A Dream Defurred

Just when I thought I was going to start writing again, this little bundle of furry joy came into my life. Much to my chagrin, spanking is pretty far from my mind right now, especially as the sound of it would throw her into a panic. Writing is a much quieter activity, of course, but even so, I just want to play with her and email photos of her to my family.

On the other hand, I want so much to be writing. After the exhilaration of writing that dream into a story two weeks ago, I want to immerse myself in the creation of scenes like that again, if not for my every day life then for everyone else to read and (hopefully) enjoy. I have also come to realize that I cannot stand my current job, and want so much to be writing full-time. I'm not sure how I can make that happen right now, as I am enormously broke and puppy has certainly not helped, but I really do hope to figure it out. As noted in previous posts, I'm a big fan of "So You Think You Can Dance" and all these young and talented dancers talk about working to making their dreams come true and doing what they love, and it's becoming unbearable. I want to do what I love, too! Apparently, what I love is cuddling with my pets and writing violently erotic stories.

There has to be a way to make that work. There just has to be a way.

I dreamed last night that you caned me in front of your father.

Sorry it's been so long! I'm still here. Here's something to make up for it. And yes, I really did dream this last night. I'd go hunting for a picture to post with it, but honestly, I actually just turned myself on enough in writing this that I've got to go...

I've missed you all. Hope everyone on this fabulous spanko planet is well.


I dreamed last night that you caned me in front of your father.

It wasn't your father as we know him, in body or in spirit, but a mustached athletic man always wearing track suits. He constantly created competition, whether it was playing chicken by driving on the wrong side of the road with me in the car or racing me up a long flight of steps, even when he knew he was in better health and had given himself a head start. He was known for womanizing and for as long as I'd known him, he'd had a different girl on his arm each time we saw him. All this I intuitively knew at the beginning of the dream.

When, in the dream, you told me we had to move in with him, I fought it by drinking rum and cokes and adopting puppies. My tactics were not successful. As we moved in, we learned that your father had finally found himself a steady girlfriend, a woman my age who would be living in the house with us as well.

Our living quarters were cramped. We were hesitant to have sex, nevermind to play as we were used to playing. Everytime you passed by me, you'd whisper that you wanted to spank me, or strap me, or cane me. You never had the chance.

Your father found me a job at the marina where he rented speed boats at outrageous costs to tourists. I wasn't quite clear on what I was supposed to do, but it allowed us time to chat, and it became apparent that he was growing to like me. Up until then, it was a known fact that he thought I was a tight-ass in all the wrong ways.

At home that night, as the four of us fought for room in the cramped kitchen, he asked me how many vibrators I owned. I told him only one, though I later remembered that I had three, I just didn't use the other two very often. He laughed and told me that his girlfriend had twenty and that she ought to give me lessons or loan me a few. I was embarrassed by the conversation; my face burned and I couldn't speak. You saw my discomfort and, at risk of your father's disapproval, told him of the toys we did own.

His jaw actually gaped. He kept looking at me like he'd never seen me before, and I suppose he hadn't. "And she likes this?" he asked you. "I can see what you'd get out of it, but why would she like something like that?" He looked to the girlfriend, who shrugged. She certainly wasn't interested in our kinds of toys or our kind of play. She was happy with battery-powered silicone. I laughed a little to myself. Some days, I couldn't blame her.

Your pride, I could tell, was a little bit wounded, as was your honor, I suspected. The last thing you wanted was for your dad to think you abused your wife, or took advantage of her. You pictured the news getting to your mom, and then your grandmother, and soon the entire family would look at us askance on holidays. It all flashed across your face too quickly for me to stop you. "Why don't we show you?" you said.

The girlfriend shook her head. She'd finish making dinner. The rest of us shuffled tentatively into the bedroom.

"Strip," you said. Your father looked towards me expectantly.

"Seriously?" I asked. "That's not usually how we start. If you want to show him what we do, then shouldn't I at least begin on my knees?"

Your dad snorted a bit, holding back a laugh. "I said strip," you demanded.

I rolled my eyes. "Okay, yessir." Oh, this was going to be a disaster.

I took my clothes off uncermoniously, not even bothering to fold them as each item was removed and tossed onto the floor. You were aware enough of your father's presence to not request tidiness. After all, you were trying to prove that I was into this as much as you, not that I am your housecleaning sex slave.

For some reason, we had a small dinette set in our bedroom. You told me to bend over the table and touch the edge on the other side. I did so, and spread my legs without instruction. I got up on tiptoe to fully grasp the table, as much to keep me in place for show as to give me something to squeeze when the pain came.

As I got into position, you had gone into the closet and brought out the crook-handled set we ordered from the UK two Christmases ago, the Nusery-Junior-Senior set. You showed them to your father. "Can you guess which one she prefers?" you asked.

He pointed to the nursery cane, the thin whippy rattan that stung like a row of vipers biting my ass. You laughed and shook your head, holding up the senior cane instead. I called out, "I thought the same thing, before I'd felt them. But that little thing makes me cry in two strokes. It's like plucking pubic hair with dull tweezers. Not worth the trouble or the watering eyes."

You walked up to me and ran the senior cane across my bare backside, marking the spot you would strike first. "You like this one, don't you? You like when I cane you like this?"

You pulled back and swung quickly, your aim exact, the pain a blossom of purple as I gripped the table as tightly as I could and squeezed my eyes shut against the shock. I knew better than to scream; I didn't want to frighten anyone. Still, I think my gasp was not as loud as your father's, who had not expected the sudden violence or the pulsing welt that appeared instantaneously across my otherwise unmarked skin.

"Well?" you said.

Your father tried to answer, but could only say, "Umm." I tried to reassure him. "He doesn't mean you. I'm meant to count the strokes. Failing to do so or losing track earns me more. One, Sir."

You touched me with the cane just above your last mark, tapping a few times before the second blow came. I cried out with my mouth closed, a distorted groan that vibrated in the sides of my cheeks. I saw my knuckles briefly go white before I reminded myself to relax my grip. "Two, Sir."

When you struck a third time, a stroke more vicious than the last two, the kind you would have normally reserved for a well-warmed bottom, I couldn't hold the scream back. My knees buckled slightly, my head spun for a moment. I sputtered out a mumbled, "Three, Sir," and was ashamed that I was falling apart so quickly in front of an audience.

I straightened myself then arched my back, spreading my legs just a little bit wider, the way I know you like them. You raised your arm high and I clenched my buttocks just as I knew I shouldn't. If the last stroke was hard, I wondered if I could stand anything harder than that. I wondered if, in your quest to show off, you would draw blood. You swung quickly but slowed at the last moment, the difference too subtle for someone new to watching this to notice. The welt blossomed just as brightly, but I held myself together. "Four, Sir. Thank you, Sir." I hoped you knew why I was grateful.

You offered your father the cane for stroke five. It was brave of you, and it was only your trust in me not to refuse that enabled me to accept the offer willingly. Out of curiousity, he took it. "Touch her here," you told him, showing him how to saw the cane across the intended landing spot. He pulled the cane back and forth, back and forth, and knowing he was afraid to swing the cane, I allowed myself the small pleasure of the rattan stroking my backside, the sweet anticipation of what was to come. I was already thinking not of the next cane stroke but of the moment we could make your father leave the room, when you would plow into me without regard to my welts, would, in fact, scratch them and grip them with your nails as you thrust into me from behind, would make me cry out in confusion as to whether you were wounding me or making me come.

When the fifth stroke came, I realized he'd given the cane back to you and you'd landed one of your glancing blows, the strike and slide that raised the thickest and brightest welt. My cry this time was not the scream of surprised pain that had been released at strike three. It was the sobbing moan of a woman who knows her punishment isn't nearly over. It was pain and acceptance and resolution to bear the pain as best I could. Tears finally dripped quickly from the corners of my eyes down the arch of my nose and onto the table.

My sobs alarmed your father. "You see? She doesn't like this. She's crying, son. She doesn't want you to do this to her anymore."

With the ease of a man who has done so many times before, you stuck the cane between my legs, tapping the insides of my thighs until I was spread as wide as possible. Then you flicked the tip of the cane up to lick, to my embarrassment, the slick engorged lips of my vulva. You wiggled the cane back and forth, playfully threatening to slip inside my clearly wide open pussy. "How many was that, love?"

I moaned, and this time pain had nothing to do with it. "Five, Sir. Five."

You pulled the cane back slowly. I knew a web of wetness had clung to it, could feel it pulling away even after it was no longer touching my flesh. "Dear God," I heard your father whisper. I knew what he meant. The first time I'd been caned, which was the same as the first time I'd been caned by you, I'd had no idea what I was in for. The marks. The agony. The arousal so intense it bordered absurdity. When you caned me, no matter how hard I cried, no matter how scarred I was for days or weeks, I could only think of fucking you.

I resumed position. You saw my resolve, my desire to impress you and our audience of one. You tapped across my backside, five stripes already raised and stinging in scarlet relief against the full-fleshed ivory landscape. "Are you ready?" you asked, and the question wasn't for show. You wanted to know if I was ready to take a stroke that you would have given me as stroke twenty-three or twenty-four, after a full session of spanking, strapping, leather paddling, and only finally caning after my flesh was reddened and toughened, ready to take the strokes that could cut, that could leave me standing for days.

I nodded. I didn't trust my voice and I didn't want to ruin the moment. If we were going to do this, we were going to do it right, do it fully. We were going to send your father and his girlfriend out of the house with just my scream of agony and pleasure. And then we were going to fuck, whether I was weeping or not, and I was going to come so hard that you'd be hard-pressed to pull your cock out when you were through. Yes, I was ready.

I stood still for an eternity. Ten seconds, a minute, I had no idea. I don't think any of us were breathing. The tap came and it was high, the highest of the five strokes that had come before. Unsettlingly high - the spot sadists dream about for years before they are willing to risk a girl's flesh beneath their chosen implement. Even you, in all our play, had never caned me so close to the top of my bottom before, so near the spot where flesh becomes bone. After the tapping came the rubbing, the marking, the aiming. I stood as still as I could, terrified to breath, to tremble, to allow the tear quivering in the corner of my eye to fall.

I saw nothing but white light. Sound and time stopped. White, breath, white, breath. When crimson tinged the border of the white light, I knew I was alive. I was crying hard; I hadn't realized. My sobs wracked me forwards and back and your arms were around me, your cheek on my back, your lips pressed to my spine. I had never felt such pain. You had released me. You made me fly.

Your father's voice brought me back to the moment. "She didn't count six," he said.

"She didn't need to," you answered, but I was already laughing, sobbing and laughing, wondering what this could have looked like to a witness, even after being present for his first lesson in the pleasure of pain.

Despite the throbbing and my craving for aftercare, Advil, and a glass of wine, I allowed my hand to reach between my thighs, my middle and index finger to slide inside me. I looked over my shoulder at the third party in our scene. "You need to leave now," I whispered, my throat surprisingly hoarse from only six strokes.

He nodded, gulping, his hands over the erection in his track pants that he hoped I hadn't seen. You ran your hands through my hair. "Can I be inside you?" you asked, your throat as raspy as mine in your arousal.

"Just a few more," I whispered. "Please?" You reached for the cane, stroking the sweet spot where my bottom meets my thigh. You unzipped your jeans, your own erection as hard as I'd ever seen it pressing against the jersey of your boxers. A small wet spot had already appeared on the cotton. I knew the next six cane strokes would be hard and fast as you raced towards being inside me. I couldn't wait. I braced myself.

3F#22: excerpt from tentatively titled "Whitelight"

The words to use in this week's Flash Fiction Friday were matrix, air conditioner, and steganographer. Somehow, having to use these words enabled me to pull together elements of a story I've been trying to figure out all summer. If I keep writing it, this will be just a small scene in a much larger story.

When the elevator doors opened to reveal the second basement, I could actually feel my eyes widen in shock. "These," said Ledger, "are the Matrixes."

The room was round and empty but for two narrow beds upon a low dais in the center. Each bed was occupied by a naked woman. The woman on the right was asleep. Her straight black hair looked like it had been combed across her pillow while she slept. Her skin, darker than mine, seemed to glow. The woman on the left was awake and lying on her side. She was pale, blond, and luminescent. She appeared to be the main source of light in the room.

Ledger touched my shoulder, encouraging me to step forward. As I entered the chamber, the blond smiled at me, then winced. A young man knelt behind her, applying a salve to her thighs and buttocks. I was led around the dais to see why. Across her flesh, deep scarlet welts, some wetly gleaming with salve or blood or both, were set close together. The striping was so dense that her skin was barely visible at the fullest part of her backside and at the very tops of her thighs. The skin I could see was starting to bloom into patches of deep violet bruises. The sight of it all was starting to make me nauseous. She winced again, her entire body going rigid, then shivering.

"It's cold," I said questioningly. It wasn't the most important question I had, but it was the one I could form into words. Everything else was, for now, incomprehensible.

"We keep the air conditioner set to fifty-eight degrees. It's not cold, just colder than your normal comfort level. When the Matrixes are," he paused to search for the right word, "active, a great amount of heat is generated. The cooler temperature helps keep them from premature release."

I knew my brow had furrowed when he nodded and told me it would make sense later.

We continued around the dais until we were standing in front of the blond again. I raised my hand in awkward greeting and tried to return her smile. She nodded as if she understood. I supposed she did. After all, she must have once stood in my place, wondering how she'd stumbled into this torture chamber of happy prisoners.

I turned away from her so that wouldn't hear what I was about to whisper. "Look, I'm no goody-two-shoes, but I'm no steganographer, either. I don't see the secret code in that woman's poor flesh that tells me how her suffering is beneficial to anyone but the sadist who did that to her."

She heard me anyway, which I realized when she and Ledger both laughed simultaneously. I turned back to her, feeling tears starting to form. Everything was suddenly so confusing. She reached out her hand and I stepped up onto the dais to take it. She squeezed. "Look at me," she said quietly. Her voice was steadier than I'd expected and, looking into her eyes, I realized she was at least a decade older than I'd originally thought. "No." She shook her head. "Not my face."

My own grip tightened as I craned my head to tentatively look over her hip. A pink the color of cotton candy lined the areas that were bleeding just minutes before. Her entire backside and much of her thighs were tinged yellow. I inhaled in surprise. It was the yellow that marks the last trace of a dark bruise. Even as I watched, her skin lightened until it matched the rest of her body. The pink stripes remained a few moments longer, then they too faded and were gone.

I looked back into her eyes. "Is it magic?" I asked, my amazement whelming up in my chest. It had become difficult to breathe.

"No, not magic," she answered, her smile now just a little bit proud. "It's me."

What's That Got To Do With the Price of Fetish Fettuccine?

While reading this list of the top 20 most bizarre Craigslist ads, I became fascinated by a listing searching for a "Woman to sit in my bathtub full of noodles, wearing a bathing suit." It reads:

• I will pay you $1 USD to sit in my bathtub full of noodles while you wear a one piece bathing suit.
• I will not be home, nor will anyone else while you do this.
• I will leave the key for you, and you will sit at your leisure.
• I will require at least a 5 minutes stay.
• A neighbor will watch the front door from across the street and using a supplied stopwatch, will time your entry and departure.
• Please supply your own footwear.
• The noodles will be cooked, and therefore slippery.
• DO NOT bring any sauce. I will season the pasta after I return home prior to dinner.

I love this ad, presuming it was genuine, although I realize that is unlikely. Firstly, this person is admitting to an unusual fetish and seeking a way to fulfill it. Secondly, he/she has considered the bathtub sitter's need for privacy, or perhaps has a very specific fantasy of what the woman in the bathtub looks like, and rather than spoil the imagined scene, he/she has decided that just knowing a woman was in the bathtub full of noodles is enough.

Past that, the details have been considered, like loaning a stopwatch to the neighbor (how did that conversation go?). A one piece bathing suit is a must, though I would have also requested full body hair removal and a swimming cap. Also, the diner will be seasoning the pasta, so it is imperative that although the bathtub sitter may be compelled to bring her own sauce, she should NOT do so. If I was the woman in the bathtub, I know I would have wanted to bring my own vodka tomato cream sauce, so it's important to know that the pasta, prior to seasoning, should be woman-flavored only.

The stumbling block in the plan is that the hopeful diner is only willing to pay $1 to the pasta woman. Unless this is her fetish too, why would anyone answer this ad? Is it naive and/or selfish of me to think that people should be willing to pay a premium for having their most secret desires fulfilled? It seems like an entire bathtub of fetish fettucine (or similar) is worth at least $100, even $1000.

There's something interestingly cocky about offering a single dollar. On the one hand, I can't help but feel that it devalues everyone who provides a unique fetish-based service. On the other, the single dollar may indicate that this person believes that a woman in a bathtub full of noodles is either a common occurrence or it's his/her God-given right to be granted such a thing. Isn't that the epitome of confidence that fetish communities aim to inspire? That what we like and want is normal and acceptable and completely within reason as part of our experience as human beings? After all, the woman would sit in the bathtub of her own free will. My brain just can't get to why she would do this for free.

We live in a world where some people will pay good money to see fully-clothed women hug balloons and step on things because that's what turns them on. And that's just on film. If that was my fetish, I wouldn't expect someone to come over to my house and pop balloons or squish fruit with her high heels free of charge, whether I was in the room or not. Maybe that would happen if we were at a fruit squishing convention and we were having a private party, but a house call? I think not, pasta man. I think not.

There's no moral to the story here, no grand statement. I'm not really ranting, I just thought this was funny and I'm enjoying getting back to posting, even if every post can't be super sexy and worthy of repeated reading or viewing. I guess, if I had to make a closing statement, it would be "Don't offer only a dollar for fetish services," but I'd be preaching to the choir. I'm lucky to have a fetish that has such a generous and friendly fanbase. I shudder to think if the subtitle on my blog was "writings on sitting in a bathtub full of noodles, ziti, elbow macaroni..."

3F#21 : Holiday

from Patty's A Creative Spanked Wife. I can't believe it took me this long to find this site. Great artwork! I won't even mind if you go check out her gallery before reading my story. This drawing is called "Pirate Bride." Note the ropes! Fantastic.

It's been a while since I participated in Flash Fiction Friday, so I figured I was due for another go round. This week, the wildcard words were "libretto," "Ophiucus," and "sweat." I exceeded the 250-word limit, but I've been editing out one word at a time for 45 minutes, so at 297 words, this is as close as it's going to get. And yes, the holiday referenced is real and is today. Follow the link!


"Arrr. Would you rather be tied to the mast or walk the plank when we get home, yeh scurvy wench?"

I grinned. "You know I'd rather be tied up than take a walk any day." We were lying on our backs, watching the night sky after picnicking and making out like teenagers. It had been a long time since I felt this happy. Even the mosquitoes, drawn to our sweat on this Indian Summer night, didn't bother me.

"No, no. You're supposed to say it like a pirate. It's September nineteenth!" Will shook his head.

"Now you'll have to be flogged as well."

Giggling, I remembered. "It's Talk Like a Pirate Day! Who came up with that?"

Will pointed at the sky, unusually clear and full of stars. "Those guys."

"I poured you one too many glasses of grog, didn't I?"

"No, no. The constellations. Hercules, with his powerful palms. Ophiuchus, with his feisty snake. Orion, with his great big belt. They all really like flogging, so they made a holiday for it."
"Talk Like A Pirate Day is actually a holiday for pirate-style spanking?" I was going to get hiccups from laughing so much.

He shrugged. "When we get home, I could dig out the old libretto from my high school production of Pirates of Penzance. We could have a sing-a-long instead."

I turned my head towards him. "Avast, me hearty," I whispered. "You know I can't sing."
He laughed. "Well, blow me down. Let's get that pirate booty in gear."

"Aye, aye, Captain." I sat up to pack the remains of the picnic. My eyes flickered upwards. I had a feeling it wouldn't be the last I saw of firm hands, a feisty snake and a great big belt tonight. I couldn't have been happier.

A Tail of Two Dreams

Dreams Made Flesh, photo by Antonis DCD, found on Flickr.

I thought this photo captured a sense of self-created violence. There seems to be a desperation in the hands of the shadow, but nothing looms behind the figure to indicate threat.

I've had two interesting spanking dreams this week.

Last weekend, I dreamed that a high school friend and I were still in our teens and had gotten into some kind of trouble. We were to be punished by her two uncles, and the punishment was for us to be caned simultaneously. I was bent over, made to put my elbows and forearms on the seat of a straight-backed chair, and told to await my caning. The uncle in charge of my discipline walked away for a brief moment, then came back swishing the cane forcefully through the air, creating that sweet whish of terror and anticipation. After a few more swishes, he brought his arm back then quickly forward, flicking his wrist and... tapped me.

Now, I am no stranger to the cane tap. It marks the place the cane is to strike, or, when Mr. W is toying with me, it marks the place he wants me to think the cane will land, only to raise a weal elsewhere. But in this dream, after a few of these pretend cane strokes ending in taps, I began to rise up on my tiptoes, wiggling my backside in the air, encouraging the uncle to really let me have it. He did not.

Three nights ago, I dreamed that I was part of a rehabilitation program for violent criminals. The goal of the program was to help them learn to divert their rage before it turned into crime, or death. Lucky me, I had been put in charge of the rehab of a serial killer. I asked him why he needed to kill people, and he told me, "I like knowing I'm hurting them." Well, what top doesn't understand that sentiment? (Not to call all you tops out there akin to serial killers.)

My job was to show him how, with the help of a willing and preferably naked woman, he could unleash his violent tendencies and bask in the knowledge of their pain while remaining a decent citizen. He could be violent, create pain, and let the girl get up and walk away. We talked about these concepts at an outdoor wooden picnic table. Then I got up on the table on my hands and knees and told him to try spanking me.

He was afraid to try it. There were guards nearby, and I think he was a bit abashed. "Go ahead," I coaxed him. He stood to the left of me and whacked me with his right hand. The spank was weak, but I told him, "That's it. Try again." After a few more awkward attempts, he got into the swing of things. He began to wrap his left arm around my waist and the guards started towards us. I shook my head at them and let him restrain me. I knew that it was the only way he was going to learn self-control.

The dream then began to flash in and out, as dreams will do. In the next scene I was standing next to him, demonstrating how to use a belt for spankings, and talking about the difference between belts and leather straps. The dream flashed out, for a moment I was bent over the table while he practiced his lesson upon me, and then this particular part of the dream was over.

I don't think any of us are surprised that even in my dreams, my attitude is, "Come on, do it already!" I'm pretty much over the victim fantasies of my youth. I still find punished brats and naughty nieces hella sexy, but the truth is, these days I'm not aroused by the thought of inflicted discipline. I'm more intrigued by my innate physiological erotic response to spanking and by the idea that we do this because it's what we choose to do. I no longer want to see the schoolgirl sent to the headmaster's office for punishment. I want to see her walk in and demand it.

'Nuff Said

Sure, I could go on about demon schoolgirls and the possibility of an alternate world where demon headmasters (ideally ones who look like Anthony Stewart Head) keep them in check. But I won't. It's just a sexy picture that, like most things, makes me think of spanking. 'Nuff said.

Abby Vs. The Slippers

I should point out that the story below is about obtaining this fancy pair of slippers. I thought it was amusing, but no actual spanking events take place.

My mother-in-law was just in town. Now, normally sexy spanking toys and mothers-in-law do not go hand in hand, at least not in my world. So how did she come to actually purchase spanking implements for Mr. W?

The whole thing started with a shopping trip Mr. W and I took a few days before his mom arrived. We were both looking for shoes when we happened upon a pair of men's leather slippers. The slipper not being one of my go-to fantasy implements, all I saw was a very nice pair of leather slippers, complete with smooth leather sole and soft interior. Mr. W tried one on and when he found it to be just the slightest bit too small, he commented, "You're lucky those didn't fit." Ah. So we weren't just looking at a pair of slippers. However, they didn't fit, and they didn't have them in any other size, so my backside was safe.

At home, he tried to find the slippers online in hopes of ordering them. They really were lovely slippers, even if they were just to be used as slippers. Well, lovely slippers indeed. They were a style called Wolcott by the shoemaker Allen Edmonds. They were, absurdly, shockingly, and completely unnecessarily $225. The pair we had found was on clearance for $40. Thus the obesessing began.

Three days later, Mama W arrives, and lord bless her, she wants to take us shopping. We begin in a department store and, while I try on clothes, she and Mr. W pick out some kitchen items I've been wanting. When I come out of the dressing rooms, she shows me the wok she's found, along with a bamboo spatula. She shakes the spatula at me and says, "Now, no spanking with this! It's for cooking."

I couldn't help myself - my jaw dropped and I looked to Mr. W in shock. "Umm, ok," I replied. Then I realized she was playfully joking, telling me that I couldn't use the spatula on him. Well, that's a given! But talk about awkward.

Then, done with that store, we headed back to the store we'd been at three days before. Mr. W had a pair of shoes he needed to exchange, but naturally, while there, he wanted to look at the slippers again. He'd read online that they stretch with a wearing or two, so the fact that they were slightly too small meant that they'd be perfect within a week. This time around, though, there was only one slipper. The other had gone missing, and despite the fact that one slipper really would have sufficed, there was no explaining that first to a salesperson and then to his mom. So, in Abby vs. The Slippers, Round Two, Abby wins again.

No good story, however, ends after Round Two. The next day, while I was at work, Mr. W and his mom went shopping again. Mr. W had a feeling that the slipper god was going to act in his favor. And what does he find when he goes to the men's shoe department? Both slippers, left and right, sitting together on display. Abby vs. The Slippers, Round Three: Slippers win with a TKO.

Thanks to Mom, we have a winner. And now that she's out of town and not present to witness my wiggling, let the slippering begin.

Suffering to Sooth the Soul, or, Assedia & Me

Although I have long since come to terms with my fascination with and craving for the pain of a good hard spanking, in all its various forms and by means of all its various implements, I still ponder the reasons why I like what I like and why I want what I want. I've expounded on theories over the years - the need to relinquish control, the healing power of tears, the reversion of woman to child in order to fully embrace the identity of woman once again - but I haven't settled on any one reason. I don't think there is or can be such a thing. And yet, through my casual reading I've developed another theory. Let's add escape from spiritual ennui to the mix.

I'm currently reading Acedia & Me by Kathleen Norris, author of the monastic memoir The Cloister Walk. In Acedia & Me, she explores the concept of acedia, a sort of boredom of the soul that was once considered the eighth "bad thought" in the philosophy of the early Christian desert monks. The eight bad thoughts of the monks became the seven deadly sins of the church and acedia was subsumed by sloth, but sloth does not cover the greater meaning of acedia. Sloth, as we know, is the act of being lazy. Acedia, in contrast, describes the state of being detached from that which we once found meaningful because we have found it, or all things, to be meaningless. In suffering from acedia we might be lazy, yes, but it is because we can perceive no value in doing that which we are avoiding.

A simple example, for Norris as well as myself, is that of acedia and writing. A few years ago, I decided that every story has been told. I have never wanted to do anything but write. I call myself a writer. But having come to that decision, it's hard to find the motivation to write when I believe that all I am doing is regurgitating in text. I've been "working" on my collection of retold fairy tales for years. "Working" means I've started a few, thought about them, abandoned them. There are all ready so many retold fairy tales. Do I really have anything new to offer? A small piece of me knows that I do. The greater part of me has trouble finding the energy to waste on mimicry.

Early concepts of acedia were tied more closely to spiritual suffering and rejecting one's closeness to God. Essentially, it's the idea that God, or the Universe, or Life Itself, metaphorically comes to a person and says, "Here, have this gift. It is the gift of now and today and your presence in it." In response, the person says, "No thank you." It is Melville's Bartleby, having accepted a job and arrived to do it, proceeds to respond to each task with "I would prefer not to."

Early in the book, Norris considers acedia's etymology and word associations. In listing its synonyms, she lands on indolence and writes:

"Dolor is an ancient word for "pain," and indolence is the inability to feel it. We've now come close to the worst that acedia can do to us: not only does it make us unable to care, it takes away our ability to feel bad about that. If we can no longer weep, or desire, or feel pain or grief, well, that's all right; we'll settle for that, we'll get by." (p. 45)

From a masochist's perspective, what could be more terrifying than the inability to feel pain? Although the quote above refers moreso to internal pain and emotional suffering, I could not help but see the parallel between feeling pain and feeling alive, feeling as though I and my actions have purpose. I think my mental state after an experience of corporal punishment must be much like the feeling one has after sky diving or white-water rafting a dangerous river, or even after riding a particularly terrifying roller coaster. There is a life-affirming sensation of having survived. Is it too far-fetched to say that reaffirming the ability to feel pain can ease the spiritual suffering of acedia? If I accept pain, I accept feeling; if I accept feeling, I acknowledge presence; if I acknowledge presence, I accept implied purpose. If I accept implied purpose, I impart meaning.

In other words, if I am punished I will feel pain. Feeling pain grounds me in myself, a self I view first and foremost as a writer. Being present in myself, as a writer, I am meant to write, and if I am meant to write, then my writing, be it word or blog post or epic tome, cannot be meaningless. I am spanked therefore I am.

Of course, this entire theory does nothing to explain why I like the thought of others being spanked. I can honestly say that I have never watched a spanking video or read spanking erotica and thought to myself afterwards, "Well, my life now has purpose and my soul is no longer wretched and abject." Then again, reading and watching erotica does always make me want to write my own, so perhaps there is greater meaning in our dirty art forms after all.

Spanking Shakespeare and Other Teen Tails...Erm, Tales

It's not what you want it to be.

When I was a teenager, there was very little published for my age group, which is why I read Miller and Nin and Plath perhaps a few years before my time. There were the school library classics - Twain and Austen and the Brontes - little of which satisfied my cravings for true explorations of the body politic and the human psyche. There were the Christopher Pike and R.L. Stine horror novels. There were the godawful Lurlene McDaniel teen romances and the cringeworthy Sweet Valley High twins. Then there were the tales of true teen life, meant to ward us hellions off of sex and drugs. For those who recall Go Ask Alice and Mr. and Mrs. Bo Jo Jones, I wholeheartedly sympathize.

Last week, while browsing at the Powell's on Burnside for birthday presents for an about-to-be-fourteen year old, I found the selection to be almost fantastically lascivious. Was I in the teen section or the erotica section, heretofore known to be located next to nautical fiction and across the aisle from sci-fi? Girls in corsets draped the covers of historical fiction. The cover of Melvin Burgess's Doing It consisted of a shadowed outline of a couple having upright sex. A favorite of both mine and Mr. W's was a zombie cheerleader lying back on a bench, one leg bent up in come hither fashion.

Anyhow, this post is not to analyze the past or current teenage landscape. It's to celebrate the apparent complete lack of difference between the stories we tell our sixteen year olds and the stories we tell ourselves. The fact that we are not, by now, a race of spankophile sex-craved zombie vampires in school uniforms remains a mystery.

These both look like BDSM erotica, don't they? Untamed, especially, looks like something published by Blue Moon.

The Ass Seen 'Round the World

Reuters photo, link obtained from associatedcontent.com

I'm sure this photo is popping up on spanking/bottom blogs around the world, but as I'm at work and can't double check on what everyone else is posting, here it is anyway, the ass seen 'round the world.

If for some reason you would like to read more about it, here's the article about the direction of Obama's eyes while at the G8 Summit in Italy. Or, if you'd like to watch news anchors agree that, yes, he really is checking out that girl's backside, watch this.

Really? This is news? She's Brazilian, for heaven's sake. It would make more sense if the headlines were "Brazilian ass passes by unnoticed." If only the Summit was being held on a beach...

Hollywood Goes to Fetishland

A scene from Californication, Season One Episode Three


If you're planning on watching the first season of Californication, I think this post counts as containing spoilers, though nothing you couldn't have figured out on your own. There. You've been warned.

Having referenced this scene in the post below, I figured I might as well put it up here too, especially after Miss Tori asked about it. I'm conflicted about the scene and the storyline concerning these two characters because, on the one hand, it's spanking, yay! On the other hand, we are presented not with a scene of personal discovery or eroticism, but with a sexual grotesquerie in the style of David Mamet's Oleanna or Francine Prose's Blue Angel.

The premise of the scene is an unexpected example of bottoming from the top. Throughout this blog, I've made reference to my own feelings about the idea of topping from the bottom, the act of getting the scene I want despite my role as the submissive. Some believe it's unacceptable behavior; I think it's simply akin to a consenting adult presenting her desires and parameters by guiding a scene without dominating the dominant partner. Bottoming from the top, however, seems more devious, at least as it plays out in the scene above.

I'm trying to imagine Mr. W asking me to spank him. It wouldn't be power exchange, it wouldn't be exploration. We both know ourselves too well, which is why I say trying to imagine. This request will never be forthcoming. For the sake of argument, though, we'll pretend this could happen. The only reason he would want me to "top" him would be to prove my willingness to submit to his every command, even the irrational ones. Trying to figure how to go about the task would be embarrasing and awkward for me, which of course would be satisfying to him. Even if I managed and ended up enjoying myself, the meaning of the scene would still be clear: his control is irrefutable.

This Californication scene represents the same dichotomy. The young woman, Dani (Rachel Miner), is the assistant of Charlie (Evan Handler), a married man and talent agent. Hapless Charlie, who makes any number of terrible decisions in his own right, doesn't realize that Dani is merely climbing the corporate ladder by climbing over his lap. She's not topping from the bottom as a spankophile presenting her bare behind and saying "Spank me please." She's bottoming from the top, commandeering the situation for her own gain. Naturally, threats of litigation and dramatic conjugal hi jinks ensue.

Still, what is refreshing about the plotline is that Dani is devious for trapping Charlie, not for engaging in acts of fetishism. Charlie, likewise, is devious for cheating on his wife (and yes, in the microcosm of the show, what he is doing in this scene and others counts as cheating, intercourse or no) but is not deviant for being curious about spanking and BDSM. It may not end in everyone living happily ever after in Fetishland, but they weren't wrong for taking a vacation there. They were just wrong for going on vacation with the wrong people, for the wrong reasons. Fetishland, meanwhile, gains a place on Hollywood's map of normal sexual behaviors, right next to Blowjobtown and up the street from Lookingatpornville.

In other words, it's all good. Just don't do it behind your wife's back or to get a promotion. Otherwise, spank away, characters. Spank away.

So You Think You Can Spank

If you do not watch the entire video above, a dance sequence from the June 24th US Season 5 episode of So You Think You Can Dance, watch the six seconds between 00:1:04 - 00:1:10. Make sure you have your volume on. Note the girls squealing and screaming like it's 1964 and they're in the audience the night Ed Sullivan presented The Beatles. But what are they screaming for? That's right - a young man, dancing the part of an older man, about to smack a scantily clad young woman's ass.

The dance, choreographed by the terrifying but extremely talented Mia Michaels and performed by dancers Randi and Evan, doesn't just feature six seconds of round female backside. The entire piece is in honor of it. Its movement, its watchability, its place at the center of this dance's universe. The sequence is flirty and sexy and surprising, well-received by judges and audience alike.

The screams of the audience falter just a little at the movement of Evan's hand, but pick right back up again. I gasped when I saw it; I don't blame the audience, seeing it in person, for losing their breath for half a second. The program is family-oriented. I know people who watch this show with small children. The point being, viewers may have been a bit surprised that a little bit of spanking showed up in the middle of their dance show, but it was met with cheers.

Now, the smack wasn't a true smack. It landed softly, part of the dance. My excitement isn't so much over the physical event than it is the presence of the idea. I've seen spanking show up recently in the television shows Weeds and Californication, both on Showtime. Neither show is family fare, that's for certain, and neither presentation was a positive representation of this thing we do. This dance is the first time I've seen presented even a hint of the idea of spanking being a sexy and playful and acceptable adult past-time. Maybe I'm reading too much into a single raised hand, but I can't help but see this as a positive step towards broadening the minds of the general populace.

On the results show the following night, each dancing couple (partnered as contestants on the program, not partners as dancers or otherwise in real life) was introduced and given feedback on their performance and the voting results as to whether they would remain on the series. Even before Randi and Evan's names were announced, the audience once again cheered wildly for them, moreso than for any other couple. Neither is the best dancer on the show, but the ass-centric dance with the spanking tease was the clear winner this week, hands raised.

Backhand

image: No Regrets: The Best, Worst & Most #$%*ing Ridiculous Tattoos Ever by Aviva Yael & P M Chen, published by Little, Brown.

Mr. W showed me this image the other day at The Independent and my first instinct was, "My goodness, that must have stung!" Then, seeing the article it was connected to, I realized how such a mark was caused: via a needle and ink.

The article was called "Making Your Mark: The World's Most Bizarre Tattoos" and featured just that - strange tattoos. This one, however takes the cake. I wish I knew what she was thinking when she had that image placed upon her body, not to mention how the tattoo artist took the request.

One can assume that the tattooed woman in question is a fan of spanking. We can probably assume that, like many spankees, she enjoys viewing the marks left afterwards. There's something that makes me feel both sexy and proud when I look over my shoulder and see anything from the bright pink of a fresh play spanking to the white stripes left long after a caning has ended and the welts have faded. On the one hand, now everytime she admires her own backside, she'll have a mark to admire. On the downside, will the marks from a real spanking have the same impact as if they were the only marks on her bare bottom? They'll at least be unsymmetrical, and we all know that tops pride themselves on their ability to leave us in symmetrical pain. That handprint might confuse the entire canvas.

Is to ward off potential spankers? After a night out, she takes a man home, fearful that he may spank her, but when he sees that mark, he'll know she's already been punished? Or is to beckon them? Maybe her options were either a textual tattoo reading "Spank Here" or the hand, and she chose the hand. Even so, she'd still have to pull her pants down first, which doesn't seem like the thing one should do while still out at the pubs or clubs.

I wish I could ask her why she chose this. I know there are often intensely personal reasons behind the ink, and I am more curious about this tattoo than any other I've seen. Since third grade I have wanted a small Eye of Horus on the back of my neck, and I still haven't had the courage to commit to such permanence. What is the story behind this bottom hand?

The Spanking on the Wall

I have so much to write but not much time to do the writing! Mr. W and I recently went on a short vacation for our second anniversary. We stayed in a converted nunnery, featuring quotes from nuns on the walls. To our absolute amazement and delight, the word "spanking" was on the wall over our bed. I have a suspicion that the ghosts of nuns past may have contributed to the spanking I received during our stay - if only I'd recorded at least the audio to share with my fellow spankophiles! I think I sobbed more from a spanking with our new leather paddle (from The London Tanners, more to come on that delicious beast of an implement) than from any other punishment I've received. I've never felt more like a weepy little girl, and I cannot wait to tell you more about it. Fingers crossed that I finally find some time this week to explain it all in detail.

Sound of Silence

"Speak No Evil" by Tina Blondell. View her artwork here.

I'm noisy. If you've watched any of the Naughty Abby movies or even the short bits I've posted here on the blog, you know I react vocally to pretty much everything. I don't think about it, I just let my body respond naturally, and I am naturally, well, a bit loud.

In some ways, I think my vocalizations are a way of releasing pain. That's not to say that I am free of pain once I make a sound, it's just the way the pain travels through my body. Imagine the cane striking my backside. That stinging stroke doesn't remain where it lands. It courses up my spine, breaking the arch of my back and causing me to buck out of position. It continues upwards, reaching my neck and causing me to throw my head back. The pain then travels forward, along my jawline. My mouth opens. The force of the blow is released in breath, in whimper, in scream. Even as I write this and imagine the path of that single cane stroke, my lips twitch. I cannot imagine receiving any form of corporal punishment without my mouth reacting in some way.

Recently, this innate reaction was tested. I'd had a long and difficult day at work, and Mr. W and I had been texting back and forth for hours about just how he would distract me from stressing about the day when I got home. My favorite text from him was when I still had six hours left to the day and he wrote, "Only six more strokes of the cane, I mean clock, til you are off!"

At home that night, he warmed me with an over the knee hand spanking and then a strapping with the belt before he wielded the object we'd both fantasized about all day. He made me kneel on the edge of the bed with my back arched. He reached forward and took a throw blanket and pressed it to my lips. I opened my mouth and he tucked the makeshift but intimate gag inside. "Bite down," he told me quietly, perversely gentle. That gentleness always indicates a focused, steady violence to come.

I cried out, muffled, into the blanket at the first two strokes. "Quietly," he reminded me. I whimpered at the next stroke, tried to be quiet at the next, and screamed as quiely as I could against my gag at the stroke after that.

He tapped my lower thighs with the cane. "You will be quiet or I will start from the beginning, from much lower." He rubbed the cane, sawlike, just an inch or two above the backs of my knees.

At the next stroke, I opened my mouth but kept the scream in the back of my throat. A trapped scream is like a gag in and of itself. The air catches; for a moment it is impossible to breathe in or out. I managed the same thing at the next stroke as well.

This forced quiet sent me into a strangely conscious headspace. Usually, this type of punishment is about letting go. I can lose myself in tears and pain, and my vocal cries carry my anguish out of my body until I am left empty and cleansed of angst. Maintaining silence required an extreme presence.

At first, I was angry, frustrated that I couldn't scream and find that release, frustrated that I had to remain so much in my own head. As the caning continued, I began to feel alone, as if it was just me and the cane strokes. Losing volume had made me lose connection to Mr. W as well. Realizing this, as I was so very conscious of each thought, I began to scream internally with each stroke. Mouth strained and open but emitting no sound, the screams echoed inside my skull. Rather than taking pain and releasing it in cries, I took pain and released it as energy, killing the things that were frustrating me.

My first focused internal scream was directed at Mr. W, for the imposed silence. Having released that, I was able to focus on the things that had influenced my bad day. Two strokes meant an internal scream for two bosses who had especially aggravated me that day. Another stroke released a focused stream of banishing energy at the customers who had frustrated me. Another stroke let me howl, in silence, over having had to work that day at all. After all, it was a Saturday.

Then, the silence filled me. My release must have been visible, as the caning only continued for a few more strokes, which I rode in a detached calm. When it was over, wrapped in Mr. W's arms, I sobbed a little, but it was good crying, "happy tears" although still the result of pain rather than joy. I also felt amazingly in control, having mastered my instinctual reactions. I don't think I could do it all the time. I don't think I would want to. In this case, though, when the session was more about psychology than punishment or play, I am amazed at how Mr. W knew exactly what I needed - to feel in charge, to feel like I wasn't at the whim of my employers, to feel like I could let them go and just be myself for the rest of the weekend.

I don't know if I could do it again, if I didn't have anything to be angry about. If I didn't have a focus and a direction for those internal screams, how would I deal with them? Would I lose the challenge and be punished with a dreaded thigh caning? Would I find a way of controlling myself on a day when all I want to do is give up control? If I did manage, I can't help but think I would need a second caning afterwards, one in which I could cry outloud, so as to release myself of the silent intensity of the first session.

FFF: Even White Boys Got to Shout

I failed at 250 words this week. Is anyone surprised? Lots of house and yardwork to do today, so I decided to post a too long story rather than try to edit it back or write a new shorter one. I managed to include 4 out of 6 wildcards.



Paul was still in the shower when his cell phone began to ring. I was lying in bed, watching grey wisps of early morning cloud part to reveal pure blue sky. Any New Englander, born and raised, knew what that sky meant. Summer had arrived in full force, and with it, humidity. In two days, that sky would be clouded over again, pregnant with the season's first thunderstorm. I had already begun to feel the tickle of summer sweat on the backs of my knees and the insides of my elbows. Paul's thin cotton sheet clung to me as I grabbed his phone from the nightstand and looked at the caller ID.

"Becky calling," the screen announced. I collapsed back onto the bed and fumed, mentally reviewing every woman I knew Paul talked to. By the time Paul walked into the bedroom, hair wet and dressed only in a towel around his waist, I had worked myself into a jealous panic. "Who the hell is Becky?" I demanded. "Why is she calling you so early? Why don't I know about her?"

Paul cocked his head and raised an eyebrow at me, frowning. "Seriously?"

"Of course seriously! Who is she?"

"I don't believe this," Paul muttered, reaching for the rough leather belt he kept looped through a dresser drawer handle. "Roll over. You are being ridiculous."

The sight of him nearly naked, belt in hand, had made me more wet than the onset of humidity, so I did as I was told. Immediately, the belt whipped across my bare bottom. I clutched my pillow but didn't cry out. The belt struck again and it stung like hell, but I was still upset and didn't want to give him the satisfaction of my pain. He continued to punish me, belting harder, trying to make me react. By the end of two dozen strokes, I was quietly sobbing against the pillow. My backside burned but I resisted reaching back to rub it. I sobbed louder, out of relief, when he rubbed my sore flesh for me.

"Baby," he began soothingly, sitting next to me on the edge of the bed. "I love this ass." He squeezed my right cheek, making me squirm. "But you know I can't help but check out other asses when they pass me on the street. It's my nature." I nodded my head. That had never bothered me. I did the same thing. "Well, Tom likes asses too. We have a code when we're out and want to tell the other one to take a look at someone's butt. You know what it is?"

"No," I grumbled, not sure what Paul's best friend had to know with some random girl calling at seven in the morning.

"We say to each other, 'Oh my God, Becky.' Do you know why?"

The phrase was familiar. He smacked my tender backside twice, once on each cheek. "Come on. You know why."

All my anger dissipated into laughter as I realized what was going on. Becky wasn't a random girl, it was Tom, programmed into Paul's cell phone as an homage to Sir Mix A Lot's classic 1992 hip-hop ode to big butts everywhere, "Baby Got Back."

Paul and I looked at each other and simultaneously quoted the opening line of the song. "Oh my God, Becky. Look at her butt." He stood up, grabbing belt again and folding it into a loop as he did so. "Well, what do you say? Do you want another dozen before I hit the road?"

I wiggled my own big butt and grinned. "You know I do."

A still from the video for Sir Mix A Lot's "Baby Got Back"

Flash Fiction Friday #3

I missed Flash Fiction Friday #2, but here's this week's edition. What is Flash Fiction Friday? Here's the description, from Flash Fiction Friday creator Casey Morgan:
Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday #3. Come write a 250-word story. Start any time Friday, finish by 6pm PDT Saturday. Post the link to your story below or on Twitter. Try to include the wildcards.

This week’s wildcards:
shower
ring
in pricipio
lemon meringue
rough leather
blue sky

Spread the word, and have fun!

250 Word Story Challenge

Yesterday on Twitter, @CaseyDamnMorgan, @SpankinResource, and I decided to challenge each other to write a 250 word story. There were only two rules:

1) Post the story by 6pm PST Saturday night. (That gave us approximately 25 hours.)
2) Try to include the wildcard words or phrases that we each submitted. The words chose were as follows: "green willow," "loose thread," and "hairbrush."

The rest was up to us. A few others got in on the challenge as we created it. I'll post links to them as I learn of the postings. Visit the blogs listed at the end of this post to see other challenge submissions.

The following is my own submission, based on a dream I had a year ago about Pandora telling me she'd "dreamed about the linden tree again." The story, as stories do, took a different direction than I was expecting, and it's quite difficult to tell a whole story in 250 words. It's more like trying to write a poem in sentences. Still, I think I'm happy with the result, and am interested to see how the others do, and whether we make this a regular event.

Liese told me her dream as soon as she woke beside me, even though I was still half asleep. She pressed against me, stroking my night-matted hair, one bare leg draped over my thighs, her foot tucked under my calf. She whispered:

"It was the linden tree in bloom again, Marie. The flowers should have been white, but they were violet, like this," she touched the amethyst birthstone I always wore on a silver chain around my neck, "or like this." She reached back to touch the backs of her thighs, which I knew still bore plum stripes from the caning she'd received at the hands of her other lover.

The first time I saw her marked like that, I felt sick to my stomach. Her obvious pain tugged at the strings of my heart and found a loose thread. I unraveled, that first time she stood naked and truly bared before me.

"Your hair," she said then, grabbing a hairbrush from the bedside table and beginning to brush the knots from my tangled mess. "Anyway, I was lying under it, holding tendrils of green willow, waiting for you and Aaron to join me. Aaron had promised to whip me with them. You'd promised to braid them into my hair. Wind rushed the tree, raining me with petals. I knew neither of you were coming."

I wondered how long I had before she told me she was leaving us both. One more dream? I remained silent and prayed for two.

Visit these writers' blogs for more 240-250 word story challenge entries. (I think a Twitter typo somewhere along the way turned it into 240 words for half the participants, but that's ok.)

Casey Morgan

The Spanking Resource

Sabrina Morgan

PapaTomLA

Peek of the Week for April 29th

Sent to me in an email forward called "Why You Should Always Twirl Once Before the Mirror" by a very conservative co-worker. Talk about a peek!

Abby is Lusting For: This unusual pearl ring. I'm not much of a wearer of jewelry, but this ring is something else. Literally. Turn the ring in so that the pearls are palm-side and you have one very expensive sex toy! I'm curious as to how it would feel on my own body, but I'm honestly dying to try it on Mr. W. Sadly, unless the whole world decides they need to purchase the entire contents of my clip store, a $750 ring is not in my future. Check out Coco de Mer for this and other objets d'amour. They even have whips made of human hair. (Thanks to Miss Tori for the link!)

Abby is Fascinated By: The fetish artwork of Joe Shuster, aka The Creator of Superman. Apparently, after selling the rights to Superman for $130, Shuster drew a series of graphics for a naughty story magazine called Nights of Horror. Read about it here and here.

Abby is Reading: The back of a Starbucks cup. It's titled "The Way I See It #76" and is a quote about commitment credited to "Anne Morriss, a Starbucks customer from New York City." The quote reads as follows:

"The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating - in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life."

This reminds me of a passage from Story of O. As soon as I find it, I will post it here.

Punchline to a Bad Day

Why are these panties also a punchline? Read about my bad day yesterday.

Some days, it seems that nothing is going right.

When I took a break at work and called you in the afternoon, just to say hi, you listened to me tell you about the day I was having and then gently asked me, "Are you going to be ok?" Tears welled up in my eyes. That little bit of kindness nearly broke me, so we got off the phone with hopes for a better night.

After arriving at home, I was still a nervous wreck. I paced the house, I fidgeted. You came home and told me about your own bad day, then began to pace as well. We tried talking, tried coming up with a plan, tried talking about what to have for dinner. Finally I stood by the couch, exhausted, wanting to lie down and go to sleep when it was only six o'clock.

You stopped pacing too and stood before me. You took my hands in yours and kissed my forehead, then my lips. Still close to my face, you whispered, "Turn around." I did, and you led me to the side of the couch. You touched the small of my back. I knew to bend over the arm, to put my forearms down on the cushion, to wait patiently for whatever was to come. I worried that once I started really crying, I wouldn't be able to stop. Remembering the caning at the beginning of the week, I murmured, "Please not too much. I can't today. I just can't."

"I don't believe that's your decision, young lady," you told me firmly. You patted my denim-clad bottom. Even Casual Friday hadn't made my day any easier. "I will determine what you can and can't take." Normally, this would make me tremble with a delicious but frightened anticipation. This time, it served to take any remaining strength from me. I collapsed more fully against the couch arm and the cushion beneath my arms, letting it rather than my legs hold my weight. The decision, and thus the control, was out of my hands. It was certain: you were going to spank me and I had no say in the matter.

"Ready?" You weren't so much asking as commanding. You didn't wait for an answer before you started spanking me in a steady, bouncing rhythm, back and forth from one cheek to the other. The smacks were hard but bearable. Enough to sting through jeans, not enough to bring forth the tears we both knew were coming.

The spanking was steady for a minute or two, maybe three; I lose my sense of time when it comes to these things. During that time I was trying to let my mind go blank, trying to release the day and its trials. I think you sensed that I was having trouble fully surrendering the issues that were on my mind. You stopped spanking and I heard the slight metallic clinking of a belt unbuckling, the whisp of sound that is leather pulled quickly through belt-loops.

I screamed at the first stroke, despite my pants still being up. It was hard, too hard, but it was the reaction you were going for. I jerked up and you pressed me back down into position. "There," you said. "Did anything like that happen at work today?" I shook my head no. "Then it couldn't have been so bad. What if you had to do this for a living?"

I couldn't help it; I grinned into the cushion. My hair was covering my face so you couldn't see me, but you knew. Of course you knew. You whipped me again with the belt, not so hard this time, just enough to smart and make me wiggle. Four more times, the leather landed right between bottom and thigh, each time in the same spot. I was no longer smiling and the first tears were forming, but I tried to hold myself together. I wasn't ready to break, not just yet.

"Imagine," you began, letting the belt fall in a slow but steady rhythm against the full of my backside, "having to do this all the time. Getting spanked, belted, caned, you name it, you'd have to take it. Is sitting at an office desk so bad? Eye strain, carpel tunnel, what are these things compared to a welted and bruised bottom day in and day out?" You paused to let me answer.

"Yes, that would be terrible, sir," I agreed. The belt came down hard.

"Do I sense sarcasm?" I shook my head again, lying. "Undo your jeans. Lower them to your knees. Keep your panties up."

I did as told, wondering why I had to keep my panties on. They were turquoise mesh with lace trim at the low-riding waist. Utterly useless in protecting oneself during a spanking situation. Jeans bunched at my knees, I waited for the next blow to come. When it didn't, I turned around, hands still on the couch but twisting my head and body to see why you hadn't continued. Your hand was covering your mouth and your cheeks were turning red. Your whole body was shaking. Were you...? Yes you were. You were laughing.

Now the tears were about to stream. Huge droplets pooled in the corners of my eyes. I started sniffling and I covered my top lip with my lower in a pathetic pout. "Why are you laughing at me?" I asked in my smallest voice.

"Oh baby," you said. You tugged at the fabric still covering my bottom. "No wonder you had a bad day. Your panties are on inside-out." You, my stern disciplinarian, dissolved into a fit of giggles. I reached back and felt what you'd been tugging on. It was the tag on the outside of my underpants.

My hair hid my face again as I began shaking uncontrollably. You lifted the curtain of hair, ready to comfort me, when you saw what we'd both been needing all along: my tears falling in streams over my cheeks and me laughing, laughing so hard that for a good minute I couldn't stop. You laughed along with me, and each time our eyes met the laughing began anew in full sobs at the absurdity of it all.

When we finally settled down, you wiped the tears from my eyes and So helped my jeans back up over a bottom that was, for all our laughter, bright pink and sore, and offered to drive to pick us up Chinese food.

It wasn't so bad a day after all.

Yesterday's panties, complete with tag out, slight tear, and just an eensy bit of bum cleavage.

Peek of the Week for April 22

(The image above was from a vintage amateur porn site called Dixie Cutie, which now seems to be especially nasty "spread me wide and put a camera in it" style porn. Ick.)

Abby's Watching: Sorry, everyone, there should be a fabulous link to a spanking video or the like here, but I'm watching the NHL Stanley Cup Playoffs with Mr. W. This is taking up a good amount of time, and between work and hockey, I haven't had much time for blogging. Don't worry, though, I'm taking notes on all my ideas and hope to have a number of sexy posts for you soon.

Abby's Smarting From: A cold caning on Monday night. I wish I'd taken pictures! The welts were perfect. They're less apparent now, though still painful. I've been working in a busy office all week, and all I can hope is that my fidgeting in my seat in hopes of finding a less uncomfortable position went unnoticed. A few times, without thinking first, I collapsed into my chair and audibly said "Ouch." Oops.

Abby's Being Distracted By: The Calgary/Chicago game now in its 3rd period in the other room. We're tied. I must go! I do love the ice violence. Men with sticks. Mmmmm.

Wow, My Tush Looks Amazing

Advertisement for Muscle Milk, found in Self magazine.

Sometimes, you see an ad for something that is just good to be true. In this case, the part that was too good to be true was the packaging itself. As soon as I flipped to this ad in Self Magazine, I was already imagining having to run down to GNC just to purchase a bottle of chocolate milk that advertises the fabulousness of my own backside. "Look, everyone!" I could shout to the mall after making my purchase. "Doesn't my tush look AMAZING?!?!" I'd hold the bottle up as proof. At best, if any Portlanders I know from Fetlife or Twitter were at the mall at the time, they'd hear my cry and have a chance to say hello. At worst, I'd be asked to leave the mall, though hopefully it would be due to my yelling and not because a security guard disagreed with my proclamation.

Sadly, I checked the Muscle Milk website, and the actual words "Wow, my tush looks amazing" do not appear on the bottle itself. Well, that's a sale lost right there. I had envisioned Muscle Milk becoming the spanko's drink of choice, and it would be a way of identifying one another. Bottoms would carry the bottle and tops could approach them and say, "Why yes it does! But I could make it look a whole lot better." Super spanko code. But alas, it is not to be.

Now I'm wondering what other vanilla (or, as in this case, chocolate) products use slogans that could be appropriated by us fetish folk. Anything clever come to mind?

Third Time's the Charm?

I'm still committed to this "Peek of the Week" phrase, although it didn't last in its initial conception. I've been thinking about how to make use of it, and I began to think about how I really like those weekly roundups of what a person's been up to, whether it's Chross's Guide to the spankings he's found around the Internet or the non-fetish pop culture gems listed every Friday on the Pop Candy blog. This afternoon, I realized I could combine the two, which would allow me to provide a "peek" into what I've been thinking and doing, even when I don't have time to write a full essay or story about it all. So, despite the fact that it is already Thursday for half my readers, here is my attempt at Peek of the Week Version 3.0.

Abby is Reading: Casey Morgan's Blog
When Casey posted a link to a new blog post on Twitter yesterday, I figured I'd take a minute and read it since I hadn't had a chance to check out her blog yet and I'd been meaning to for weeks. It was midday, so I was at my desk at work, taking a quick brain break when I opened her page. Half an hour and a handful of Kleenex later, I was only able to pull myself away because the phone rang.

Casey's blog isn't just about spanking, though it's a core element, because it's a core element of Casey herself. She also writes about her identity, her dreams, and her experiences. What caused my eyes to tear was that she writes about all these things alongside her grief for her late husband, with whom she shared those experiences. I don't often think of what would become of my identity as Abby if Mr. W was no longer around. I don't know if I could still write here, in this part of my world. Casey not only writes in this world, she allows us into her life with a blend of honesty, humor, and insight, and I am grateful that she has become one of my friends.

Abby is Dreaming: A wooden fireplace mantel, with metal loops at each end, to which my wrists are tied with my body facing the unlit fireplace. This mantel is in a small cabin, Thoreau-style, in the middle of the woods. It seems I have trespassed. I am to be punished, but I have been unable to see the dweller of the cabin. Is it Mr. W? A burly woodsman? Thoreau himself, who will lecture me on measuring the water level of the pond (having been there many a time, it's really more of a small, beautiful lake) while he punishes me for treading on land he knows full well he does not, cannot, own? All I know is that every time I've let my mind wander this week, I find this mantel before my face, arms spread and bound, legs free but spread open, by commad. I stand on tiptoe. I wait

Abby is Craving: A new vibrator, as my favorite (this was the blue ridged one mentioned in the fantasy I wrote about in "When I Think About You I...") finally gave up after five happy years together. I'm still shopping for a new one, and trying to find something that I will love as much but that I can still afford. Why must pleasure be so pricey? Mr. W and I have enjoyed many a trip to antique stores all along the Pacific Coast, questing for items to be used against my backside. We've splurged a few times, but we've also made some fantastic finds without emptying our wallets. Antique stores are most definitely not an option when it comes to standard sex toys! Comically, I'm envisioning trying to use a hand-operated mechanical egg-beater, the kind with a crank you have to turn, to create vibration. On second thought, if I'm actually thinking of trying to get off with an egg-beater, maybe I need to just shell out the extra dollars and get something that will do the job. Clearly, this girl's in need.


And so ends the first edition of Peek of the Week V3.0. I'll have to try to include more links and tidbits next time, but I wanted to put this together while it was still Wednesday for me and thus technically still the "peak of the week." Fingers crossed that I can keep to a schedule in the future! Or perhaps Mr. W and I can create an agreement. If I fail to post a Peek of the Week, my next post will have to be a detailed description of how he punished me for procrastinating. Win, win!

(Um, yes. It's now Thursday for me as well. Better late than never?)

Return to Form and Function

Temporary souvenier handprint from the first strapping, mentioned below, with an antique barber strop on our honeymoon. In pain, I reached out and pressed my arm against our vehicle, as we were outside at night. We took a photo the next morning, when we realized I had left a handprint on the window. I remember us looking at it and Mr. W commenting, "It looks like someone was in distress."

Last night, whilst on my hands and knees and thinking we were about to do something quite different, I found myself receiving a short hand-spanking. It stung, but I became giddy and lightheaded; I'd been thinking of nothing but this for too many days. When it stopped as quickly as it started, I was disappointed, only to realize that Mr. W had paused in order to reach for the long, fur-lined toybox that had gone into hibernation for the first time this winter. The latch opened with a slow metallic pop, but we both knew the meaning behind the rasping snap: "At last, it's spring."

He began to rummage through the box, searching, I supposed, for the perfect implement, but after a few seconds I became curious and peered over the side of the box to watch him. I felt a bit like I was cheating, like it was supposed to be a surprise, but he let me watch, and gauged my reaction when he laid one of the more pliant straps alongside me. Our eyes met, and I cannot say what my gaze held for him. Did he see fear? Trepidation? Lust? I felt a confused mix of all three, remembering both the ecstasy of a long strapping session we'd shared a few years ago, as well as the biting sting of a newly purchased stiff antique barber strop, which he'd tested on me at night on a bluff by the Pacific Ocean, under a million stars with no other lights for miles. I wasn't sure that I was ready quite yet for a strapping, but there was only one way to find out. I braced myself and cried out when it struck me, but oh, was I in heaven.

I'm not sure how long the strapping lasted. A few strokes? A few minutes? I think it was just enough to remind me how much I'd missed it. I never once had that thought I used to have all the time, that question of "Why do I like this?" It was a playful spanking, not one meant for punishment or anyone's enjoyment but our own. Then just as I was falling into the rhythm of the strap, he switched implements and began spanking me with an ovular, flat leather equestrian slapper, one of our first toys, and one we bought within our first few days together in Oregon. I adore this item. When used with enough force, it produces a sensation that causes me to say "Ouch!" or "Ow ow ow!" but it never makes me scream. It's a warm-up toy, a play toy, and a welcome opening or intermission. In this case, it was the intermission between the strap and the tawse.

For the first, and probably last, time ever, I nearly said, "Yaaaay!" when the tawse came out of the box. I have been obsessing about the tawse for weeks and was so relieved to see it rather than the cane or something dastardly and wooden. That last video clip I posted is proof that I am not in love with the sensation of the tawse, and certainly not when it's used as discipline, but I am in love with the scent of it, the weight of it, the idea of it wrapping its fiery tongue across and around the inside of each cheek, making me squirm and cry out and struggle to escape its sting. The sentiment of celebration dissipated the moment he began to use it upon me, but rather than fighting it, I fell straight into the focused mindset of taking each stroke, letting the sting settle, then consciously moving back into position to receive the next one. I squealed and pulled away a bit, don't get me wrong - it was the tawse, after all, even if it wasn't being used as viciously as I've felt it in the past - but I had been craving this so much that I didn't want to miss the experience by fighting it as I normally might have done. Finally, kneeling on the bed, back arched and legs apart, bottom red and hair flying, I felt completely like myself.

I didn't cry until it was over. I hadn't realized I wasn't crying until the spanking had stopped, and then suddenly I was overcome with a rush of tears. They were exhausted but happy tears, not born of pain but of the elation that comes with survival. It wasn't the punishment that I'd survived, however, it was its absence. Now, spring had sprung in bright red and pink blooms across the pale winter expanse of my backside. In years to come, I will happily leave the chasing of eggs and rabbits to my youth and look forward to a new Easter tradition - the Happy Easter Tawsing.