Having Been Spanked

I'm still enjoying grabbing still shots from my old Naughty Abby movies. I had quite thoroughly been spanked (and hand-tawsed) in this one, Please Not My Hands.

By Tuesday morning, the soreness from my four weekend spankings was already less noticeable. The fifty-minute drive to work was accomplished with minimal repositioning and my bargain-priced office chair was only uncomfortable in the usual way. I was disappointed.

I’d carried a sore and sexy sense of accomplishment on Monday, so pink and tender, reminded constantly of my thrashings. That morning, in response to Mr. W asking how my bottom was feeling, I’d pulled my skirt up and my stockings down for him in the kitchen, even though it was only minutes before I had to leave for work. He’d been about to pour some coffee but as I bent over to show him how I was finally welted and bruised from the previous night’s caning session, he accidentally knocked his empty mug over instead. If it hadn’t been a Monday, I think that I would have opted to just stay home as he drew me to standing position and kissed me in a definitely non-Monday morning fashion. Employers understand if an employee has to call in “spanked and ready for more” instead of just plain old “sick,” right?

Tuesday brought a different flavor of craving. I wasn’t thinking about sexy spankings and taking the moment in the kitchen into the bedroom as I’d been the day before. As I found myself trying to work but only feeling an absence of discomfort, I kept thinking that I wanted another session to bring me back to where I’d been. We should have done a Night Five after all, I thought to myself, but I thought it the way one might think, realizing sobriety has come too soon, I should have had another when I had the chance. Now I had to start all over again.

The emotions I was having over missing having been spanked within the last twenty-four hours seemed extreme to the logical side of me. I sent a text to Mr. W. “I think I’m crashing. I can’t remember which hormones get released in response to pain, but I think I’ve run low. I wish I could have just one more spanking.”

“I can help with that!” Mr. W wrote back.

It’s been a long while since we played this hard or this much, and I had forgotten how addicting that feeling of having been spanked can be. When I first started blogging, then-spanking model Niki Flynn had a quote on her blog that read something like, “I don’t like being spanked. I like having been spanked.” I always identified with this. It’s not the pain itself, it’s giving in to receiving it, and then, afterwards, knowing that I had taken it, that I‘d made it through. This desire for the experience of submitting to and succeeding at receiving the pain of a spanking lives at the very core of me.  Even when I experienced a phase of being wary of receiving pain on purpose, spanking was still the subject of every single fantasy I had.

I crave having my panties pulled down, being placed in position, being turned first pink, then red, then striped. I want to be consumed by a hard flash of agony that becomes white light behind my closed eyes. I want to scream in silence, then moan low and long so that it’s not the pain that is public but the arousal that comes the moment the quick sharp reaction to the pain ends and the realization that it has faded and I am safe begins, only to have it happen again, over, and over, and over.

Then, before we move on to anything else, be it sex, dinner, or just regular life, I want to lie for a moment, held in warm arms, breath soft and comforting against me as I sob, or tremble, or just lie quietly still, knowing that I am complete, that I am strong, that I am alive - that I have been spanked.

Weekend Spanking Challege - Spanking #4

The sun had barely finished setting when we began the fourth and final night of the weekend’s spanking sessions. It had been impossible to accomplish much more than fantasizing and waiting for time to pass during the day, but we‘d wanted to give my bottom a full day‘s recovery before the experiment culminated with a caning, followed by the reward for the completion of the challenge, a full spread of - well, yes, my ass - but also, Chinese takeout. In our very early years together, we had somehow linked Chinese food as the obvious conclusion to a real caning session, probably because one night after a caning I didn’t feel like cooking, and now the two go together so much in my mind that I don’t want Chinese without having received the cane, though I’ll admit, I’ll take the cane even if it doesn’t come with a side of pork fried rice and spring rolls.

We decided to run out and get the food first. “After all,” Mr. W said, “I don’t think we’ll be in there for an hour like the last three nights.” I agreed. Though an extended session sounded delicious, this was to be my first time receiving a spanking four nights in a row. I’d made it so well so far, despite the discomfort  I’d felt during the sitting portions of the last few days. So I turned the oven on to 150 degrees F, called in our order, and then we went out together to pick it up. Fifteen minutes later, back at home, I turned the oven off, put all the containers on a large cookie sheet, then placed the sheet into the oven to keep it all warm. “Ready!” I called, and we dashed into the bedroom.

There was a brief moment of gleeful abandon. I stripped to my camisole and panties, which this time consisted of a double layer of scarlet mesh. I think at this point we can all agree, protective panties are not my forte, nor, I suppose, should they be, when I know I’m just going to end up naked.

Once again, my favorite little red leather paddle was the first to warm me. I’d lamented to Mr. W not too long ago that I missed these full warm-ups, and noted that this was the perfect paddle for the beginning of a spanking. My heart and my bottom sing his praises now, knowing not just that he heard and responded to my plea, but also that it was the long warm-ups that made this weekend a success. As he began the spanking, I squealed and squirmed beneath the paddle. I can admit now, I took a bit of delight in just responding naturally, letting it hurt but also consoling myself with knowing that this was the last night of it, that I wouldn’t have to do this again tomorrow. I could just react as a girl in pain, getting a good spanking. I let myself remove what little left I had of my brave face.

Next up was a tan leather slapper, which we bought within days of moving in together. It came from the now defunct equestrian department of our local Petsmart. Apparently we were the only people buying equestrian equipment, and since we don’t have a horse, I can see how it wasn’t lucrative for them. It’s two long pieces of leather, stiched together tightly with only the last four inches left to smack freely. It has a warmth and a thuddiness to it that I don’t find in any of our other leather toys. It doesn’t sting. It hurts, but it’s a good hurt. If I didn’t crave the transformative power of a harder spanking, I could happily be spanked with nothing but this and the little red paddle all day long.

After a few minutes with the slapper, just hard enough to get my backside warm to the touch, down came my panties at the hands of Mr. W. Once again, he pulled out the flogger. What a sexy warm-up, I thought to myself. On a day when I haven’t already had three spankings in the last three days,  these three toys are some of my favorite for lighter play. They hurt, but not so much that they would normally make me cry. I can take them on my bottom, my back, my thighs, my breasts, or even, occasionally, on the soles of my feet. At the right time, some implements feel like I’m being spanked with sex. This night, night four, just before a caning, I was not being spanked with sex. The flogger stung as much as it had on night three. I’d hoped I’d arched past the frustrated pain of the previous night, that the excitement of completing the project would take me back to ecstasy, but so far I had a very sore bottom and had lost even the anticipation of writing about it, never mind receiving the painful strokes that would become, I hoped, striking prose burning with the heat of my experience.

Finally, he repositioned me, making me kneel on the bed, back arched, legs spread. I turned to face him. “This must be hard for you, knowing how much pain I’m really in.” He touched my reddened bottom. “It is, but I know how much this means to you.” He strapped my gag in place, knowing I‘d need it to get through the rest. “Back in position,” he said, his voice low. “Are you ready?”

I nodded. The first six strokes came quickly, each a brief explosion of agony followed by a tiny eternity of waiting until the next stroke landed. I bit down on my gag, trying to focus on counting the strokes. After the first half dozen, he touched my bottom gently, then squeezed my welts. He lightly dragged his fingernails over them. I moaned into the gag and tried to squirm away, not really wanting to escape. He tapped me with the cane. It wasn‘t up to me this time; I moved back into position for the next six.

I feel now like I was still counting in my head, but also like I lost track of everything but the sensation. When I remember last night, I remember light like butterscotch casting a glow throughout the room from the small lamp on my night table. I remember the velveteen softness of the bedspread beneath the bare skin of the front of my body, conflicted by the repeated bursts of sharp pain on the back side. I think I closed my eyes, or lost my vision to the welting shocks that were wracking my body with a powerful erotic electricity. I remember wanting to touch myself. I remember wanting to disappear into the pain.

He gave me a moment to breathe. He touched, and scratched, and squeezed. I don’t remember the next twelve strokes, though I know I was surprised when they ended and that I‘d kept track of them after all. I had thought he might try for the forty-eight he’d playfully threatened, and which, I knew now, I would have tried to take. All I recall of this part of the session is a sensation of both flying and settling into a new depth of existence, like I was somehow both outside my body and rooted so firmly within it that I felt base, raw, a creature born to be ravished, stripped of sense of time and place, turned to nothing but overwhelming sensation, emotion, elation.

I asked Mr. W later what I’d been like during the caning. “I remember being quiet and still. I remember the light before and behind my eyes,” I told him. “No,” he told me. “I can’t get the image of your bottom writhing under my cane out of my head.”

After a few moments of more gentle touching, this time without the squeezing or scratching, just a genuine soothing, loving hand, he offered six more. “You’ve done so well,“ he whispered, caressing me. “Six more. Just six more.“ A part of me was devastated that it was only six. The rest of me knew it was time. He didn’t want to push me past the edge of erotic, to leave me regretting all four nights because of one stroke too many. We’d run a spanking gamut and made it, and I was finally going to have the marks to prove it.

The last six were those intense, glancing blows that fully raise the skin, as if even flesh must stand in attention to the mastery of the strokes. There is thunder and lightning in their remembrance, moisture and flame and a racing heart. I am throbbing now as I recall this scene and the intensity of a different kind that came afterwards.

As I thought all day about how to write this final night, I kept thinking to myself that it turns out the challenge wasn’t about getting through four days of spankings. The challenge, though I am aching even as I sit here writing, is to refrain from a Spanking Number Five. I have become so accustomed to the tenderness that I fear to let it fade. I have been consumed by these last four nights, both in the receiving of the spankings and in the writing about them. We will avoid a night five, for safety and for sanity, so we can take a step back and enjoy the experience, not to mention think about how we want to challenge ourselves next.

Even so, I can’t help but wish for twelve strokes more.

Read the first three nights:
Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #1
Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #2.
Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #3

Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #3

Another still from Fierce Foreplay. Though the position is different from the one in Spanking #3, the idea of caning atop an already sore bottom is much the same.

We knew going into the third spanking session of the weekend that we were only doing it because of the challenge. There’s been a flu going around and Mr. W wasn’t feeling great, so we’d established ahead of time that there would be no sex afterwards. Since our play is never for punishment and always, no matter how fierce the session might, a form of foreplay, the no-sex stipulation confused the mood. However, in hopes that he’d be feeling better for Spanking Number Four, we went gamely ahead with the plan.

This time, most of the implements came from a repurposed musical instrument case where we keep our lesser used toys. He laid out the riding crop, an odd wood paddle with a long handle and a spanking surface that is only about four inches long by an inch and a half wide, and a barber strop that is a bit stiffer than the one we used the first night.

He guided me to the corner of the bed and had me spread my legs and bend forward. This keeps the inner parts of my thighs available, since I can’t put my legs back together when I’m essentially straddling the mattress.  Then he made as if he was going to begin with the odd paddle. “You’re not beginning with that!” I demanded.

“You brought this on yourself,” he noted. It was such a punishment spanking thing to say, but he was right. I had committed to the experience and to documenting it, and what’s the point of documenting a four-day spanking experience if on day three, I don’t receive the full red-bottom treatment?

He put down the paddle and began smacking me with the crop. He was focusing on the center of my bottom, slapping the crop so that it would curve as my body curves, getting the inner part of each cheek, up and down the crack. I cried out with each slap. I have trouble with the sting of the crop on a regular day, never mind bearing it on my already sore backside. I began to think that I wasn’t going to make it.

I was yelping and whimpering and making a general fuss. He switched to the strop, which I’m usually better about handling, at least after the first few strokes. This time, I could not stop howling. The pain was intense and I couldn’t find anything erotic in it. When a spanking begins to really hurt, I like to remind myself of how hot my ass must look to Mr. W, how hard he’s going to be by the time we finish. Remembering this moment now as I write about it, I wish I’d been able to draw encouragement just from knowing that I was doing something new and challenging, that I wasn’t just arousing Mr. W but also, hopefully, readers around the world. Not to mention that even if I didn’t feel sexy in the moment, this weekend will now forever be an erotic hallmark of my spanking and writing life.  Instead, I felt a scream rising in my throat, the kind of wail that once released is so hard to stop. The tears that had been gathering began to pour. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” I said. “I can’t.”

For a moment, we both thought I meant that I couldn’t go through with the spanking. I took a deep breath. “Can I have the gag?” I pointed at the drawer. “I want to keep going, but I am making way too much noise.”

He took the gag out, placed the ball into my open mouth, and buckled it firmly in place. I returned to position; he returned to the strop. It still hurt every bit as much, but biting into the gag made me feel both safer and sexier.

After the strop whipping, he went back to the drawer and pulled out a double leather strap with each piece split down the middle. I’m not sure if I should call it a strap, a tawse, or a paddle, since it also has a handle. It’s by Cane-iac, and they call it the Angel Maker. Someday, once it’s worn in, I think it could become one of my favorites, although I doubt it will ever make me angelic. As it began to crack across my bottom, each smack making me bite down harder on the gag, I felt more as if I was in hell.

I grabbed the barber strop just for something firm to hold onto as the double-strap continued its rain of fire. When Mr. W began to spread the burn to my thighs, I tightened my grip on the strop, holding it now with both hands, pulling it close to my face. I inhaled and realized the strop smelled comforting. The old leather reminded me of our many trips to antique shops around Oregon, which is why we do have so many barber strops lying around. The scent was of excitement and anticipation, of finding something old that we would bring home to use as a new toy. I continued to inhale and made it through the rest of the double-strapping.

We took a moment to breathe. I maneuvered the gag out of my mouth; he rubbed my bottom gently with both hands. I reached back. My skin was warm and taut, the flesh so sore everywhere I touched that I stopped touching myself. There was no broken skin, just a very well-spanked bottom that wasn’t through being spanked.

“Ready?” asked Mr. W. I put the gag back between my lips and nodded. He lifted the odd paddle. I wasn’t going to get out of it again. He began tapping me, back and forth from cheek to cheek, and even that made me squirm and moan into my gag. He struck a little harder, then returned to the tapping, keeping up this pattern of one real smack for every ten taps or so. After four or five of the harder slaps with the paddle, he went back to the drawer and got the flogger from Spanking Number Two, the one that had felt so amazing at the end of the session.

It whipped across my thighs first, then across my bottom harder than I can remember it ever feeling. The leather, usually so delicious that even the stinging blows feel good, felt like a birch. The whipping was steady and my entire backside and thighs were begging for respite with none to be found. I spit the gag out again so that the ball was just under my chin. “Tonight, this does not feel fucking amazing.” He laughed and kept on whipping me.

Finally, he stopped. He soothed my bottom again. “Almost done,” he whispered. “This was my worst idea ever,” I whispered back.

He pulled the thinnest cane from the umbrella stand that holds all our canes in the corner of the room. “Yes, you really got yourself into it this time,” he agreed.

I kept the gag out of my mouth. I knew we were on the last implement of the night and that if I’d made it through everything else, I could handle the little cane. It would sting. I would probably cry. But then it would be over, and in lieu of sex, there would be freshly baked pumpkin pie. It had been in the oven for about an hour, and I realized the scent had wafted into the bedroom.

Mr. W began to cane me lightly, letting the pain be more about the little whippy stick slapping my thrashed bottom than about creating any new torment, but I still thought to myself, “We’ll see if I ever make you pie again!” Then as the cane-slapping continued, I took the thought back. I really had brought this upon myself, and for good reason. I began to review the implements we’d used, the moments of dialogue I wanted to remember, the kaleidoscope of emotions I’d experienced. The cane kept distracting me, but I began to feel like the spanking had been worth it after all for what I could write about it later.

After about fifteen slaps, a very different way to use the cane but an effective way to wrap up the spanking by combining the sensations of all the previous implements together in one stinging layer of heat, Mr. W took the lotion from my dresser and massaged my backside.The aftercare worked. I have just three small pink bruises, not even blue or violet like a regular bruise. I am completely and incredibly sore, but it’s impossible to tell by looking at my bare bottom.

Tonight, we finish the challenge. There will be a basic warm-up, followed by an actual caning, with at least twenty-four strokes, though Mr. W keeps teasing me with forty-eight. I hope he‘s teasing, that is. No cane-slaps are in store this time. He’s feeling much better than he was last night, and I feel ready to take this last part of my thorough beating. I’m anxiously awaiting the final session, and already aroused. I will be welted. I will be wet. And I will be writing about it for you tomorrow.


Go back:
Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #1
Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #2.
Or continue reading:
Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #4

Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #2

A still from "Abby's First Paddling." This also used the Cane-iac paddle, referenced in this post.

The second night of the weekend spanking challenge was successful. As we woke up this morning, he let me know that tonight and tomorrow would both be the cane, then he offered to let me receive part of my caning right then. At 5:45 in the morning. I declined, letting him know I had to write about what we did last night before we moved on. I made some coffee, took the pup for a walk, then settled in with my laptop. For your pleasure, and ours, here are the events of round two.

When we begin, I’m wearing a kelly green camisole and thin white cotton panties with the outline of an apple and the words “Bite Me” on the left cheek. The panties ride up as he bends me over the end of the bed, leaving the lower half of my bottom completely uncovered. I’m not marked at all from last night, even though it had been a thorough spanking. To my chagrin, I have one of those bottoms that has adapted to spanking. It still hurts every bit as much, and the soreness remains well after the spanking ends, but the marks tend to fade quickly. It’s like my bottom really is asking for it, as if it‘s saying, “Look, I’m ready to go again!”

I watch from position as he goes over to the implement drawer and draws out the little red leather paddle, my warm-up savior from the night before, and I am relieved. Then comes the tawse-paddle that was hand-crafted for us by Paddle Me Pink (current web presence not found). This is finished scarlet leather on one side with Celtic braids burnished along both sides, and a “W” just before it splits into four tails. As expected, the next implement is the sturdy wooden paddle, half an inch thick and featuring the original Little Red Schoolhouse logo, made by Cane-iac. I expect this to be all, but then the heavy tawse is also added to the line-up. I squirm in place. I’m already sore from the first night, and this is only night two. Am I really going to be paddled and whipped during the course of the next hour?

We begin this time with a hand spanking. I don’t like it. His hand seems to be coming down harder and stiffer than usual. I don’t know if it’s because the spanking is being administered to my already spanked bottom, or if he’s really just spanking hard. It stings and I let him know. He still gets in a few more good smacks before he picks up the little red paddle.

I expect to be relieved as the leather paddling begins. I start squealing as I realize I am completely wrong. The sensation is the opposite of the first night. I don’t feel like I’m being warmed up, I feel like I’m being punished. “Is that the one I liked so much last night?” I ask. As tears came to my eyes, I had begun to think that perhaps he’d traded out implements behind my back. “Indeed it is,” he replies. The floppy paddle smacks back and forth, quick and steady. He pulls my panties down around my thighs while I keep whimpering.

He switches to the four-tailed tawse paddle and I begin to think I’m going to be alright. I let the panties fall to the floor, then kick them out of the way.  The paddling is surprisingly soothing, and though I keep whimpering and moaning and occasionally crying out when it lands on a sore spot, I start to find my rhythm and my warmth. Then just as it’s going well, I ruin the whole thing by asking, “Is that the finished side or the raw side?” He lets me know it’s the raw side, so I start to wonder about the difference between the finished and the raw. I ask him to sample both on my backside so I can learn the difference.

He begins slapping me with the finished side and it stings the way his hand stung. “Okay, okay,” I say, but he keeps going. “The raw side now, please!” He keeps spanking with the finished side and each strike feels like a match has been momentarily held to my ass and then just as quickly put out. The sting is hot, but over quickly. The problem here is that each smack hurts anew. I can’t find the balance, it’s all just quick pain, pain, pain.

I ask what color my bottom is. “Pink,” he confirms, as if it’s not very impressive. He picks up the wooden paddle. Neither of us says it, but we both think it. This will correct the problem of my pink bottom. Red and bruised, here we come!

The first few blows take my breath away. The heat is spread across the full of my bottom. I howl with each, but I also begin to realize that I’m finally starting to ride the pain. I’m standing with my legs spread at the end of the bed, elbows and forearms down, back arched. I’m trying to take each paddle strike in full, because I know that the more I take, the more I will be able to take.

I notice Mr. W’s foot is very close to my right foot. We’re both barefoot, and it’s a little distracting, so I move my foot away so I can focus on getting past the pain and into the next headspace, the one where all I want is another stroke, like the space I was in last night, when I wanted to interrupt sex for a little more of the cane.

His foot is suddenly completely atop mine. He’s still paddling me. Does he not know he’s standing on me? Of all the things that we’ve done during spanking sessions, this is really strange. I’m happy to have a toy pushed into my ass, or my hair pulled, or even, briefly, a hand at my throat. But standing on my foot? This is a little outside my kink.

“You’re standing on my foot!”

“I know, I’m trying to distract you,” he tells me. Without a break, the paddle continues to land on my bottom, and it hurts so much but he is standing on my foot and apparently he’s doing it to help me. I start giggling. The paddle strikes hard, I scream a little too loud, the paddle strikes again and I am laughing, laughing, and I can’t stop. Neither can the paddle, though, so it’s pain, giggle, pain, then so much giggling that he’s giggling too. “This will be fun to write about,” we agree. My ass really hurts but I can’t stop laughing.

That’s where the heavy tawse comes in. The heavy tawse is not funny, and quickly amends the problem of our runaway giggling. I’m warm now, but it still hurts like hell. After a few strokes, I look over my shoulder to see his arm pulled back, about to whip me. I’m so ready. Then the strike lands, and it turns out I’m not prepared at all. I scream, I actually scream. I press my face into the blanket to try to stifle myself, but I keep moaning.

He sets the tawse down and  begins to rub my backside. His hand slowly and gently caresses the places where he’s struck me the hardest, then begins to run his hand lightly over the rest of my bottom, soothing the sting out of my flesh. I’d been trying to cope with the hurt and to encourage myself to crave more of it, but now, softening beneath his touch, the pain catches up to me and I begin to cry. At first it’s just tears, but as he continues to try to soothe me, I begin to really sob. His touch is overwhelming. “I can’t take this. It’s too much,” I tell him. Then I clarify. “Your gentleness is too much. I can’t be touched like this right now.”

Returning to the drawer, he brings out the flogger. He runs its long leather tails across the palm of his hand, then lets it fly towards my backside. He repeats this motion, then does it again, and I start to sigh heavily. I exhale with each stroke. He begins to whip me faster and my breath begins to sound like panting. It’s landing so perfectly across my reddened backside and the torment is just right. It’s the right rhythm, the right heat, the right sting, and just the right amount of thudding leather to wrap it all together. I begin to get a little dizzy; I’m lightheaded with the encompassing sensation. He’s only whipping my ass but it feels like there is warmth spreading throughout my entire body, like standing outside on a summer day and the sun is so hot on my skin that I know I should go inside, but I need to stand in its rays just one moment longer. I’m burning, but it feels so good. He changes the direction of his swing and lightly flogs my pussy, then changes back and whips the insides of my thighs, then returns to full strokes across my entire backside. I think to myself that when I write about this, I will be crudely honest: It feels fucking amazing.

The flogging winds down and I can feel the heat coming off him too, even though we’re not in contact, and as I collapse forward I know that I’ve received a reprieve from the cane tonight. We are both on fire. I expect to feel his knee spreading my legs, to have him pull my hips back towards him, so I am surprised when instead, he bites me. He does it again, grabbing bits of my bottom between his teeth. His stubble tickles but the biting hurts. I yelp. “Why are you biting me?”

“Don’t wear panties that say ‘Bite Me’ if you don’t want to get bitten.” He nips me again.

“I’m not wearing any panties,” I remind him.

He bites me one last time, a little south of where he’d previously been getting me. “Oh, I know,” he says. “I know.”


Go back:
Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #1
Or continue reading:
Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #3
Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #4

Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #1

The little red paddle I like so much for warm-ups, as featured in "Fierce Foreplay." I'm not currently filming or photographing my spankings, but I'll try to find some decent pics for each day of our Spanking Challenge. Probably from this film. It's my favorite of everything we shot.

By the time Mr. W ended my spanking last night with four good strokes of the cane, I was ready to start all over again. My bottom was so hot that the heat had risen into my face. The tears that had escaped intermittently in answer to the harder strokes were already drying, while certain other parts of me were so wet that I felt I’d never be dry again.  Even as we completed the session, his nails scratching and squeezing the marks that he’d left on my backside as he took me from behind, I’d asked, “Do you need to cane me just a few more times, Sir?” He didn’t. I just wasn’t ready for the sensory overload to end.

That was Thursday night. It’s now Friday morning, my bottom tender but not really bruised or welted, and I’m ready for round two. I have all day to wonder which implements he’ll use, how many strokes, and what marks will be left for tomorrow, when we attempt round three.

This weekend, we have accepted a self-devised Weekend Spanking Challenge. While doing some data entry at work yesterday, my mind wandered to what I wanted to blog about next, knowing that for the weekend, I wanted to post a descriptive spanking experience. We’d already planned a little playtime for last night, in the now time-honored tradition of “I’ll give you something to blog about.” At first I thought it might be time for a cold caning, with a spanking then administered over the welts, which Mr. W and I both like conceptually, although for me it’s less fun when the concept becomes reality. Not less hot, mind you, just less of a good idea when I remember how much that actually hurts. Then I started thinking about receiving a spanking on an already spanked bottom, then another, then another, and I texted Mr. W to see if he was up for administering a thorough spanking each night, starting with Thursday and ending Sunday. “Challenge accepted,” he texted back. And so the Weekend Spanking Challenge was set into motion.

We began the session last night with an over the knee warming with my favorite little red leather paddle. It’s not Mr. W’s implement of choice because it’s so light, but it sets me up perfectly for taking a much longer beating. It stings just right so that my vocal response is part pain, part pleasure, while my bottom develops that lovely barely pink hue, the color that cries out, “Beat me harder.”

In between whacks of my preferred starter paddle, Mr. W would insert a few smacks of our firmer leather paddle, the one that comes first in the parade of implements in my blog header. He then switched just to this paddle, and I almost backed out of the entire plan. There’s something about the pain of it that just makes me angry. I’ve never had an experience with an implement that makes me feel so much like reaching around and hitting Mr. W right back. I growl in response to it, or hiss. I feel, I imagine, like a rabid wildcat, ready to strike out and attack. Even as I began to cry, I was so very angry, and began to hold back my vocalizations in retribution.

The strange thing is that he’s not striking very hard with it. It’s the paddle itself. I think it’s cursed. Or possibly not broken in yet. We’ve had it for three years, but I hate it so much that it nearly ruins every spanking session. Diligent as he is, Mr. W keeps bringing it out, but I’m starting to think I may need to take it to a construction site and let some large machinery drive over it a few times, and if that doesn’t fix it, it can be buried in the foundation for all I care.

Fortunately, we then switched to a leather strap, saving the spanking, if not my bottom. It’s an extremely well worn leather barber strop, soft and pliable, and I could be whipped all day with it. He started by folding it over and smacking me a bit that way, easing me away from my paddle fury. Then he had me get up on my knees on the bed so he could let the full strap land across my backside. He warmed me further, letting that pink shade slowly turn to red. The whipping was steady, firm but not cruel, and he soon determined I was ready for the tawse.

The tawse feels much to me like the cane, though I can handle more strokes of it, and if I’m fully warmed, the combination of stinging shock and searing heat spread through my whole body with each stroke. We haven’t played heavily with the tawse in a long time, because I haven’t really been up for the full spanking process. Instead, we’ve spanked as foreplay, and even then I would often tell a story to Mr. W as he spanked me, so that we’d very quickly get on with the post-spanking activities. There is something to be said for a spanking described in detail, outloud, while naked and taking just a few strokes here and there until the story collapses into sex and moaning, but that is another post.

Back to the tawse. I have no idea how many strokes I took. I can’t even say how hard they were. They stung, certainly, and a few licked the insides of my cheeks as well as they licked the fuller parts of my bottom, though none went so far as to strike where I wanted to be struck in last Sunday’s post about the crop. I’d reached that spanking nirvana, the place where the hits can just keep on coming. I would fall forward or rear up in response to various strokes, two of which I can still feel distinctly this morning, one on each cheek, but the rest is a blur. For me, it’s like each stroke is it’s own small universe, in which everything exists in response to the pain of just that stroke, whether light or intense. By the end of the tawsing, there was a stroke that made me reach forward, losing the arch of my back as I buckled to the intensity. I thought, in that moment, that I would faint, or die, or at least leave my body. I was nothing but the specific point where the tawse had landed. And then I was fine, ready for the next small universe to overcome me, but by then it was on to the cane.

I had to correct my position, as I had managed to splay myself all over the place. I had blanket in my mouth, I was keeling off to one side, and my bottom was not nearly presented as a target or as a present. I knelt once again, knees at the bottom edge of the bed, legs spread and calves and feet in the air. I leaned forward, arching my back, pushing my bottom back towards Mr. W so that the cane could strike in full.

He tapped my backside with the cane and sawed it lightly back and forth, letting me know the first place the cane would land. “I’m going to give you four strokes of the cane, young lady,” he advised, “Are you ready?”

I’m never ready. I’m always ready. I don’t want it, and then I want more. This weekend, I’m committed to receiving it, whether I want it or not. Last night was a warm up. Tonight, I know there will be the wooden paddle this time, more leather of some kind, and of course, we will end with the cane, just a few strokes, because Sunday is the real caning day, the day this will all come to fruition and end with what I expect to be a fully welted bottom and mind-blowing sex, followed by Chinese take-out.

I’m committed to documenting our weekend here. Therefore, expect to see an update on round two tomorrow. Since I still have three spankings coming this weekend, we’re also up for suggestions of ways to mix it up. If you made it through this entire post, I’m happy to receive a few of your suggested strokes in thanks.

Continue reading:
Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #2.
Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #3
Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #4

Implement Inquisition #1: The Riding Crop

Audio Only: A bit of cropping from "Cropgasm," from the Naughty Abby days. Now my first attempt at turning video into audio. I enjoy the idea of being able to sneak in a little spanking experience without baring all.

I like the threat of pain that doesn't necessarily come to fruition. On my birthday, halfway through my spanking, Mr. W told me to present my breasts for the cane. They were already bare, so from where I had been kneeling on the bed, I got up on my knees and cupped my breasts from below, eyes wide and terrified, trembling visibly. He lifted the cane, then set it back down on the bed beside me. He then grabbed the tawse, choking up on it halfway, and proceeded to lightly slap me, inciting not welts but only my nipples to rise to his administrations.

One of my favorite threats is that of an implement purposely straying from it's usual destination to strike the most sensitive crevices of my flesh. I've been debating how to write about this here without being crass, but it's a blunt subject matter and considering at the top of this post I've included an audio clip of a cropping that later ends in orgasm, I don't know why I'm tip-toeing around the subject. I think it's just that I'm newly back to blogging, and I haven't yet become comfortable again with tossing around the dirtier words. All of that said, I'm going ahead with it.

I have a craving, in certain scenarios, to hear these words murmured close to my ear: "Reach back and spread your cheeks apart. I'm going to whip your asshole until it's as sore as the rest of your red backside. Then I'm going to fuck that swollen ass as hard as I want until I come. Do you understand, young lady?"

The crop is the ideal implement for this whipping of sensitive areas. It lands squarely where one aims it. It can be inserted between the legs to whip up at the pussy, or farther forward to strike the clit. It can bite the inside of one's ass cheeks with surprising teeth. That little bit of leather, directed accurately, causes great distress in very little time.

It can also be incredibly arousing. A series of taps, back and forth from cheek to cheek, or an increasing rhythm on the clit, followed by a series of strokes on the inner thighs then back up to the clit, to the pussy, to the inner cheeks of the ass and back, lead to a madness of sensation. It hurts, it stings, I want it to stop, and yet my body betrays me. I know it's part physical sensation but also, in greater part, submission. The knowledge that the very parts of me I need to be a mammal, to function at the base level, are in jeopardy is terrifyingly satisfying.

I want to have those words whispered, to reach back and spread my ass to full exposure, only to have that crop continue to land on the full rounds of my lower cheeks, even to strike at the tops of my thighs. To tap, so lightly, on my pussy lips, not for pain but to remind me that what we do is for the pleasure at the end. One strike to my clit, to remind me I am his. Back to the bottom, the cheek to cheek rhythm now, and then he whispers, "Are you ready?" "Yes," I breathe more than say, panting, ready for the next stage. He stands back, aiming carefully, then whips me quickly three times, each landing right on my tender asshole. He asks, "Are you sore yet?" He touches, lightly, determining if I am swollen, if I can bare his touch. He presses his fingertip against the struck flesh, tests to see how easily he can slide inside.

"I'm not ready," I whisper. "I need more."

This is the problem with the crop. It strikes at one level, the pain high and sharp, but it doesn't reach the lower depths of what spanking is about for me. The audio clip, from "Cropgasm," a film we made when we were making the Naughty Abby films, is the only time I've come from a cropping, and that may have been as much about extroversion and exposition as it was about the crop itself. The film didn't really work out, at the editing stage I didn't like the shirt I was wearing and we had to eliminate one of the camera views, so the entire thing is my white-pantied bottom in close-up and the crop. The panties were new and I'd never taken just a steady cropping before, so it was exciting and new, experienced at a fever pitch as you can you hear in my cries, which sound, I now realize, inordinately like sex. But in the bedroom, though I still crave that asshole whipping, I'd want it to come at the end of everything, a strapping or a caning, something that really gets to the core of me, before the crop actually whips that mammalian core.

Long Night's Journey

I have a recurring dream in which I am walking down a school hallway, sometimes one I remember from high school, sometimes one from college, when I realize that I've forgotten to attend one of my classes all semester and am now sure to fail.

One lazy Saturday afternoon, my hand idling between my thighs, I unexpectedly remembered this scenario. I then began to imagine the scene in which the grade might be saved.

A female student stands in the small, dimly lit office of my favorite college professor. It's evening, the sun already set and the violet clouds outside the two small narrow windows of the office turning to plum as night sets around the campus. She's come to him after hours in hopes of winning a battle she could not win in the usual light of day. She faces the broad wooden desk, though I cannot remember nor can she tell the color or species of the wood. The wall behind his desk is lined not with literature but with media studies. A framed production poster of Long Day's Journey Into Night is the only decorative piece in the room. "You forgot to come to class all semester?" asks the professor, though I know now it's not the man I remember, nor any man I have known since then, though his voice reminds me of Mr. Williams, as does his lilting, laughing tone.

 The story unfolds: she wants to make up for it, she wants to do the classwork. She wants to pass the class and graduate on time. He wants to let her, to giver her a chance to do an intensive study version of the class in the last two weeks before finals, but this isn't the lesson she should learn on her way out the doors of the Ivory Tower and into the real world. She asks, "What can I do to change your mind?"

"Action and inaction both have consequences. What grade do you want from this class?"

"An A," she answers, indignation unavoidable. "I need an A to maintain my 4.0." He laughs. He says, "You did well while you weren't taking the last class you need for your degree."

"I'm not about to lose my average now. What do I need to do?" She leans forward. Her cleavage is visible, her dark hair falls around her face, she bites her lip while looking up from under the wave of hair, meeting his eye.

He goes to a waist-high cabinet below the poster of the play she knows is his favorite. He opens it slowly, looks back at her, then back to the cabinet and removes a long leather strap, a short wooden paddle, and a cane that I know, even as the young woman's eyes widen, to be the type referred to as the senior cane. "You will take the intensive study, and you must get an A on your coursework, or none of this means anything." She nods. "You will now and at the end of the study receive a test of your commitment. You will receive the full ordeal today. At the end of the class, you will go through the same stages I will walk you through today. You will decide how much you want to endure, and this will determine your final grade." I know, even as my wetness increases at the thought, that this very idea is against everything I stand for in my own being. So why do I want to find out what happens next? Why do I crave to see this unknown young woman bent over this barely remembered desk?  I press the tips of my index and middle fingers against my flesh. We go on.

She's taken classes with this man for four years, and for all four years she was of age, a grown woman, as she perceived herself, doing the things that grown women do. She'd even enjoyed a little pink-bottomed time in the bedroom with a small number of other men her own age, though it had never gone past some hand spanking and a few playful strokes of  one particular young man's belt. "You're going to spank me? And whip me? And paddle me? And...?" She tilts  her head, not knowing the name for the final item he pulled out of the cabinet.

"Cane you."

"Cane me." She breathes in deeply, considering her options. After a moment she knows she only has one choice, one chance. "I'm in. But I can stop at any time and take the failure."

He smiles. "Once we begin, if you ask me to stop, you'll receive an incomplete. The worst that will happen is you walk with your friends at graduation but don't receive a diploma, then take the class during summer semester and receive your diploma by mail. Are you ready?"

This settles everything. "Yes," she says without hesitation. This will be her last class with this man, but she has begun to wonder - but she cannot focus on that now. She wants the A. She, like me at that age, is the first of her family about to graduate a four-year college. This is not the moment to lose hope. He points to the chair at the side of the room. "You may fold your clothes and leave them there. Then you may bend over the desk." I realize for the first time that I've left his desk empty of all the clutter that once covered it. As she begins to remove her clothes, she knows as well as I do that she was never going to say no to anything he asked of her.

The moment she bends over the desk, he is behind her to the right side, right hand on the small of her back, left hand just resting on her bottom. "This is all you must do if you want the incomplete." She can feel him breathing. He doesn't tell her where to put her legs. She spreads them just a little, two inches of space between her inner thighs. Nothing happens. She spreads herself a little farther. She leans forward, reaching for the opposite side of the next. She tries to arch her back to push her bottom into his hand. Finally, she whispers, "More?"

"If you pass your intensive study and this stage, you will receive a D. You won't fail, and you will graduate. You will receive a hand-spanking, approximately 30 strokes. Though we both know this is not the math department." She tries to stifle a giggle but cannot. She can't see his face, but he smiles too. "Well?" She nods quickly, afraid that her voice will break and her sudden excitement over the moment will be all too obvious.

He begins slowly, bringing just a flush of pink to both cheeks, back and forth between the left and right, slowly and steadily. She doesn't think to count until she realizes she doesn't know how many she's received. Ten? Fifteen? He pauses, then his hand flies down at her bottom quickly and sharply and he begins a faster, harder rhythm. When he pauses again, she thinks he's done, but he only switches sides. He begins again and it feels like a real spanking now, the kind I worried about receiving as an infrequently misbehaving teen but never did, the kind she always hoped might happen in the bedroom but it never went as far as she wanted. She's squirming and it's now his left hand that is holding her in place and she's breathing fast, tears in her eyes, but has not made a sound other than the murmurs that escape when one moans between tightly closed lips. Finally, it ends. She knows he exceeded thirty strokes, but even in the moment of rest she realizes she's setting her legs just a little bit farther apart, and she's ready to receive at least a C.

"Very good," he says. "You did so well, I may need to go a little lighter on the next round." Then he picks up the strap. "Or not." I grin along with her.  I realize this fantasy has an incredible repeat value, that each time she goes through what she must receive to get each grade, I can change the requirements. Maybe next time she's less willing, and he begins with the cane. Maybe the time after that he begins by paddling her for a solid five minutes with a floppy rubber paddle, like a spanking clip I thought I'd long since forgotten, turning her strawberry pink and sore for any future implements to come.

"To receive a C, you will receive 24 strokes of the strap. This strap is half of a leather barber strop, its fabric backing removed." This particular barber strop lives in my nightstand, and I love to hate it. "It will whip across your backside with a firm sting, then leave a lasting tenderness to the flesh. I may go lightly on you from time to time. When you feel a light stroke, brace yourself for the next one, young lady. Do you accept?"

She imagines walking at graduation but not receiving her diploma. Her family left wondering in the bleachers why her name was never called. "I accept."

The first stroke causes her to see a flash of white behind her closed eyes. Her jaw is clenched so tightly that she realizes she hadn't cried out. As the second lands, she squeals, not quite the sound she'd been hoping she would make. He allows her a moment to compose herself, then whips her firmly and steadily, allowing her a cry or even, once, a howl, but never attempting to make her scream. After seven strokes she finds the rhythm. Then, with stroke eleven, he lets the leather just whisper past her buttocks. There's a light sting, but nothing worth moaning about. She remembers his warning and holds tightly to the far edge of the desk, which she's finally reached as she's risen up higher and higher on her toes with each subsequent stroke.

He waits only a few seconds to let the twelfth stroke fall, but she is already so aware of its swift coming that she wails and begins to weep, tears falling onto the desk. He takes a moment to soothe her bottom with gentle circles with his palm, and she is grateful for the touch, no matter the circumstances. "Please," she says.

"Please?" he asks.

"Please continue. I can't stop now."

He takes a moment to breathe before continuing. He is grateful for this woman beneath him who for the past four years has enlivened his classes, enlightened him with her theses, and somehow, beyond any hope he had allowed himself to maintain, invigorated him with such thoughts that just last semester he'd installed the cabinet beneath the poster in hopes that a day just such as this would come. It had been left untouched until today.

He lifts the strap. He won't let her down. She'll earn the A through her coursework, and he won't let graduation day pass without the degree he cannot deny she has already earned,  but she'll learn a mighty lesson in this process. Action and inaction both have consequences. It may have taken them four years of inaction to reach this moment, but it's finally time for their scene. Action, he thinks to himself. He lets the strap fall across her backside, anxious already for her receive a B at the mercy of his paddle, to receive an A beneath the savagery of his cane.

She awaits the next stroke, already imaging, having matched the grades to implements, what she might be willing to offer for an A+.

With that, I gave up to the orgasm, unable to continue further. I challenged myself to get the A next time. I haven't yet, but I'll keep trying.

Breaking Points, Ball Gags, and Blog Rolls

A sample clip from The Breaking Point

Mr. W and I just spent a portion of our morning watching snippets of the old "Naughty Abby" movies. We haven't seen them in years. The drive they were on died years ago, and I had to re-download them from the site where they'd been hosted and fortunately when I "killed" Abby a few years back, I did not take them down. The only one I couldn't get was "The Breaking Point," our final film, because apparently at some point I accidentally deleted it from that hosting site. If anyone has this movie and a way to transfer it to me, please let me know. I will write you personalized erotica, or send you the original cost via Paypal. I'd really like to have this movie back, because it was such an unintentionally iconic moment in our lives. The breaking of the paddle, the ending of the era of "Naughty Abby," the ending, even, of aligning spanking with the word "punishment." I'd like to have it again, for sentimental, erotic, and future project purposes.

Watching one's personal oeuvre of fetish movies does get in the way of other intentions for the day, and so I have not yet worked on the audio files I mentioned. I want to start by turning the old movies into audio files, because I have recently become fascinated with ASMR videos on YouTube. That is a post to come. I thought it would be the one I wrote today, but I'm not there yet, due to the watching of myself and my husband getting our spank on. I really enjoyed it! I had moments where I winced, and Mr. W would look at me and all I could say was "I feel really bad for myself there!" Other comments included: "What ever happened to those panties?" "Ohhh, I'm bruising right there" and I'd point at the screen, touching my own bottom in video form, which is oddly fascinating. "I wore those white socks because I hadn't had a pedicure." "I cried a puddle of tears on the table with this one. You were so mean!" And, four minutes in to "Time for the Belt,"  "Do you really just belt me for nine minutes straight?" The answer to that one, it turned out, was yes.

I'm coming back to this blog a slightly different person. I'm 35 now, having just celebrated my birthday on Imbolc/Groundhog's Day/Saint Brigid's Day/Candlemas/etc. We celebrated with an amazing spanking and caning, helped along by my new-found toy, the ball gag. The gag is partly due to an initial curiosity, and partly due to apartment living. We finally have an upstairs neighbor we like, with a very darling but young and therefore anxious dog, and I just don't want to randomly scream, even though my body, presumably due to hormonal changes, is more sensitive than it was a few years ago. The other part is that I find it oddly comforting. We keep it loose, so I can move it in and out of my mouth as needed. It's not to stifle me. It's so I can let out the murmurs and moans while restraining myself in taking the harder hits. I like knowing that my reaction is up to me: when the strike is warm and full across the fleshiest part of my bottom, I can moan in sexy "agony," but when it hurts like hell, I can bite down and take it, if I choose. Most importantly, the "naughty" is officially gone from my name. I think there a few other women out there who know what I mean when I say, I am a damn good woman, wife, and creature of the flesh. I deserve not punishment, but uplifting. And if my uplifting comes in the form of having my ass lifted in the air and turned bright red or striped until I can hold it up no more, so be it.

A Short Note

A short note to say I'm still around. I have some plans for some audio files that I will want opinions on, so please check back. I am also working on publishing to Kindle. I am thankful to everyone who still keeps my link alive, and to those who still stop by to see if I've posted. And, as always, I am thankful to Mr. W., who has waited and listened patiently through my many philosophical conundrums these past few years, in faith knowing that I would always come out the spankophile he knows and loves. I hope to post again this weekend.

xo,
Abby

Lost Language

From Joseph Campbell's commentary in Pantheon Books' The Complete Grimm's Fairy Tales:

The "monstrous, irrational and unnatural" motifs of folk tale and myth are derived from the reservoirs of dream and vision....They are thus phrases from an image-language, expressive of metaphysical, psychological, and sociological truth. And in the primitive, oriental, archaic, and medieval societies this vocabulary was pondered and more or less understood. Only in the wake of the Enlightenment has it suddenly lost its meaning and been pronounced insane.

This was once a spanking blog. In my writing, I pondered the "monstrous, irrational and unnatural" motifs of spanking , told stories, explored my own desires and dreams, and by it, I thought I understood myself and my place in the universe. Then I deleted it all, the vocabulary of spanking having lost its meaning, the cruelty and injustice inherent in the fetish pronounced, silently and by my heart, at least in part insane.

It didn't leave my fantasies, of course. The same cruelty and injustice inherent in the fetish are inherent in me, and my orgasms have always been coupled with the victimization of flesh. It didn't leave our bedroom, where, though we play less often than we did, I still sometimes talk a dirty caning story into reality. I may now only take six strokes where I used to take three dozen, but it all comes down to the same truth: you can take the girl out of the fetish community, but you can't take the fetish out of the girl.

Going back to Cambell's statement about the motifs of myth, I think fetishes can be seen as an image-language as well. They have an innate truth, but once we start to analyze them and break them down, as we do with most everything in modernity, the language is lost. If there was one question I tried to answer in the old version of this blog, it was "Why am I like this?" I come into writing this now with the answer: "Because this is the way I am." I can't question it any longer. It's like taking "Hansel and Gretel" and trying to place it at a certain point in history. There are dark and wild things in the wood, and some of them want to eat us, but the architect of the little house that was built of bread and covered in cakes never registered those blueprints. There is truth, and there is Truth. One we can prove. The other just is.

I watched the first twelve episodes of Grimm this week on Hulu, while I've been home with the flu. You can credit it, along with a fever, for my writing now, because it reminded me of the passion I once had for folklore, for retelling the old tales, for finding the Truth and presenting it in a new way, especially if that way was one that would result in erotic titillation. The premise is that the stories collected by the Grimm Brothers were true, that the creatures, the animal-people and the wicked witches, the things that go bump in the night, were real, and the Grimm family were supernatural humans who hunted them. It's the opposite of Campbell's statement above. It's the idea that the dreams and vision are the reality; believing the stories are only stories will get you killed.

It's an interesting take and I'm enjoying the show, but it limits the scope of the folktales it sources. For one thing, all the creatures are named something Germanic, which would indicate that all monsters come from Germany, except for one type that appears to be from France. Now, if that was reality, you might be a pig creature born in Laos, but you'd still be called a Bauerschwein. That doesn't seem fair. Folktales are, by nature, nondescript. They could happen anywhere, anytime. By taking a metaphor and turning it into fact, the entire world is limited by the new language.

I don't want to limit myself any longer. I have just spent a year living within the confines of a collection of stories that is meant to be factual and infallible, but it's like living inside a Grimm collection. The problem in my heart, and why I cannot abide by a collection of stories is this: I know that not all the monsters are real. There is truth, and there is Truth. We are the Bauerschwein. We are the demons. The image-language of myth is universal, timeless. It may not be fact, but it is reality. The world is so much more than we allow it to be.

The things I like about spanking, the exposition of bare flesh, the relinquishing of the body and the will, the suffering but not the pain, the forgiveness implied by the punishment, are not facts of the fetish. Those may be completely different from what anyone out there likes about this sexual subset. They are derived from my personal experience and concept of what spanking should be. They are not necessarily what it should be for anyone else, and what you want, want you crave in your heart of hearts, your bottom of bottoms or your top of tops, may not be truth for me.

Somewhere along the way I lost my language and tried to give everything a new name, but the names were wrong and the stories weren't mine. I'm now, I hope, taking my reality back. I'm just at the edge of it, learning to speak and learning to see this image-language, culled forth from dreams.