Saturday, November 18, 2017

e[lust] #100

Hi! I've been sick this week. While I wait to be struck by inspiration or a feisty spanking implement instead of germs, this is the perfect time to present the newest edition of e[lust], a collection of recent posts by sex bloggers - and I am so happy to be included! It's not genre specific, so it's nice to get a variety of morsels to tempt one's erotic palate. Enjoy and please come back soon (or stick around and explore)!
xoxo Abby

 Photo courtesy of Wriggly Kitty


Welcome to Elust 100-

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you're looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it'll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #101 Start with the rules, come back December 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

He’s Out of My League
Pink Hair, Don't Care!
I’m a feminist but...

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Pain Sluts and Brain Squirrels
His Car Keys

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Raw


Writing About Writing

Why Financial Disclosures Matter on Your Blog

Erotic Fiction

Caught
An American Werewolf in London
The Spider and the Fly
Faithfully
kitten

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Static
Over exposed?

Erotic Non-Fiction

Mirror Image
Return to Position, Part 1 - This one is by me!
One Present Moment
Edgy Morning
The Date-Aversary Continues
The Smell, Taste and Love of Chocolate.

Poetry

-01.11.17_18:26-

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Asking can be sexy too!
Soaring in Space
Age Play
MY PEOPLE, HER PEOPLE. The FemDom ball
Stroke of luck

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Adult Content on Patreon
Censorship on Share our Shit Saturday
#SSoS Sharing for the Win

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

#iTalkSex Why I Talk Sex
Radical Acceptance In Relationships
So... ghosting is an acceptable thing now
What giving a collar means to me

Blogging

Reflections on us and the blog



Saturday, November 11, 2017

Time for a Spanking


When I first started blogging, I was as much trying to understand my love of spanking as I was trying to share it. "Why do I like this?" I would ask myself. I didn't need to understand the fetish or what anyone else liked - it was all about me.

In one of my first posts, The Weight of the World, I wrote about spankings as a reset button, a way to let go of the things that were stressing me out so I could carry on:

And when I do break, when I do begin to weep silent slow tears, then sob, when I can't hold back a cry with every stroke, when I know I've built up to it, have earned it, have struggled through every part of my mind and have released it all, I can let go. Every pain throughout the day is gone. Every familial agony and workplace drama is released in the whoosh of his chosen implement. Swish. I pay every bill in full.Crack. I am beautiful and striped and proud. Then, slice, I'm only a little girl. I'm only a little girl. With each stroke, this is all I know now. I collapse into him afterwards, this little girl fully punished, released of all her sins and the sins of those around her, and he holds me, curls around me, gently, whispering how proud he is of me. My hips begin to rise and writhe, pressing back against him even with the pain, and I am a woman, ready to carry the weight of the world once again.

Released of all her sins and the sins of those around her. Wow. I was not kidding about feeling like I carried the weight of the world.

I've long since let go of the idea that I am being personally punished during a spanking. It's sexy in fantasy, but we do not punish in our home. We play, even if we're playing at punishment. I don't list off real or imagined wrong-doings in my mind with each stroke. So besides mutual sexual pleasure with Mr. W, what do I get from a spanking now, if not temporary release from all the world's sins?

Making time for a spanking is making time for and about us. We get attention. Connection. We are fully focused upon one another. The space is set - door closed, implements laid out, clothes removed. The air is quiet, heavy with breath and anticipation but there is no music, no TV, no buzzing or beeping of phones. There is no one and nothing but us and the spanking, which in itself is an extension of us. We give it and each other our everything.

Spanking is perhaps one of the more zen sexual activities - you're in the moment, completely immersed. The top is aware of the bottom's physical and mental state, guiding the experience, ensuring both safety and satisfaction. The bottom is vulnerable but not a victim, consensual but not complacent. You don't just give or receive - together, two individuals become one spanking.

In the rush of daily life, there is traffic and work and then more traffic, groceries and pet supplies and pharmacies, dishes and carpets and yard work. After the must-do work of life, I still try to find time for the gym, to write, or to take a nice bath with epsom salts, because I am tired and thanks to the gym, I am always sore, and not in the fun bright-pink bottomed way. For Mr. W, after a day spent working with energy vampires, he still tries to find time to play his guitars, to work on his leather craft, or to just find a small spot of inner peace so that the things he really wants to do are possible.

Spanking can be exhausting for both partners, if you really give it your all and allow it to overcome your physical, emotional, and mental faculties. For a couple both trying to live their best lives as well as recover from the lives they've already lived up to this point, it can be daunting to even consider taking whatever ounce of strength you have left for the day and invest it in something that may leave you both unable to do much past snuggle and watch TV for the rest of the night. But that's the best kind of spanking! Pardon the pun, but I don't want a half-assed spanking. I want a full-assed, exhausting, arousing, three orgasms followed by dinner in bed kind of spanking.

As much as we wish the world was different, it can't be time for a spanking all the time. But when we do take the time, we give it and each other everything we have. There is nothing outside ourselves. No weight of the world, because there is no world. Just us. Just spanking. Just who we really are, and who we are together.



Image Source: Casemiro Arts - Peter Reiss on Society6. I just discovered both him and Society6 today while searching Google Images for "spanking clocks" for this post. Has a number of other art pieces also featuring the female bottom. On this one, "Fitness Time," I loved the curl of her left toes. I'm a toe-curler too. 

Sunday, November 5, 2017

Sunday Exposure

Our cabinet in early morning light, Sunday November 5, 2017

One of my better selfies, November 5, 2017

Wednesday, November 1, 2017

Ghostwriting


This name is a phantom more solid than my self. It appears; I fade to let it speak. It sings; eyes closed, I sway, enraptured.

Not “I” or “We” but “Abby’s back.”

A haunting returned –  let me be possessed.


Friday, October 27, 2017

Return to Position, Part 2 - The Continuation and Conclusion of Abby's Vacation Spanking



Read Part 1

“Kneel facing away from me,” he said.

I climbed onto the couch knees first, resting my elbows on the same over-sized throw pillows that had made the couch so comfortable the night before as we sat up chatting and sipping from ranch-themed mugs with cowgirl coasters. I spread my legs into a somewhat reverse-cowgirl position myself, knees wide enough apart to straddle a horse but feet together, tucked under my bottom. Then I leaned forward against the cushions so that my haunches rose into the air.

It was the tawse’s turn for a taste of my backside. He’d conditioned it before the trip and the ten year old leather was soft and supple again after an extended hiatus in the implement cabinet. The first stroke was quick and sure, a smooth pull of the long leather strap across both cheeks. “Aa-ugh!” My breath caught in the back of my throat, unsure if I was crying or moaning. The second stroke landed and I bit the pillow in front of me. “Uhnh!” Definitely both crying and moaning.

The next four strokes came in even succession, allowing me breathing space between each. “It’s so much,” I sighed between two of the strokes, though I couldn’t tell you which ones. I didn’t mean pain. Spread and arched before him, I felt sexy and beautiful, punished but pleasured. Everything I love to feel during a spanking was rushing through me in one wave of wanting more.

He paused to run his hand over my well-warmed bottom, squeezing each cheek then massaging the flesh. “You are so hot,” he told me.

“Already?” I asked.

“Always,” he answered. I looked back at him, my eyes wet but not weeping. “You are so hot,” he said again, emphasizing that he meant all of me.

I smiled. “I can take another six, Sir,” I told him. Another six, another sixty, another hundred.  I felt like me. It felt like us. I didn’t want it to end –the trip, the spanking, the togetherness of that moment. Once again, I returned to position, arching my back as deeply as I could, giving him a full canvas and a peek at how ready I was for a session of a different kind after the spanking ended.

“Six of the best it will be, then,” he told me. I nodded. I don’t like to count aloud, even though I know he likes it when I do. He hadn’t asked or told me to, so I didn’t when stroke number one striped me with a flare of scarlet.

“Are we not counting that one?” he asked.

“You didn’t tell me to count!” I stammered, playfully indignant.

“Well, count the next stroke. Starting, young lady, with ‘one.’”

He whipped me in the same spot, this time pain catching in my throat before I could mumble, “One, thank you Sir.”

He patted my stinging bottom. “That’s right,” he said. “You’re welcome.”

I was still trying not to laugh when the second stroke hit. “Oh! Two, thank you Sir.” The laughter was gone and it was all I could do not to reach back and rub.

Strokes three and four came hard and fast. “Oh God,” I whispered, realizing I hadn’t counted stroke number three. “Three and four, thank you Sir?”

It was his turn to try not to laugh. “Yes, three and four,” he confirmed. “Well done.”

He teased stroke five, doubling the tawse to tap my thighs and between them as well. I caught myself clenching each time the leather touched me, so I took a deep breath, relaxed my muscles, and pushed my bottom towards him. “That’s it,” he breathed. “Just like that.”

The stroke would have been mean if I hadn’t wanted it so much. This time I cried out in earnest. Then, after a moment – “Five, thank you Sir.”

“Last one, young lady,” he told me. “Are you ready?”

I nodded, deepening the pose. I wanted to feel every inch of that leather burnish my bottom to a bright glowing red. He knew what I wanted and was happy to oblige. He pulled back and let the tawse sting its way across my flesh. “Ohhh,” I groaned with all the air that was left within me. “Six. Oh. Thank you, Sir.”

Some spankings feel like they might never end. This one, however, seemed to have come to a conclusion. He stood back and admired his work, sated, content. I let the full weight of my body collapse against the back of the couch, feeling sensual and satisfied. I knew he’d let me off easy, the two hour drive back home looming before us. For as much as he’d teased all weekend about what an unpleasant return trip it was going to be for me, I didn’t think he truly wanted me to be unfocused and uncomfortable.

He was being too kind. We’d had an incredible weekend and I wanted to give him just one more souvenir that would stay in his memory. “What about the cane?” I asked.

“It’s okay,” he told me. “You were amazing.”

I turned towards the side of the couch and lifted myself so that my stomach rested on the arm, my hands touched the hardwood floor, and my bottom was turned straight up in the air. “What about the cane?” I asked again, giving him all the invitation he could need.

Upside down, I watched him as he watched me, not averting his gaze as he reached back towards the twin bed and fumbled to find the cane. We both blushed. “That is the most beautiful position,” he said, stepping towards me to tap my backside with the cane, gauging the angle he would need to stripe me evenly across both buttocks. “Thank you, love,” he whispered. “That is so, so beautiful.”
He found his stance and tapped again. “You don’t need to count. Just three.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The first cane stroke landed perfectly across the full of my bottom, sending electricity through my entire body. I felt it course along my spine, tendrils of heat spreading as far as my shoulders and the nape of my neck, while my toes curled against the couch cushions. My breath left my lungs in a rush, the force of air the only sound I made.

The second stroke came down just below the first. “Ow. Oh, ow, ow,” I whispered. He let me gather myself and to thank him, I deepened the bow, pressing my weight into the palms of my hands, sweaty against the knotty but smoothly polished floorboards.

“That is amazing,” he told me. “My God, yes,” he ran his free hand over the welts that had surely risen white above my warmed pink skin. “Last one,” he reassured me.

The third stroke struck my sit-spot with perfect aim and a little skid off the curve of my cheeks so as to add an extra thrill to the sting. I cried out in agonizing bliss and slammed my right palm against the floor.

“Well done, young lady.” He soothed the sting out of my skin with gentle, massaging circles of his hand on my flesh. “That was amazing. You are amazing.”

I wanted the praise and the comfort of his hands on my body, but we didn’t have a couch with arms like this at home and I couldn’t picture a way to get into this position for him again. I took a deep breath, re-centered, and extended my lower back so that my bottom was presented to him in its full vulnerability. He noted the return to position and this time it was his breath to catch in lustful uncertainty as he awaited my next move.

I nodded, signaling that I was ready for the next stroke. “I can take another three,” I told him. “Maybe more.”

He moved forwards and swished the cane through the air behind me. I shivered. It was nearly time to go home, but not yet. Not yet.

Friday, October 20, 2017

Return to Position, Part 1 - A New True to Life Spanking Vignette

Playtime began by the twin bed tucked into the corner of the sitting room. I bent from the waist at the side of the bed, resting my forearms on the well-worn patches of the bed’s handmade quilt. A leather paddle, a strap, and a cane were already laid out beside me. I wiggled my bottom. “Well?” I asked.

Mr. W placed his hand on the small of my back then stepped away. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw that he was just looking out the sliding glass door that looked onto the pasture one more time. He spoke quickly then, his voice soft but roughly teasing around the edges as he turned back to me and said, “I hope you’re ready, young lady. There’s only the horses to hear you, and even they’re too far away to pay much mind.”

My clothes were already tidily folded on a dining chair. I’d been conscientious, going so far as to carefully place my shoes under the chair. Even my panties were folded in half atop the stack of clothing. I had nothing to protect my bare bottom, but had also made sure that I had done nothing to earn it more marks than it was already due. I returned to position, wanting only, as ever, to please him.

We’d been there for two days, having arrived Friday afternoon at the rental ranch house in Strawberry, a miniature town north of the slightly larger but still tiny town of Pine, which is north of the small town of Payson, which is ninety minutes northeast of the sprawling and far less pastoral city of Phoenix. It was still reaching over one hundred degrees in the city every day. The forests and fields of mountainous central Arizona had called to our bodies and our breath, which were exhausted from months of heat and smog and recycled air. The promise of a quiet, empty house with only a barn, a verdant acreage shared by the neighboring ranches, and an abutting national forest at the far edge of the grazing lands had called to a deeper need – one that was finally about to be fulfilled.

He asked me then, “Are you ready for your spanking?” I nodded and arched my back. Yes, I was.

His hand cupped my right cheek, then my left. He circled his palm over the as yet unmarked flesh, reconnecting us skin to skin. We’d both been anxious for this moment but had so savored the anticipation that we’d waited until the hour before we had to leave for it to arrive. Now, here it was, the pure holistic space between about to be and having been spanked.

He reached for the leather paddle. Designed, cut, stitched and finished by Mr. W himself, it had been made for this trip and this moment, for my body and his swinging arm alone. The leather was of a medium weight, two single pieces stitched together for heft and shape, the handle just long enough for a firm and controlled grip, the head of the paddle long enough to swat both cheeks with one stroke, but also restrained enough for a closer, over the knee session, each individual cheek able to receive the attention it so craved.

The first few strokes were quick but without force, letting me adjust to the sensation. It had been some time since our last session and he knew I was nervous about my ability to accept and receive the spanking. We’ve always liked to flirt with a little bit of fear, but he never wanted me to actually be afraid.

I had pressed my face into the blanket but wordlessly murmured loudly enough for him to read my sighs. I wanted more. The next few strokes were firmer and I rose on my tiptoes, arching over the narrow mattress and grasping the edge of the opposite side. No sooner was I in position, though, that he sat on the edge of the bed and patted his thigh. I stood up, straddled his right leg, and returned to my place, arms stretched forward, face inhaling worn clean cotton and the scent of newly conditioned leather caught in the back of my breath.

The paddling began in earnest. I let out little yips and moans interchangeably, already overwhelmed with the proximity of our bodies and the inability to tell pleasure from pain once my skin had warmed. The smacks and slaps fell surely and steadily. I could feel my backside changing color. From white to blush to the edge of pink – but no sooner had I begun to ride the rhythm that he shook his knee beneath me. “Stand up,” he commanded me. “Go kneel on the couch.”

I am never so hesitant and in need of exact instruction than during a spanking. I stood but looked back and forth on the edge of panic between the two couches in the sitting room. He saw my face and smiled, touching my arm. “This one, you,” he said, pointing towards the nearest couch, an upholstered sofa with deep cushions and bolstered arms.

Standing in front of the couch, I still didn’t understand exactly how he wanted me, so I fiddled with my hair, pulling it up into a ponytail and wrapping the hair around itself into a loose bun. I liked when he could see my face. I liked that he could see both the moments of anguish and the moments when a series of strokes landed just right, when the flush rose full to my cheeks and my jaw dropped, tongue in the corner of my mouth or front teeth biting my bottom lip, heady, steady, ready for more.