Saturday, October 9, 2010

Well, if you're going to live near a tourist attraction...

As sometimes I have nothing to say about spanking (or, better phrased, sometimes I have no time to write what I would like to write about spanking), I can at least take a moment to post about something just as good - a woman's bottom.

I found the above picture by chance. I'm reading a gorgeous novel by Nicholas Christopher called The Bestiary, which is about a man's quest for a lost text detailing the animals denied passage on Noah's Ark. It has nothing to do with women's bottoms, but as the universe can't help but lead me to them anyway, so too did this book.

While reading this evening, I was struck by a passage in which the narrator blacks out and wakes in a room filled with lifelike jade statues of animals, along with "statues of the Buddha, his mother Maya, the goddess Kwan-Yin, and the Zen patriarchs, Bodhidharma and Huiko. Mara, the Evil One, was carved in cinnabar, as with his army of winged demons."

I am not well-read in Buddhism, but I do have a favorite room in the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston that I have called, since I was in elementary school, the Buddha Room. It is a medium sized room, so dimly light it is near dark, in which a collection of Buddhist statues is housed, each in its own display around the perimeter. The first time I visited it, I stood before a statue, golden in color and strangely slender compared to the others, and I remember feeling, "This statue does not like me." I am long time believer that statues are alive, in a sense, and perhaps this is the root of that belief. I told my mother, who agreed that the statue did not feel right, and we wondered together if it fought with the other statues. Interestingly, after a remodel of the Buddha room, this particular statue was moved into the room next door and encased in glass near no other statues. Museum folk know: art is alive.

Anyhow, upon reading the passage, I wondered whether that same unnerving statue of my childhood was Mara, so I looked the name up in Google images to see if I could find an image of the entity or of the actual statue from the MFA. I couldn't find it, but being Google images, I was treated to various ladies in their sexy poses and states of undress. And then there was the image above.

It is a mermaid, despite her bottom and legs, and stands in Kerala, India. The Google image is from a blog called Mermaids are Real. The author conjectures that perhaps the statue stands in tribute to a possible history of female divers in Kerla, female divers (for food, not sport) being the actual subject of the blog. The statue seems shockingly large, but after a while, I can't help but wonder if residents even see it as they pass by. I'm not sure I'd want to become so accustomed to a naked bottom that it no longer impresses me when I pass by. Then again... I guess most of us never tire of these lovely things, do we?

Saturday, September 18, 2010

The Playground Sadist

The Perils of Hansel and Gretel - Bryan Baugh's Cryptlogic

I started writing a Hansel and Gretel inspired tale last night, but was quickly led off track at the memory of a playground game from elementary school called "Growing a Rose Garden" It was a strange exercise of sadism even for children, who at that age are still exploring what it means to be mean. Now I'm not sure where the story is going, but here it is so far:

“He began by growing me a rose garden,” the young woman who called herself Piper said, candlelight plumping the sunken curve of her cheekbones and warming the blue hollows beneath her eyes.

The old woman who had wrapped her in a blanket, fed her bread and broth, and offered her a narrow pallet by the fire in exchange for help in and around the cabin placed her furrowed palm upon the girl’s forearm. “That doesn’t sound so bad.” She caught herself, knowing all too well that stories never end where they begin. “For a beginning, I mean.”

Piper shook her head, twisting her arm beneath the old woman’s grasp so that her inner arm was exposed. “It’s a game children play. Cruel children, kind children. Some like to grow the garden, some like to have the garden grown. Some don’t know any better that rose gardens are nothing but ornamental thorns until it’s too late.”

The old woman frowned. “How do you play?”

“Hold out your arm. Like this.” Piper held out her arm, soft inner flesh upwards. Her companion held out her arm.

“First, the farmer goes to the store,” said Piper. She walked her fingers up the woman’s arm from palm to inner elbow. “He buys some seeds. Then he goes back home.” She walked her fingers back down to the woman’s palm; the older woman shivered. It had been so long since she had felt another human’s touch.

“Then he digs holes to plan the seeds.” With the half moon of her index fingernail, she scraped the woman’s arm six times, as if digging six small holes in her flesh. She was gentle.

“Then the farmer plants the seeds.” She tapped her fingers against the other woman’s flesh, burying the imaginary seeds. She struck a slow pattern up and down the arm.

“Then the farmer waters the seeds.” The tapping quickened, fingers raining tiny blows back and forth across the forearm a number of times. “Watering is the trick to the game,” Piper said, whispering to indicate her words were not part of the process. “The watering lulls you, fools you, dominates you.”

Piper grabbed the woman’s palm with her other hand, the one that had not been playing the game until now, holding the arm straight out. “Then the roses bloom.” She pinched the arm hard, terribly hard, so hard that a pink bloom rose upon the white flesh. The woman cried out but Piper held the arm, refusing to let her pull away. She pinched her again and again until five more pink spots rose like welts. “There is your rose garden,” said Piper, finally releasing the old woman from her grasp.

Tears of unexpected pain had welled in the woman’s eyes but she did not let them fall. “Someday I will tell you of another rose garden, but not tonight. Not tonight, my dear.” She stood then, leaving Piper both embarrassed and afraid.

“Will you still let me stay?” Piper asked.

“You may stay as long as you like,” said the woman. “For now, and forever after, if you so desire. But stories are meant to be shared, and a beginning is a stranger to a story‘s end. Tell me more of your tale tomorrow and we will see where both our endings lie.” She leaned over, dimming the candle with her bare fingertips. “These old hands of mine,” she said. “They’re so dry and withered, I’m not sure I would know if they were to catch on fire.” With that, she left Piper to her doubts, the darkness, and dreams.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Filth Foreshadowed

Men's Adventure Magazines (Pop Pulp Art found here!)

A few months ago, I started a project involving the random selection of a story from the collected Brothers Grimm, followed by rewriting the selected story as an erotic spanking tale. I got through one story, sort of. I wrote the entire thing except the actual spanking scene. Still, excited by the project, I used a random number generator to select the next page number: page 826. The story, "The Aged Mother."

This is a one paragraph story about an old woman who is lonely because everyone she knows, including her own two sons, has died. In the middle of her lamentations one night, she hears the church bells ring, so she goes down to the church, only to find its pews packed full of her dearly departed. Her dead aunt comes to her and says:

"Look there beside the altar, and you will see your sons." The old woman looked there, and saw her two children, one hanging on the gallows, the other bound to the wheel. Then said the aunt, "Behold, so would it have been with them if they had lived, and if the good God had not taken them to himself when they were innocent children."

A sexy spanking story this does not make. So, back in January, I became stuck. For one thing, the story is one paragraph long. Secondly, the sons would have to be made into daughters, because I, at this point in my life, have not yet ventured into writing men into submissive roles. Thirdly, even at it's mildest, turning this story into an erotic spanking story is the equivalent of torture porn. So I gave up. I didn't want to say "Pass" and pull a new random story to retell because that felt like cheating, and and I didn't want to write this story. So: nothing.

Five months later, I have remembered that I like torture. I've always been fascinated by it, in fact. Torture in the classic sense, that is. Scold's bridles, pears, whipping posts. None of this water torture nonsense, or Hostel films, or prejudicial inhumanity. No, I'm talking medieval, sexualized, wood-engraved, Andrei Codrescu's The Blood Countess-style torture. I even own sword-swallower Daniel P. Mannix's History of Torture, romanticized and devoid of references though it may be. My favorite fairy tale retelling is Anne Bishop's "Match Girl" as it appears in one of Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling's fairy tale collections, Ruby Slippers, Golden Tears. Per that retelling, poor little match girl, indeed.

This morning when I got into work, I realized I didn't care much about my work day, and in between moments of productivity, I worked on a list of both stories and blog posts that have fallen by the wayside. The Grimm project was on the top of the list. Then I started taking notes... and notes... and notes... and while I do not have an actual story to present to you now, I am finally writing again. The aged mother has been turned into a farmer, the sons into wives, the gallows and wheel into... well... you're just going to have to wait on that, but there are whipping posts and stocks in the future, as well as a second wife's skirt lifted well over her waist while she is, shall we say, retained.

You may have noticed I changed the header image and subtitle of the blog. I want to write more about the writing process. And yes, the filming process, which may or may not begin again this weekend, depending on the mood of the household. For the writing, I just need to sit down and write. For the filming, well, I've gained thirty pounds since I last filmed, and I wasn't exactly slender then, so it's all a matter of deciding whether to bare myself to that degree or not. More bottom to spank, right? Well, I'd like to think that's the case.

So, to round out the blog entry, I'm going a bit mad with desire. Wanting to write spanking stories at work, wanting to make spanking films whilst I'm actually only walking the dog and going with Mr. W to the grocery store. I'm going to write a story of depravity, filth, and torture. And spanking. And then, with any luck, I'll have a chance to reenact some of it on film. And then it's on to zombies. You don't even want to know about the spanking Antarctic zombies...

Sunday, April 18, 2010


And.... not so much.

Let's begin with a description of the porn, ridiculous and available on Comcast "Worst Cable Monopoly Ever" On Demand though it may have been: "WEW presents "Nude Booty Beat Down". The Booties are poised and ready for a smack down! Hold on to your belts, paddles, and straps as WEW gets it going with "Nude Booty Beat Down". You don't want to miss one second of the totally nude totally uncensored action!"

Aren't you curious? And if you have a spare $9.99 that you probably aren't going to pay Comcast for three months anyway, isn't there a chance you might just, on a lazy Sunday morning, explore that curiosity? Well, stop right there my friends. If you have any respect for the vocabulary of not just spanking but erotica itself, you will go no further into this downward spiral of eyeball pain. No spanking pain, no sexy ladies in pain, just the pain of your eyes as you wonder why you didn't spend $9.99 on a Naughty Abby video (alright, I do own my own videos, so that wasn't an option for me) or any other fantastic creature who has experienced an actual spanking on film.

Vocabulary issue #1: If you are going to use the phrase "belts, paddles, and straps," you ought to make sure they appear in your film. If there is no belting, paddling, or strapping, you are better off watching an old WWF/WWE spanking match (see below).

Vocabulary issue #2: If you imply that it is the wrestlers who are nude, then the wrestlers should be nude. If it turns out that the wrestlers remain clothed the entire time, with barely a flash of panty to be seen, and the nudity comes in the form of intermissions that were filmed separately from the wrestling ring and feature young obviously-not-interested-in-pornography women who were probably hoping for a break into the business of modeling, then the description should note, "Fully clothed female wrestlers preceded by girls with belly-button rings on small badly designed sets who will make you cringe as they glance off camera for reassurance that they look sexy."

Vocabulary issue #3: Did you know that WEW stands for Women's Erotic Wrestling? No? I can see how you might not know, as there is no eroticism to be found in this travesty. I understand that some folks might have a fetish for women's wrestling, and that is fine and good, but to describe the entire league as "erotic" leaves much to be desired. There was nothing intentionally "erotic," as I understand the term, there was very little actual wrestling, and, I hate to say* it, but there were definitely a few characters who had me pondering whether there was any literal meaning to Women's Erotic Wrestling whatsoever.

Definitely save your dollars for your Internet pornography, as I am sure Mr. W and I will do in the future. We weren't so much disappointed, since we weren't expecting much, as we were completely baffled. Porn can be disgusting, boring, embarrassing, or arousing, but it should never be baffling. Baffling "porn" = porn FAIL.

(*Horrific typo on my part: accidentally had written "hate to see it," which sounds like I don't think transvestites and transsexuals are awesome and amazing human beings. I was just looking over my blog, realizing I'd written very little this year, and noticed this blaring error. I usually don't make spelling typos, I make word typos, and thus a similar word will get typed. This one was bad, though, because I didn't catch it in editing and the typo changes who I am and what I think. I'm really mad at myself at the moment for not noticing the word blunder. Please please please accept my apology if by any chance you saw the typo, were offended, but by some miracle found yourself back on my blog.)

The mainstream getting it right:

Thursday, March 4, 2010

The Little Red Schoolhouse, now brought to you from anywhere and everywhere

from the webcomic Penny Arcade

Maybe I could have found a better illustration for the word LAPTOP, considering Strawberry Shortcake is riding Plum Pudding's back, but the picture captures the spirit of my writing, that is, turning the stories of our childhood into dirty spanking tales, which I can now do from ANYWHERE with the laptop Mr. W gave me this week!

The illustration, meant to mock video game designer American McGee's tendency to take a fairy tale character, make her slutty, and put her into a dark scenario, should get me down a bit, since that's what I do, too, only in spanking scenarios. But for everyone who mocks them, there's someone who loves his games, or at least love's American McGee's Alice, which, along with Zoo Tycoon 2, is still one of my favorite PC games, even if I haven't played a PC game in years. I hope that's the same for my stories. For every person who thinks, "Ewww, another fairy tale ruined," maybe there's someone who reads a bit of my writing and has naughty dreams about it later.

The good news is, there should now be much more of my writing, naughty dreams, and random dirty thoughts appearing here. I know, I know, I've said it before, but the laptop will make all the difference. For example, I am currently half-dressed, hair still dripping wet from the shower, sitting on the couch with the puppy while I write this instead of getting ready for work, which I really, really ought to be doing. Before, I would have had to go into the computer room, which I think may be cursed, and sit at the desk, which is at an unfixably wrong height. The couch is much better, even though I keep accidentally hitting buttons that are changing the text size on the screen. I'll figure it out. Point being, I can write from anywhere!

And I can keep defiling the stories of my youth! Hurray!

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Of Monsters and Men

Star Belly Beneath My Bed by Lisa Evans. See more at her blog, Firefluff.

When considering new fiction, I often think about the nature of the world in which the story is to be set. I'm compelled by the idea of worlds where erotic corporal punishment is a commonly accepted part of daily life, but I find it hard to justify these worlds, in part due to the mistreatment of humanity in our own world. Stories that serve many of us as arousing fantasies can too easily be found as the living nightmares of those for whom suffering is not a luxury.

Man's inhumanity to man can be a terrible stumbling block when trying to write spanking erotica. Morally, I believe that corporal punishment is unjust and inhumane and that non-consensual domination of another person's body or mind is the gravest of wrongs. In my own fantasies, however, those morals become quite blurred. That is why I latch on to the ideas of worlds so different from ours, such as the lands of myth and fairy tales, in my writing. In these worlds, I can play with sex and pain without feeling like a moral failure.

When I found the illustrations of Lisa Evans, one of which is pictured above, I was immediately drawn in by them. I showed a friend a picture called The Keepers' Tea Party and said, simply, "I want to live there." For two days straight, I've pulled up her blog whenever I've had a free moment, staring longingly into the worlds she depicts. I want that to be the reaction when my stories are read. I want the reader to long, to desperately, heart-achingly long, to be in that world, either as the inflictor of pain and punishment or as the recipient. I don't want to show you a monster that makes you afraid or uncomfortable. I want to show you a monster and for you to say, "I want that monster under my bed."

Wednesday, February 17, 2010


I met Mr. W when he came to work with me at the Barnes & Noble in Calabasas, California, bookstore to breast-augmented soccer moms and famous families. Jada Pinkett-Smith once chatted up Mr. W about horror novels and Anne Rice. Alec Baldwin, with his daughter in the children's department years before the infamous voicemail rant, checked out my ass while I was bent over cleaning up after spoiled children. Nikki Sixx really wears his hair that way all the time and Kate Hudson, even when she was pregnant, is inordinately tiny.

Obviously, I was a little star-struck. Mr. W wasn't so impressed, having lived in Southern California his whole life, so his free time around the store was spent not celebrity-ogling but shooting rubber bands at my rear end.

At the end of the day, I'd have bruises on my backside. Foreshadowing, I suppose, as we were just friends at the time. He'd get me when I wasn't expecting it, shelving books or hunting for overstock titles and corrugated displays in the receiving room. I swear, he kept his pockets full of rubber bands just in case he encountered my bottom when no customers were around. Spankophile flirting: he'd inflict pain on my rear, I'd squeal, he'd laugh. Oh, memories. The very fact that I let him do this to me, and daily, reminds me that there never really was anyone for me but him.

Yesterday, a rubber band broke while I was organizing paperwork at my office desk. The snap of the old rubber on my hand stung intensely, more than I remember the snap of rubber bands stinging. But even as I tried to shake the pain away, I realized I was flushing. I was radiating heat. I was suddenly so aroused that I wanted to step away from my desk for a minute, take a minute to breathe, to, well...

Was it the surprise pain? The flash of memory of Mr. W inflicting just this type of pain on me years ago? All I knew was that I wanted to be home, over his knee, squealing, happy.

I restrained myself from snapping another rubber band on myself, but I thought about it.

Monday, February 15, 2010

Scribe for Sale?

What do you think of the idea of on-demand spanking fiction?

I've been considering a new venture, a business venture, that would involve the writing of personalized stories. You tell me what you want in your story and I create it, just for you. I haven't figured out what the fee would be (similar to buying a term paper, I'd imagine?) or what rules would apply (18+ characters a must, NC ok, minor squick probably fine but dealt with on a case by case basis, no fan fic due to copyrights, that sort of thing). As much as I want to keep working on putting a story collection together for actual publication, I really like the idea of creating these personal erotic works. They would exist just for the customer, not to be published on this blog or anywhere else.

I like the intimacy of this idea. One of the stumbling blocks I hit with my own fiction is suddenly wondering, "What if I'm the only person who finds this sexy? What if I'm the only one aroused by this?" While there is nothing wrong with that, and while I know in most scenarios that wouldn't be the case anyway, I really love the idea that I would be writing something just right for somebody else. One of the things I regret about not making any more Naughty Abby films is that I never got to fulfill some of the scene requests I'd received. There were some really good ones, and this would be another way for me to fulfill those fantasies.

Tell me what you think, either here or by emailing me at

Tuesday, January 26, 2010


Well, neither my computer nor I had H1N1, but I thought this was a little funny anyway.

Dear Spankoverse,

I got home on Friday, ready to write and post the rest of "The Serpent's Tail," get current on links, blogs, emails, and messages, and maybe even redesign some things, and instead...

DOOM. The computer was positively toasted. It had been infiltrated by one of those "Here, we will kill your computer so that the only window you can open directs you to buy our anti-virus software" viruses. The rest of the Internet was completely inaccessible. In addition, something was blocking all executable files, so no programs would work.

Then, as if the Universe really wanted me to know that it didn't want me writing or doing any other useful task over the weekend, it gave me a virus too. So the computer and I spent the weekend sick.

I finally started feeling better last night, and Mr. W fixed the computer (thank you thank you thank you and YES I owe you).(Feel free to imagine and/or share in the comments ways in which Abby will repay Mr. W. That's more fun than discussing viruses.) Ta-daa! Back in business.

As a side note, this post, as well as last week's posts, have been written and posted at work. I never actually VIEW my blog though, for obvious reasons, thus I can't reply to comments until I'm at home. I'm in need of a laptop, but that will have to wait. For now, just know how happy I am that you're still reading and/or enjoying the Naughty Abby videos. The resurgence in interest this month has me feeling sexy, and is getting me a little bit closer to that laptop.


Friday, January 22, 2010

The Future Looks Grimm for Fairy Tale Princesses (and their bottoms, of course)

Cool concept art from Terry Gilliam's 2005 film The Brothers Grimm.
Artwork found here.

After promising myself I would write 1000 words by midnight Saturday, I found myself in a conundrum. Work on a previous project? Write something new? I always have countless ideas running around my head, jotted on scraps of paper and tucked into my purse, or outlined in a notebook, but nothing jumped out at me as "Here are your thousand words!"

Then yesterday morning while showering, I came up with a project that would help me both in my immediate plan to write and in my longer term plan of writing a collection of erotic fairy tale retellings with liberal additions of spanking scenes. Using a random number generator, I would plug in the first and last page numbers of my Complete Grimm's Fairy Tales and rewrite whatever story appeared on the page determined by the number generator.

I tried it out and the resulting page number was 480. The story on page 480 is actually three separate stories and the collection is called "Tales of the Paddock." So... ok. After some quick research to determine that a paddock, in this case, is a snake , I was still left with three stories about very small children and snakes. The text can be read here. I had my work cut out for me.

I started writing some notes down: the three stories would have to be consolidated, there could only be one girl and she'd have to be aged a great deal, the snake would be...

...And then I had it. Six notebook pages later, the story was laid out in full, and as of this moment, it's about 80% written. I'll be finishing and posting it this weekend. For now, here's a teaser from "The Snake's Tail."


Tears formed in the princess's eyes, but the queen was unmoved after nineteen years of coddling the slatternly ingrate. "You will be punished, and you will be married to the first suitor who will take you."

The princess had not yet comprehended that she was to be married. "Punished?" She had never received so much as a swat on the back of her hand or been sent to bed without supper.

"Punished, and so severely that it will be in secret. No man will want you if he knows you've misbehaved to such a degree that you had to be bound in your chamber and whipped until you saw the sense of giving up your whoring ways in exchange for marriage."

"But Mother," wept the princess, "I've done nothing wrong."

"You have tonight to realize that yes, you have. You are to wait in your chamber until we come to you tomorrow morning." She nodded at the guard. "He will administer your beating, but I will be commanding the number of lashes and their severity. I fear we have waited far too long to provide you with the discipline you so clearly needed. Your hide, my ungrateful daughter, will make up for lost time."

The princess sobbed as the queen dragged her by the elbow to her bedchamber. She collapsed on her bed and barely heard the click of the lock as her mother left her to consider what she did not understand she'd done. She cried because her little golden crown had bent when it hit the floor. She cried because her little green snake would not know where she was in the morning. Mostly, though, she cried because she was terrified. She fell asleep still weeping, the bent little crown clutched in both her hands.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

SOS (Save Our Spankings)

Found this image while searching Google Images for pictures of life preservers,
as I thought the idea of spanking as a life preserver(especially in regards
to my dream and my bad days) was apropos. This image is a bit odd,
which is what I liked about it, albeit non-spanking-related.

Naturally, I'll start off with a decscription of yet another caning dream. This one I had last week and was far less tittillating than the last one. In it, Mr. W and I were on a square boat - more of a motorized raft with railings, really. I was on my hands and knees in the center of the boat while Mr. W tried to simultaneously cane me and keep his balance, as we were out on the ocean and choppy waves were making the endeavor rather difficult. Somehow, we both knew that we were safer on the boat if we kept up the disciplinary antics than if we were to stop. I have a slight memory of an explanation involving equilibrium, but dream physics rarely translate past sleep.

After the boat had landed safely, I sat with my mom and tried to explain why I like spanking and all it entails. The best way I could explain why I like what I like was, "It makes me feel safe."

This was a revelation when I woke up. It's true! I think there is a direct correlation between my state of my mind when playing and the act itself. For example, no one other than Mr. W has caned me because no one other than Mr. W has been worthy of the trust I must have in someone to play at that degree of intensity, so there is already a built-in element of safety.

We also never play if he is stressed or having a bad day. As much as I miss it, especially as we've both had our share of bad and/or stressful days lately, it does mean that when we do play, we're in an emotional and mental space that means we can push and explore without fear. Even if I'm a little off and in need of a more therapeutic spanking, it means he can deliver what I need to rebalance myself because he's fully in charge of both his actions and his psyche. When we play, I am safe, so my subconscious has learned that if I am in the position of being spanked, I am also being protected.

No wonder it's something I crave so much when I'm having a bad day! Unfortunately, we have had too many mutually bad days recently. It's come to my attention that I've been ignoring myself, and that may be contributing to my own bad days. I haven't been reading, writing, pampering myself, reading other blogs, writing with other spankophiles - I haven't even followed back new Twitter followers or read my Fetlife messages! I am a bad blog personality right now, and a bad version of myself for ignoring the very things that make me who I am. I'm hoping that if I start paying attention to myself, the things I enjoy will come back to me.

So, things to do this week:

1. Take a long bubble bath with a book of spanking erotica and remember the importance of "me time." (Note to self: do not include puppy in this plan. Also, no pasta.) Paint toenails after bubble bath.

2. Read a book. Read it at 1:30 in the morning when the puppy wakes up. Read it under the desk at work. Just read! I've been carrying around A.S. Byatt's "The Biographer's Tale." Begin there.

3. Write 1000 words by midnight Saturday. Make 'em sexy, make 'em silly, just sit down and write.

4. Visit blogs of friends. Comment. Remember to be in the world.

5. Reply to emails. Follow fetish folks on Twitter. Reply to Fetlife messages and requests.

6. Get spanked! Nothing crazy, nothing exhausting, since it's been a while. Just play. Sexy, pink cheeked play. Please, Universe, even if my toes are left unpainted and I don't get through two chapters of a book, please make sure my bottom is spanked this week!

7. Lather, rinse, and, oh yeah, repeat.