 2008

A Return to Form

The first cane stroke after a month away from corporal punishment play was swift and stinging, strangely painful even through the soft black cotton of my leggings. Perhaps it was because I was so unprepared, having only come home for a short lunch break from work, expecting some kisses, some cuddling, and some reheated stroganoff from last night. Sure enough, there were kisses and there was cuddling, and before I left there was even the strogranoff and some French bread, but in between those things were seven canestrokes, three or four tears, and a return to normalcy.

After the first stroke, I held up my right index finger to indicate I wasn't ready for another yet, even as I knelt on the bed with my face pressed into one of Mr. Williams' pillows. I heard him stifly both a laugh and a scolding, but he gave me the moment I needed. I struggled to convince myself to return to position, back arched and bottom out, but I managed it, and the second stroke fell, venomously biting my backside and sending an uncommon wave of nausea through my body.

All my fears from the past month raced to the front of my mind. A series of in-law visits, illnesses, and random life distractions have kept me unspanked since the night we filmed the tawsing. As time passed and I failed even to write about spanking, to view anyone else's spanking, or to read anyone else's writing on the subject, I had begun to wonder if I had lost interest. Even knowing that this has been a passion of mine since the age of four, I couldn't help but wonder if I was on a hiatus from my own fetish, as has happened before, though never after becoming the character I have become in the spanking community. The nausea I was experiencing terrified me. What if I wasn't just briefly disinterested? What if it was something I no longer wanted at the heart of me?

Sometimes my spankings are playful punishments, sometimes erotic segues, sometimes a means of proving to Mr. Williams and the world what I am capable of taking. Today, despite the brevity of the scene, it had come so suddenly out of the safety of a warm embrace on a cold rainy day that I had nothing to connect it to, and so, rather than prove to Mr. Williams that I could take what he was giving, I sought to prove to myself that it was what I wanted. I fought it the whole way through. I couldn't hold position, I wasn't making the sounds I normally make. In fact, I was half silent, half strangely distressed. And then it was over, stray tears only falling with the last stroke.

It wasn't until I'd crawled to the edge of the bed, collapsing my head against Mr. Williams' chest, allowing his arms to hold me tightly that I remembered what it is that I love so much about the experience: I love when it's over. I felt all small and loved and beautiful as he touched my throat and my chin, tilting my face up to his kiss. It may sound trite or overly romantic, but I think I actually melted a bit as his lips pressed to mine. The queasiness was replaced by a knot of passion in the depth of my belly, a heat incurred no way other than this, and there I was, myself again, wrapped in the elated headiness that even a short spanking can bring. I may not have held my position well during the experience, but the caning brought a return to form, a return, if you will, to Abby.

(I do hope this means I return to writing and filming as well, not to mention reading everyone out there! Mr. Williams is actually much better about blog reading and has been keeping me up to date on everyone while I've not been completely myself these past few weeks. Dave--congrats on the new site! Tim--what's up with yours? And to the beautiful wonderful amazing ladies of spanking, models, writers, and writing models alike, I miss you and love you and look forward to writing again with you all soon.)

Friday, April 11, 2008

Even Imaginary Solutions Leave Marks

I ran out of time this weekend, so instead of a little montage of the sillier bits of the film I made on Thursday, here is the Ubu logo. Montage still to come!


In my quest to avoid doing actual work on Fridays, I found myself reading up on "pataphysics" after a conversation with Mr. Williams about the Sit Ubu Sit dog featured in the production stamp at the end of many 1980's American sitcoms. It turns out that the dog was named after the anti-hero of pre-absurdist writer Alfred Jarry. His concept of pataphysics determined all things to have meaning seemingly based on the fact that they have meaning. One of the definitions is that "'Pataphysics is the science of the particular, of laws governing exceptions." All things are thought to have a unique set of exceptions, each event in the particular therefore completely meaningful, therefore completely meaningless. Each scientific theory is thought of as an attempt to pin down one viewpoint as real, and to live life governed by that reality, although it may not be reality for anyone else.

I came to realize that this blog is a study in pataphysics. It is my quest to determine my reality, at least my spankoverse reality, and to approach the subject of spanking based on my set of perceptions. Hence my constant battle with the word "masochism," which, in this "philosophy," would have as much and as little meaning as anything else, as all words are equally valuable and valueless. My quest to define these pieces of my reality are an absurdity within an absurdity, as I watch myself search for definitions and realize that in the end, the words I put to them are nothing compared to my experiences, which are individually unique and miraculous events (or so it would seem, if I follow wikipedia's translation of Jarry's theory).

That said (or garbled), I encountered a concept I have come to love over the past few hours, and will here use to describe my random foray into self-spanking and on-camera masturbation. (You see? Follow my rambling and it's bound to get good again eventually.) Jarry quasi-explained, "'Pataphysics is the science of imaginary solutions." An imaginary solution is the arbitary choice made by science and/or the universe when faced with any given problem. "Imaginary" refers to the imagination of science itself, as if it created, out of nowhere, a result. I'm comprehending it as parallel to chaos theory, only the outcome is not random so much as it is miraculous.

At the beginning of the clip site piece I filmed Thursday night, "I Miss You, Mr. Williams," I state that I'm going to play with myself because I am missing my man, but am probably not going to spank myself, and I laugh, because I'm just talking to the camera and the idea is amusing. It's definitely not what I'd set out to do. I was intending to stroke myself with some of my leather toys and, if it was going well, bring myself to orgasm. This, in the pataphysical context, is the "problem," the circumstance. Moments later, as I stroke myself with my little red leather paddle, I whack my thigh. It hurts! And then I do it again. It's a fascinating feeling, not something I normally do, and so, caught up in the experience, I keep going.

Next it's the crop and I quite literally hurt myself with the first tap on the thigh. I cringe and giggle; I'd hit myself much harder than I'd intended. I play with tapping and slapping my breasts with it, something Mr. Williams and I don't normally do, all the while talking to the camera as if it's him. Then, the imaginary solution: I turn around and spank myself for the camera! What an absurdity, and not at all the outcome I'd intended when I hit record. Self-spanking was the arbitrary choice made by myself or the universe in response to the problem of missing Mr. Williams. This was my imaginary solution to missing him, missing spanking, missing opening that secret chamber to myself.

Although the redness of my bottom by the time the vibrator is withdrawn from the toy case is nothing compared to the marks from true punishments, I do have actual light bruises on my thighs, and my backside did turn a lovely dark pink shade, albeit briefly. Most importantly, though, I have an explanation for how a professed disbeliever in the art of self spanking found herself doing so: it was an absurd miracle! At least it turned into a hot absurd miracle, replete with the occasional comic commentary, just like here on my blog. I actually think it's adorable, because I'm so completely myself in a way that's very different from the spanking movies I've made with Mr. Williams. In a sense, it's blog on film. Initially meant for my husband, turned into a sexy romp, turned into tongue-in-cheek but playful commentary, turned into turning myself on so much that I have no choice but to come. And then come write about it. I guess that's the perceived reality of my reality. Absurdist Abby. That could be a whole other website...

Thursday, April 10, 2008

I Miss You, Mr. Williams

Some of the implements escaped their case after all.

The case beckons to me even from the distance of rooms. Play with us, whisper the implements that lie within the repurposed instrument case, nestled together in a bed of golden plush. We miss you, they murmur. Your backside, your thighs, the spaces between. I pretend they do not call to me. And still, inbetween the tapping of keys and the Sia album on the MP3 player, I hear the crop insisting, I want to bite you. The leather paddles try to coax me into letting them tease me, warm me, prepare me. The one short cane that fits in the case sternly demands, Let me out, young lady. Or else.

But sadly, these past few weeks there has been no "or else" to be had. I have been exhausted with work, sleeping earlier and earlier in the evening. Mr. Williams has been working later hours. By the time he comes through the front door, even the cats are too sleepy and cuddled into me to greet him. We all open our lazy eyes and blink at him. He gives us each kisses and lets us go back to sleep. On those nights when we do have the luxury of one another's time, playtime has been last on the list of priorities, favoring instead the guilty pleasures of being man and wife--chiefly, snuggly movie nights and reading in bed.

Now, just getting home on a Thursday evening with Mr. Williams working late, I find myself all too atuned to the voices in the implement case. The strange thing is, I don't miss the vicious creatures that cry for me. I don't miss the pain they cause, or the transcendence that pain has been known to help me achieve. I don't miss the marks they leave, though when I do bear marks I wear them with secret pride. I don't even miss the freedom that comes with giving up control. The world has been spinning so chaotically lately that I lack control most days these days anyway. No, the thing I miss is something so much simpler than all that. In a word, I miss anticipation.

Until recently, almost every day was filled with the expectation that I would come home and be spanked. Likewise, Mr. Williams' days were filled with expecting to spank me soon after I walked through the front door. The phantom tingling of my backside got me through the day. I looked forward to being molded into whatever form he wanted me to become. He could make me his naughty young lady or his tawdry womanly vixen. He could make me cry like a little girl or scream like a feral cat in heat. Most importantly, we were together, doing this thing that has made us a better couple and made me a better writer. I could go so far as to say it has made me whole. Perhaps that's the core of it--I miss knowing that I will have the freedom to completely be myself.

I can do that writing, of course, or doing the dishes, or taking a walk. I don't mean to say that I am not myself unless I am in the process of being spanked. I think most of you will understand what I mean when I say that spanking opens up an inner chamber, the one that holds every version of one's self, and lets them all out at once. The experience guides which will take hold, be it the girl or the woman or some other secret self, but they are all available. There is nothing limiting that release besides ourselves. In those moments, decorum be damned; there is nothing decorous about flailing with one's bottom in the air. I could even go so far as to say that in these moments I am truly human, and there is nothing decorous about being human, either. We are madcap packages of flesh and emotion, intricate thought and base instinct. When I am being spanked, I don't have to worry about how to balance those disparate parts of myself, because they balance on their own. A new credo: I am spanked, therefore I am. I miss the anticipation to be.

The only trouble with all this revelation is that it's no good on my own. I can write about it up and down the block, but the parallels between carpel tunnel and cane stripes are few and far between. To continue thieving classic literature and bending it to fit my spanko whims, I may sing the body electric, but it sure would be nicer if the song was a duet. In other words, I miss you, Mr. Williams. Thank goodness it's almost tomorrow. The weekend is only a day away.

I got really silly with the camera after writing this post. This still is from the end of it all. Note the mischievous glint in my eye. I'll tell you all about it soon. Or if you're really curious, it's posted on (defunct link) already.