The Aviary - The Caged Woman

An exercept from a yet unfinished piece...

Jasper unlocks the aviary and enters without announcing himself. Tessa, seated by the reflecting pool, looks up from the far side of the space, her reflection mirrored in the glass behind her. The reflection is looking away,  the soft curve of her neck shimmering against the darkness beyond, the peacock feather clip holding her hair up in a loose chignon, the cranes on the back of her kimono in full flight. The front of the robe is open, her nakedness facing him. He still isn’t used to it. She lifts her chin and tilts her head just slightly to the right. “Do you want to see?” she asks.


He looks down. “Not yet,” he says, walking towards her.

“Do you want to hear?” she asks, drawing the clip from her hair and shaking copper waves across her shoulders. The kimono brightens beneath her hair, its navy blue silk becoming the iridescent indigo of the eye of the peacock feather she now holds in her hand.

“I know what you’ll say,” he answers. “Let me come to you.”

She turns away, the reflection’s face now glaring at him from the glass. “I didn’t like him,” she says stiffly.

Jasper meets her stare in the glass. “You weren’t meant to.”

Immediately, she stands, letting the kimono fall from her shoulders. Bared, she faces the windowed walls but there is nothing outside to see her but an expanse of lawn, followed by an unkempt field, followed by a forest. The opposite side of her body confronts Jasper as she lifts her hair off her shoulders.

The backs of her shoulders are violet rimmed with pink rimmed with yellow, already bruising. The marks on both sides are conform, neither side having taken a greater whipping than the other. He reaches to touch her left shoulder. She winces but lets him circle the bruise lightly with the tips of his fingers. “Flogger?” he asks.

She nods, then elaborates. “He tickled me with it. Let it trail over my body. It felt good, I think. But he only let the harder blows fall on my shoulders.”

“I see that.” Jasper nods, his tone encouraging her to go on.

“You see the problem.”

“I see what you think is the problem.” He runs his hand down her back then cups each buttock in his hand. He squeezes her flesh and finds himself hardening. He steps back and kneels down, somewhat stunned by the unmarked flesh before him. “He didn’t touch it?”

“Not once,” she says, indignant. “Why am I here, if not for that?”

“I thought you were here for the stories you could tell after they were gone.”

“I thought, I’m not sure now. I can’t tell you what I thought just yet. I don‘t know.”

He gives her bottom one more squeeze. “Another time then.” He continues stroking downwards. “Is this what you really didn’t like?”

With just his index finger, he trails over thirteen cane welts laid close across the backs of her thighs. He remains on the left side, though the welts cross both thighs in full. Each is still white trimmed with pink but growing darker the longer he kneels behind her. The stripes are still raised like scars, thick and succulent. He sees her welts as if they are candy, laid out to be licked and devoured slowly, her flesh melting beneath the warmth of his mouth.

As his finger drifts over each mark, she jerks slightly, her left leg trembling beneath his touch. By the time he reaches the thirteenth stroke, she growls quietly. “You know I hate anything on my thighs. Why did you let that happen?”

Jasper stands and turns her to face him, in so doing reminding her that she came to him, not him to her. “Because you gave me these thighs,” he reaches around and pinches one of the welts. She bites her lip but does not squeal. “You gave me these shoulders,” he caresses them and her eyelids flutter and he knows he has her. “You gave me this ass,” he puts both hands on her pristine backside and pulls her to him, “and just because you didn’t get what you wanted today,” he gives her a quick swat on each cheek, “doesn’t mean you won’t get it on the next day, or the next, or the day after that.”

She rests her head against his chest. “Sometimes I become so caught up in the story, I forget why I’m here.”

He strokes her hair. “I know, Tess. But write this one down. Having your body taken, but not the part you wanted to give? You needed this.”

Nodding against him, she sighs. “I still didn’t like him. I was mad at you.”

“Are you still?”

She gathers her robe off the ground and covers her body once again, this time knotting it so she is covered completely. She clips her hair off her face with the peacock feather. She doesn’t answer.

“Tess, do you have a story?”

She nods.

“Then write it,” he says, and turns away, leaving the aviary, locking the door behind him.

Kindling

After writing this post, I added the piece of kindling to the drawer

On our way out of farm country, Christmas tree on board, we noticed a picturesque barn gleaming in the winter sunlight, bearing a fresh coat of white paint. "Poor unspanked barn," commented Mr. W.

Knowing he wasn't just referencing its difference from the more common red barns that speckle the hills and valleys of Oregon countryside, I replied, "It's as white as my poor unspanked bottom."

"And whose fault is that, young lady?" he teased.


"Yours! My bottom doesn't spank itself, you know," I reminded him. But the truth is, we haven't been able to play these past few months, and it is because of me. I haven't been well and the last thing my body or my mind needed was the experience of the play we so adore and that I love to share here with the world. I've only recently begun to feel like myself, and now that we were flirting about spanking again, I was eager to show him that I was ready.

Instead, we got home and I was ready to decorate the tree. He built a fire in the hearth and I found Christmas music to listen to, and together we draped the lights and hung the ornaments. Each time he passed behind me, he smacked my bottom. Even through my jeans it stung, as if I'd never been whacked on the bottom before. "Ouch!" I'd cry out with each swat, in my heart wanting to bend over and beg for more but the instinct not coming to fruition.

I'd been insisting all day that once the tree was decorated and glowing, we'd settle in with a movie, either National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation (his favorite) or Eloise at Christmastime (just one of my many ridiculous holiday viewing necessities). Now, with the fire glowing and my bottom surely glowing at least a little along with it, I wasn't so sure it was movie time. "Do you want to put on a movie? Or..." I hesitated. "Should we move everyone but us into the bedroom?" Everyone, in this case, being the cats and the dog.

"Let's do that," he agreed. I meant to grab a cane from the bedroom after rounding up the pets. I meant to grab a paddle or a strap from my nightstand drawer. Unintentionally, my excitement getting the better of me, I came back empty handed.

He unbuckled his belt and I shivered, but we weren't there yet. We kissed, we undressed, we spread a blanket on the floor before the fire. I'm sure it's to no one's surprise that my favorite position is on my knees, being taken from behind, but he laid me down face up, kissing me, looking into my eyes, the Christmas lights gleaming behind him just as he was presented with the fire gleaming behind me. Surrounded by these warm lights in an otherwise darkened room, he pressed into me slowly and perfectly, my hips tilting up to meet the heat of his body while my head tilted back towards the heat of the flames.

I wanted so much to please him that I began to apologize. "I meant to give you my bottom to cane, or to, I'm sorry, whatever you wanted." He stroked my hair and kissed me, then knelt back. "Turn over," he said.

I did, kneeling and pushing my bottom towards him, my forearms on the floor and my head resting on the backs of my hands. The fire was making my face flush and I was already panting a little as he slid inside me again, thrusting deeper and harder than before. Then without warning, he stopped. He reached towards the packet of kindling and drew out a piece of wood that could have passed as a paddle if it had the right handle and price tag, so the buyer would know it wasn't just a piece of wood.

As I write this, I think we must be overpaying for kindling, because the wood was cut so smoothly that there were no rough edges, almost as if the top and bottom had been sanded. The makeshift paddle was light, just over a quarter of an inch thick, about fourteen inches in length. One end was tapered slightly from the other, creating an innate handle. The edges were smooth and without splinters. The sting was exquisite.

I have had moments over the past few months when I've been up for taking all of three cane strokes, or a little bite of leather. This was the first time in such a long while that the first blow landed and the whole of my body, heart, soul, and mind cried for more.

I didn't want to say anything, other than to cry out, afraid my voice would ruin the spell. He and the kindling took their turns with me, a few strokes of the paddle across my bottom, a few strokes of his body inside my own. "Three more," he'd say, striking quickly then thrusting back into me, my body rocking back and forth and no longer aware of whether I was shifting back towards the inevitable orgasm or forward and away from the inevitable sting of the paddle. Then it would be more three more again, and again, building until finally I was burning not from the fire or the paddling but from the very feeling of being myself again, knowing that if I had my way, both the sex and the spanking would continue on, harder, harder, and harder, until I was no more than punished, worn-out flesh, happy and fulfilled.

When we were both about to come, he pulled out and gave me a few lightning quick and bright strokes of the paddle across the tops of my thighs. I bit into my wrist, stifling my cry but the sound escaping my lips anyway. That whimpered squeal, high and long, agonizing and begging, was too much for us both, and as our hips locked once again we were coming together, already looking forward to next time, already knowing that next time, I would be ready for so much more.

The Wall

I came home last weekend to find our most often-used implements hanging across our bedroom wall for our sixth wedding anniversary. I sat down on the edge of the bed, overwhelmed by despair and arousal. The sight of so many at once was thrilling and imposing, terrifying and exciting.


The first few nights they hung vigil over our sleeping bodies, I woke in the early hours of the morning and found even the shadow of the wall to be a quiet monster looming over me. To my surprise, it became a comforting creature: a feral beast that guards the abode, an avalanche-prone mountain that keeps intruders at bay, a god angry with its people but determined to see them survive. The wall, capable of setting fire to my skin then destroying the flesh beneath. The wall, a catalyst for a phoenix rising, always rising, from its repetitive destruction.

One of the themes of this blog is my struggle with the concept of punishment. I have embraced, rejected, embraced, and rejected the very idea of punishment. I have rebelled at the idea of naughty school girls, because in reality, they should have better guidance than a cane over wet panties. I have rebelled at the idea of domestic discipline - a marriage is a partnership, not an opportunity for abuse. I have even rebelled at the idea of tops and bottoms, dominants and submissives, because I welcome spanking but I have a say in what happens to me, in what is right and wrong for my body, my mind, my heart.

Then last night, a new leather collar around my neck, committed to a play version of complete submission that we have been toying with these last few weeks, I was commanded not to speak.  Mr. W had buckled the collar but did not use the lock, which along with its key is secured safely in my nightstand drawer, in a beautiful box a Lelo anal toy had first occupied. He had been describing the terms of my submission, whispering in my ear. I had been agreeing aloud, "Yes, Sir," with each term. Then he told me that I couldn't come without his permission. He began to rub my bare clit.

I had a question. "I have a question," I said.

Apparently, "Yes, Sir," were the only words allowed. We had not even reached a state of warming my bottom, but he said to me then, "Did I say you could speak?" I shook my head, too caught up in the moment to assert myself. "That will be two of the best of the cane for you."

I heard "two dozen." We always speak of the dozens, never the singular. He doesn't know I heard it this way, and reading this will be the first time he knows of it. I was terrified to speak then, because I heard "two dozen."

He told me to bend over, and he grabbed the junior cane, the second over from the right in the picture above. He told me that they would come hard and quickly. Still caught up in the idea that I was receiving two dozen hard strokes, I held my breath, terrified to breathe because I knew I would scream without a proper warming first. The strokes came, one, two. They were painful; they left their mark. But it was only two.

He stood me up. My eyes darted every which way. I still had a question. I began to bite the insides of my cheeks. I tilted my head. The collar bit at my neck. I had asked him in the beginning to tighten it one step beyond comfortable. Now, trying not to speak, the tight collar was a reminder that I had committed to submission, that I would not do what he had advised I was not permitted to do. But I was also trying not to laugh, because it was a new and absurd situation, but also one of despair because I am so used to saying what I want. I decided I would wait to ask until the collar was off, when we were back to ourselves, when my voice was never in question. I rolled my eyes and nodded to myself, agreeing with myself that waiting was the best plan.

"I just wanted to see if you would do it," he said then. He grabbed me around the waist and we fell on the bed, wrapped around each other, giggling. "Telling you not to speak, I didn't imagine you could do it."

"I tried!" I said, tears in my eyes. "I was trying so hard."

"I know," he laughed, kissing me. "I didn't think you could do it. I didn't expect you to do it. I thought it would be funny to tell you that."

"Worst. Timing. Ever!" I said, my thighs locking on his, his cock pressing against me and my arousal dripping down my legs. I love these moments, these moments when our connection wins out over any play we might desire. When we know that at the heart of things, we are perfect. We see everything the same way, even the absurdity of commanding me, me of all people, not to speak.

"What did you want to ask?"

""I wanted to know if your permission was implied when you're rubbing my pussy. If it's okay to come just because you're touching me. Or if I need explicit verbal approval."

"You don't have the right to do anything," he said, touching my clit again, slowly pressing it into circles beneath this fingers. "You have to wait for verbal permission."

"So I can't assume that just because you're touching me, you want me to come?"

"Oh no. You have to wait," he said, advancing the pressure, making me tremble beneath him.

He began to rub me faster and faster, pressing my clit into my pussy, demanding with his fingers that I come for him. "May I come?" I asked.

"No," he said. My hips jerked backwards, playfully terrified of coming against his will. The two dozen strokes I thought I might receive before could very well come if I orgasmed under his fingers without his permission. That was the parameters of the play we were setting up even as we spoke and explored each other.

His circles slowed but the pressure increased. "You may not come without my permission," he advised again, My hips couldn't deny his touch. I began to throb beneath him, but I waited, waited, waited until finally he told me to come, and I did.

The paddling he gave me afterwards, however, indicated I hadn't obeyed at all. The bruises I have this morning are the very reminders that I was insubordinate. That I came, and came hard, before he wanted me to.

We plan to mark those bruises farther, harder, deeper. My bottom is waiting. My throat is waiting. I want that collar on. I don't want to worry about right or wrong or punishment. I have reached a new place. I want to submit. I want to obey. I want to be beaten. I want to come, if he will let me. I want to be the phoenix rising under the wall. Paddle me, I will rise. Strap me, I will rise. Cane me, I will rise. And as my bottom burns and writhes under your administrations, Sir, I hope that you rise too.

Star Cock and Spank Tease

Here's a segment of "Dance of the Flogger, Part Two," just so you know it's coming. I hope to post the complete second half of the story soon. I also hope you enjoy this rendered picture of the flogger handle. I love how this came out, and am now seriously reconsidering my sexual attraction to this smooth, beautiful, apparently galaxy-filled piece of wood. If Mr. W and I were to be spanking superheroes, I think I might want to name us after this picture and this tiny segment of story: Star Cock and Spank Tease. If nothing else, I hope the stories I post on this blog conquer your erotic hunger, if not your darkest enemies.

I start to breathe with my mouth open, breathing out each time leather meets my skin. The panting rhythm of my breath along with the sound of the flogger’s tails striking in tandem turns us both on. I close my eyes again and the light behind my eyes flashes turquoise and emerald. This isn’t a painful whipping; it’s new, luxurious, exotic. The light mirrors that feeling. Bound and under the lash though I am, I feel like a queen, a goddess. “Worship me with whipping,” I murmur.

My eyes flash open again as I realize I just said that aloud. The unintentional phrase is not lost on him. “Oh, this isn’t worship,” he says, continuing to flog my breasts, which are more pink with the flush of pleasure than the pressure of the strokes. “This is communion. I’m taking just a little bite of you, just a little bit to sustain me, before I truly give you all my praise.”

“By praise you mean punishment,” I gasp, suddenly all too aware of the praise even a loving sadist might bestow on the body of a woman bent and bound.

More to come soon. Once again, because I love it so, the flogger is the Wood Master Thuddy Flogger, by FlogMeBaby.com. I am not affiliated with them at all, this was just a surprisingly pleasurable purchase. 

Dance of the Flogger, Part One

“Hands behind your head, young lady,” he commands. I’m already not wearing any clothes, but the position he’s requesting makes me feel vulnerable, even more naked. I turn to face the wall and slowly raise my arms, interlocking my fingers and resting my palms on the back of my neck.

He smacks my backside hard enough that I yelp. “Did I tell you to face the wall?”


“N-no, Sir. Should I turn back around?”

He pauses. I shift my weight from one hip to the other and back again, not sure what to do. Then his hand caresses me across the full of my bottom. “Your wiggling has helped me decide. Stay where you are.” He removes his hand and I whimper. He’s crossed the room to the area where the implements are kept. Whatever touches me next will not be the gentle palm of a lover’s hand.

He returns and whips the space behind me. I know better than to look. “Flogger?” I ask. He lets it fly again, a rush of sound through the long, black leather tails. The air cracks at the end of the stroke.

“I wasn’t going to whip your bottom just yet, but since you’re so nicely in place…” he lets the sentence trail off, tickling me with the leather tips. He swings lightly a few times, the tails bouncing off my flesh, lighter and softer than if it was his own fingers dancing on my flesh.

He puts the flogger between my legs, its long polished wooden handle touching the insides of both my thighs. Tapping backing back and forth, the wooden shaft is my instruction to spread my legs. I widen my stance, my bottom presented in full as I lean slightly forward to allow my forehead to rest on the wall. My nipples also touch the wall in this new position and I arch my back to let some of my body weight rest against my breasts. Balanced, I nod my head.

The strokes come hard and fast and I can’t help but moan. The harder he whips, the more sensual the blow, warming my flesh without sting or stripe. He gets in a few lighter strokes that actually hurt more than the harder ones. He tilts his wrist at the end so that the tails whip into the crevices of my body. These bite my skin, though they do not mark. I crave the heavier falls of the leather, the ones that light up behind my eyes as rose, cherry, scarlet.

After a solid minute of whipping, he stops and touches me, gauging my warmth. He slides his finger between my thighs, testing my wetness as well. “Good girl,” he says, his voice rougher and deeper than when the session began. “You have much more to come. Now turn around.”

I turn and begin to lower my arms, craving his embrace. He flips the flogger in his hand and taps my elbows with the handle. Returning to position, legs still spread, I tilt my head and frown. I don’t want to ask what we’re doing, but I want him to know I’m confused, that I need his guidance for what is coming next.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asks, as if, for the first time in all the years he’s spanked me, I might want to be surprised by the next punishment my body is to receive.

I nod, biting my lip. This is going in a different direction that I’d been expecting when I first threw myself over his lap while we were watching TV. “I feel dirty,” I’d announced, counting on him to know that I didn’t mean I was in need of soap and water.  He’d taken a deep breath as I felt his cock stir beneath my thigh. “Are you my filthy girl?” he’d asked. “Let’s go,” I’d answered, climbing up and nearly running to the bedroom, removing my clothes as I went. But now that I stand facing him, bottom pink but now ignored, I’m not sure what’s coming next. The unfamiliarity has  me wet with anticipation. I’m trembling from my clasped hands to my bare toes curling and clutching the carpet as I wait.

He cocks his head as he says, “Alright,” as if he’s saying, “You asked for it.” He goes to my nightstand drawer and pulls out a twelve-foot length of soft black rope. He wraps it around me from back to front, leaving the length at the sides of my breasts. “First, I’m going to bind your breasts, each individually, so that I have two perfect, beautiful targets for my whip.”

He wraps the left side of the rope length around my left breasts three times, squeezing it forward. He does the same to the right, then ties the two lengths behind my wrists, which are still behind my head, and leaves the rest to trail down and tickle my back. I realize that if I pull back, the rope will lift my breasts higher. I tug experimentally.

“That’s right,” he says, his voice now in that place that melts me, as if lust has coated his vocal cords. “Lift them up, you dirty girl. Present them to me.”

I pull my elbows back then press my wrists against the rope. He squeezes my left nipple then the right, then takes each in his mouth, leaving them wet and chilled in the expectant air. I know what’s coming, but I need him to put it into words. “Are you going to whip my tits?” I ask, giving him both the opportunity to tell me what’s going to happen and approval to use vulgarity in his description.

“Of course I’m going to whip your tits. First I’m going to smack them, lightly, teasing you into thinking it’s something that you want. Then I’m going to step back and raise my flogger to them. You’re going to keep them lifted, so I can whip them in full. Every now and again I’m going to lick them, wetting them, so that the leather drags across your skin. If I stop, you’re going to beg me for more. If you don’t beg for more, I’m going to lay down the flogger and get the junior cane. I’ll cane you here,” he rests his finger horizontally across the top side my right breast. “And here,” he does the same on the underside. “And here. As many times as you can take without collapsing.” His finger rests directly on my nipple, hard beneath his touch, beneath his threat. “And if you do collapse, I’m going to fuck you. Wherever I want.”

Surprising me, he leans forward and kisses me, then rests his face against my throat. “I want you so much,” he whispers. I know it’s true. He’s naked too. “What do you want?” he asks.

“Are you going to spank my bottom again?” I ask in reply.

“Before I take you, I’m going to whip that ass so hard it glows.”

I take a deep breath, then draw myself up to stand with my back arched, shoulders pressed back against the wall, wrists pulling the rope so that my tits are at attention, ready for his mouth, his flogger, even his cane if he can’t resist. “Don’t warm me up. I just want you to whip me. Everywhere.”

He smiles; I close my eyes. Twenty leather tails land on the side of my right breast, curling up and over my flesh, licking the nipple as it pulls away. My knees buckle, not in pain but in delight. With one stroke, my body is on fire, every nerve-ending on edge. I return to position quickly, ready for more.

One of our new favorite toys, the Wood Master Thuddy Flogger from FlogMeBaby.Com

A Tawsing Clip for You

The clip here is part of the tawsing section of my favorite film we made, Fierce Foreplay. It's the most like what we do in the bedroom, though there is no sex. That part is just for us. Even so, the film goes through everything from light spanking to the cane, and I have a very marked bottom by the end. I have a fantastic memory of making this movie. I squeal a good bit, but I can honestly tell you, this spanking was painful,  fulfilling and amazing.

I like sharing these videos, because I am not your regular spanking model. I am a working woman who loves to cook, and my body shows it. I have a little bit of extra flesh but a girlish squeal, and just a love of spanking that I hope translates to film. This movie was made in 2008, a year after Mr. W and I were married. It's not HD. This clip is all panty-clad. They get removed later in the film, but there's no need to put that unexpectedly on the blog.

Boston Strong

April 20, 2013. 6:00 am.

“Take everybody out of the bedroom,” he says.

I lift the two cats and our little dog out of the room. I close the bedroom door from the hallway side. I go to the kitchen to fill their separate bowls with breakfast. I refill their water bowls. I start the coffee. The ritual feels good. Today is the same as every day, I tell myself.  Last night the surviving bomber was captured. My home is still Boston. I'm 3,000 miles away, but it is still home. And we are all safe. In the back of my mind I know it isn‘t true. It doesn’t take an actual bomb to change absolutely everything. But it isn’t time to think about that right now. I return to the bedroom, ready and aching to be taken out of myself.

I re-enter the bedroom wearing only black cotton panties, my pajamas of choice. I hear the coffee pot start to percolate behind me as I close the door. I’ve been making the coffee too strong lately. The grocer was out of our normal breakfast blend and I’d had to purchase a darker bean. My husband is already sitting on the edge of the bed, his legs spread, his knee ready for me. I hope I’ve gotten the coffee-to-water ratio right this time, not because I’m afraid of not doing it right, but because I want so much to make it right for him. I know I’ve been a disaster lately. “Coffee’s cooking,” I say, hoping he catches the hint after my post-wake-up breakdown. I don’t want to go back to the images of disaster in my hometown . I want to play.

“Did you make it the way I like, young lady?” he asks.

“Of course, Sir,” I respond, falling into character, hoping I’m not lying.

“Not too strong, not too light?” he asks.

“Yes, Sir. Just the way you like it, Sir. I think I‘ve made it just right.”

He nods and pats his thigh. “That’s the way I’m going to spank you now. Not too strong, not too light. I’m going to spank you just right.”

I step towards him and straddle his thigh. This spreads my legs, leaving my bottom and thighs open to his administrations while my upper body rests on the bed, secure and stable. He sets his hand on my hip. “That’s my girl,” he whispers, and I realize he’s whispering to himself. I’ve been so caught up in my own worries, I hadn’t realized he needs this just as much as I do. “Please spank me, Sir,” I say. “I’m yours.”

The first smack is startling, if only because it’s early morning and my flesh has barely had time to wake up. He smacks the other cheek and I squeal. “Quietly,” he reminds me, because it’s Saturday and we haven’t heard the upstairs neighbors’ dog bounding about their apartment. If the dog isn’t up, they’re probably not up yet either.

“Don’t spank me so hard, then,” I reply, testing how much sauciness he feels like taking from me.

“Don’t make me spank you harder,” he says. Not much sauciness, I realize. This is to be intense, but connected. No characters after all. Just us.

A steady flurry of strokes comes next, bouncing from cheek to cheek, each one stinging but I maintain control of my voice. I don’t count, but after about twenty smacks he lets off and rubs my bottom while I breathe out a sigh of “Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch.”

“Good girl,” he says, still letting his hand circle my backside. “You’re doing so well. Are you ready for twice as many?”

“I think so.” I reposition myself, letting his knee fully rest between my legs so that he can feel the warmth of my body reacting to the spanking. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but you can pull my panties down. If you want. Sir.”

He yanks my panties to my thighs. “I was going to do that anyway,” he says. I look back over my shoulder and he looks towards me, both of us smiling. “Ready?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for my response.

He spanks me hard, but not too hard. Enough to draw a gasp out of me with each slap, but not enough to make me howl or squirm away. I don’t think about anything outside of the moment. I focus on the heat of his body close to me, the sting of each slap, the warmth spreading through my own body and the moisture growing between my thighs. If he keeps this up, I’m going to slide off his knee. I wiggle forward, trying to prevent the inevitable.

The spanking stops and he once again rubs my bottom in soft, circular strokes. I sigh beneath the touches. I want him, but I know it isn't time yet. After he rubs me for a few moments, he reaches under the blanket and pulls out a square leather paddle. He’d hidden it beneath the covers while I went to make coffee. “What else is under there?” I ask.

“Ssshhh,” he tells me. “I’ve got you.”

The phrase wilts me. It’s what we say to each other when the other is having a hard time, or not feeling well, or even completely falling apart. These past few months, I’ve been completely falling apart. “Tell me again?” I beg.

“I’ve got you,” he tells me, holding the leather paddle against my pink bottom. I nod.

As the leather paddle falls upon my warmed backside, I realize that instead of leaning away from it, I am thrusting back towards it, meeting it mid-stroke. He realizes it as well, and increases the speed and strength. Soon my body is rocking over his thigh as I would his cock, but the spanking overtakes me as no sex could. My face feels flushed; I am dizzy. I reach forward, grabbing blanket into my palms, clutching the fabric like reins and riding the pain.

“More,” I say, and he knows what I want. He slides his leg out from under me, pushing me up onto my knees on the bed. He grabs a pillow and shoves it under my hips. He slides the senior cane out from under the blanket.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his hand traveling over the warmest parts of my bottom, now throbbing with heat, pink and tender, but nowhere near where I need to be. I nod. “Don’t forget. This is for you. I’ve got you,” he tells me again. I know it’s not just for me, but instead I say the words he wants to hear:

“Cane me, Sir. Please, please, cane me.”

The cane is our everything. It’s our way to sex, to redemption, to escape. The cane is the physical representation of the electricity between us when everything is right. It’s the reconnection when we’ve disconnected and need to find each other again. More than anything else, I trust him with the cane. More than anything else, it’s the implement he uses when he needs to tell me he loves me.

This morning, it’s the way to show each other how much we need one another. I give myself to him. He trusts his strokes to me.

Six strokes, then another twelve. Another six of the best after that. This particular morning, it was not the strokes that were important. It was that he gave them to me, and that I took them. Willingly. Wontonly. And afterwards, my thighs parted and dripping, it was that he took me as if I were the only woman on earth. Perhaps, in that moment, I was.

When we finish, I am exhausted but exhilarated.. He asks me to lie still, and he takes photographs. In between shots, he strokes my stripes. He makes me feel beautiful. The world, in this moment, is not so terrifying after all. I am strong.

I am not afraid.

A Game of Bottoms, er, Thrones

The Game of Thrones bottom that subsequently did us in last night.

I hadn't meant to be away for an entire literal moon, but even as I write, the full Pink Moon is on the rise, coming to a peak in about six hours. There were some ultimately uneventful health issues, followed by family in town, neither of which speaks to spanking, or an erotic writing frame of mind. I am sorry for the disappearance.

We watched part of the first episode of Game of Thrones last night. We are never going to get through this show if everyone keeps taking their clothes off, which, apparently, they do. I fell asleep with Mr. W's head on my bottom, stroking my thighs after bringing me to orgasm at least three times. I lost count. There was much threat of the events to come tonight, when we would both be more awake, as this all happened rather late at night.

Tonight is the Pink Moon, the first true full moon of spring. The "pink" regards the pink and violet phlox covering the ground at this time of year, not the color of the moon itself. But, I have a feeling that tonight the pink and violet of the phlox may be mirrored in my bottom. I hope to have a story to tell you soon.

(The story I mentioned on Bonnie's recent brunch is still too fresh and I haven't been able to finish it, but I plan to finish and post it this weekend. It's a more intimate OTK spanking, happening after the conclusion of the events in Boston last week. The bombing occurred right by the hotel where my high school prom was held, and where I used to spend at least a few hours every weekend during my college years.)

Another Game of Thrones Episode 1 bottom that contributed to our later giving up of watching Game of Thrones for more intimate activities.

Chaste Moon

The "chaste" version of Saturday's caning/moon

Last night was the first full moon of spring, the Chaste Moon, by one of its names. It's the last moon before the season truly flowers. The first buds are on the trees, the leaves uncurling slowly, but the spring is still shy, she hasn't reached the wild wantonness that comes with May, when my part of the world, the Grey Northwest, finally bursts into a brief time of technicolor splendor.

The bit of bottom you see above is from Saturday. Mr. W took the photo after the caning, when I'd climbed up onto the bed on my hands and knees for a different bit of play. "Stay right there," he'd said, and I suddenly heard his phone clicking away in camera mode. "I just want you to see what I'm looking at," he said hungrily, placing the screen in my view before driving into me. I was very proud, and very pleasured.

We played again on Sunday, deepening the marks at my request. I've been into pushing myself lately, and I am fortunate that Mr. W will take me as far as I want to go within reason, but keeps his head on straight so I can lose myself and he can let me feel lost, but still safe. We had a fire going in the fireplace and I was standing, leaning against a full floor to ceiling column in our living room. With each stroke I'd arch back, lifting my hands towards the ceiling, the sky. When I'd place them back on the column, it was the signal I was ready for the next stroke. By the end, I finally had the marks I've been craving, those deep red lines but with no broken skin. Just sexy and perfect. The signs that I had taken it, loved it, survived it and wanted more.

On Monday, he did some online shopping, and we have new toys showing up today and tomorrow. We had to make an agreement that we wouldn't play this week so that the canvas will be fresh for the weekend. This agreement is why the Chaste Moon is a fitting theme for Mr. W and I right now, because it's been difficult to keep our hands off each other. With the renewal of this blog, our fetish and the sexier side of our marriage were renewed as well. The problem is, spanking and sex are so intertwined for us that it's hard to have one without the other. So, chastity it is.

When I looked up the names of Wednesday's full moon (it's also the Worm Moon, the Crow Moon, the Sap Moon, and a few others), I realized writing about the Chaste Moon was perfect. I'm so much in a state of renewal and coming into my full being, but I know I'm not there yet. I am awaiting the weekend, and past that, I am waiting for more spanking experiences, more time to write, and hopefully figuring out how I can make those two things into at least a side career, or even a whole new one. I want to work on publishing some of my stories, and I have so many more to tell. But I also want to have naked pictures of my spanked bottom taken and posted here. So for now, while I figure it all out, here's to a full Chaste Moon, half an Abby Moon, plus many more stories and a new camera on the way. The phone camera just doesn't catch all the lovely stripey detail.

The "chaste" version of Sunday's caning - my most favorite marks ever, and one of the more blissful in-the-moment scenes I can remember. I just wanted more.

Target Practice

We’re getting ready to run out to Target and the grocery store. We’re both still wearing our Saturday morning clothes, a mix of pajamas and attire suitable for walking the dog. We agree we can be ready to leave the house in ten minutes.

He’s already finished changing by the time I run into the bedroom. The dog ate a hole in my jeans and I‘m not much for slacks, so my only option is tights and a skirt. He watches me as I whip my tee shirt over my head. I take off my socks, and then I unintentionally surprise him by taking my panties off as well. I just like to start with a fresh outfit from the first layer. I’m not trying to be sexy.

I start towards the hamper, panties and socks clutched in my hand. He heads me off. He tosses one of the dog’s toy out of the bedroom. She chases it. He closes the door, then pushes me face-forward against it. I brace myself by leaning against the door frame, left hand palm to the door, right hand full of panties and socks but pressed to the door as best I can manage.

He grabs the flogger from the nightstand drawer, but doesn’t use it for long. Moments later, he has a cane in his hand. “You have a hundred strokes coming to you this weekend,” he reminds me. “We can start now.”

Six strokes in, the grip of my hand gives up. My panties and socks fall to the floor. He picks up the panties and stuffs them into my mouth. I can smell the sex we had the night before. I press my forehead to the door. He continues with the cane.

Every few strokes he touches my bottom, lulling me into a sense of safety. It’s not a ruse. I am safe under his hand, under his cane. He is in tune with me, playing my bottom like his favorite instrument, one he’s played for years. He knows the meaning of each moan, sigh, and quick bend of my knees. He knows me.

At twenty-four strokes, he stops. I open my mouth and let the panties fall out. “I need to write about this,” I say. “I’m not sure that everyone knows it can be so easy. So much fun.”

He kisses me in full. “Let’s look for hooks,” he says. “I can see your hands bound together, attached to a hook that goes over the door.”

“As long as I can put my clothes on it when I’m not bound to it, I’m in,” I say.

He nods. “Of course,” he says. He swats my bottom. “Now put your clothes on. Let’s go shopping.”

Talk Dirty to Me

 I had to scroll through many images of women tied to trees and spanked to find this one. Worth the hunt!

I hadn’t wanted to go to Seattle, and had been annoyingly vocal about it. I was even tired of hearing myself whine about having to be out of the house and in a car for too long, even though I didn’t have to drive. The reason for going was good. Mr. W’s brother and his wife were in Seattle for three days for the brother’s work, but they had a few hours free before they had to go back home to Arizona on Sunday. Portland is three hours away from Seattle but obviously much farther away from Arizona, so if we wanted to see them - which we did - this was the time. We’d agreed to drive up, leaving our house at 6am to meet them around 9am for breakfast. Then we’d have a bit of time to poke around the city together before we took them to the airport. The problem was that I’ve been a homebody recently - well, always, but even more-so since 2013 arrived with a vengeance - and I just didn’t want to leave the house. I’m ashamed to say that I kept hoping the trip would be canceled.

When we crossed the Oregon-Washington border at 6:30, it was clear that trip was not going to be canceled. “I’m anxious,” I told Mr. W as we headed ever farther north. We passed a state patrolman.

“Well, you’ll need to work on staying calm, and help keep me calm as well. Did you see that state trooper? In Washington, if they pull you over, they spank the passenger.”

I started giggling and my tension finally started to ease. “If we get caught, what do you think he’ll spank me with? Hand? Belt?”

“Car antenna,” said Mr. W, referencing a line from an Eddie Murphy stand-up performance from the 80's.

I shook my head. “Ugh! No thank you! I don’t understand spanking with non-natural materials. Those plastic paddles you see sometimes? Or rubber.” I shudder to make my point. “Yuck.”

“I’ve seen some rubber paddles lately that are interesting,” said Mr. W. “I’ve been spending some time browsing for toys for your bottom. But no, I don’t like plastic either.”

My memory flashed to a spanking film I’d seen years ago where a model is late for her shoot and is spanked with a little floppy rubber paddle that turns her bright pink so quickly that it always made me wonder what one would do to my bottom, which takes so long to color or mark these days that it requires spankings multiple days in a row to get the desired effect. I blushed. “I’m curious about rubber,” I admitted.

Then we were on to other implements. We talked about some floggers he’d shown me a few weeks back, and a three-tailed tawse he’d been admiring. Before the trip began, I’d been worried about becoming uncomfortable during the long drive, but I hadn’t expected the discomfort to be the result of a conversation that was making me want to touch myself.

As we discussed the various ways Mr. W wanted to spank me, I began to squirm. I had on sheer black tights and a black knee-length skirt that had started to ride up as we drove. I started to lightly stroke the tops of my thighs, only to stop and pull my skirt back down, just to have it ride up all over. Mr. W noticed. “Go ahead. Touch yourself,” he encouraged.

“I don’t want to be a distraction to you,” I said. “If I distract you too much, the patrolman will come spank me.”

“You’ve distracted me already,” he said, his voice rough and deeper than his normal conversational tone. He was aroused as I was. “It’s not the police you have to worry about.”

The sun had been trying to rise, but it had given up. We were driving through a wooded area and it had begun to rain. There was nothing but road and trees, and with only gray sky above, the world was in black and white. I could see access roads winding up into the forest hills on the right side of the road. “I wish we had time to take one of those roads, to drive up to some secluded area, so you could spank me. I want you so much,” I confessed.

“I’d love to take you into the woods, raise your skirt and pull down your tights and panties, and turn you bright red.”

I sighed. “My bottom would be the only color in the black and white world.” I thought back to our talk of getting pulled over. “Would you use your belt on me?”

He swallowed. “Of course. But it’s raining, your bottom would be wet. The leather would smack and stick to you, sliding over you slowly, my strokes stinging that much more.”

I let my hand slide up my thigh to touch myself over my tights. We passed a big-rig truck; I removed my hand from my skirt, wondering if the driver had seen. “I want that so much,” I whispered.

We were on a tight schedule and I didn’t have a change of clothes with me. I couldn’t show up looking wet, beaten, and disheveled for a nice breakfast with his family. We didn’t take the side road, we didn’t expose my backside to the elements and wet leather, but we did talk about spanking for the rest of the drive. It was a three hour trip, and over two-thirds of it was spanking talk. We talked about spanking films, spanking me, this blog, toys we wanted, and so much more. We even imagined what the “Farm Boy Drive In,” might be after we saw a sign with no further explanation. We decided it was where farm boys could drive in and select their favorite bottoms from a row of farm girls. In my imagination, there were farmer’s daughters with red-checked blouses and tiny denim shorts,  strong farm-hand girls, their hair red and curly, their arms and legs strong but delicate, as well as a few Swiss Miss-style milk-maids, for good measure.  (I Googled it and it turns out it’s a family-style restaurant, not an open-air spanking farm. Darn.)

The long conversation has resulted in a very busy week for us. On the one hand, it has kept me from writing. On the other, I have plenty of fodder now. We’ve both been in spanking heat all week. We’ve had mornings where I’ve gone to kiss Mr. W good bye and suddenly he’s slapping at my bottom, telling me to just wait until I get home. We’ve had evenings where we meant to take a break, but the break, after we’ve tried to just have dinner and watch TV, consisted of the strap and the flogger, followed by… well, these are the other posts I need to try to write today, and over the next few days.

I am happily marked, ready for my Sunday spanking, and hoping I have time to write the rest of it down before I have even more to tell you about.

Up next...

Well, my bottom is up next on this blog, of course. Just a little note to say I'm sorry it's been nearly a week since my last post. The next one up is about a fantasy Mr. W and I shared on our recent drive to our Seattle, involving taking a little side trip along one of the forest roads, plus his belt.

I am in need of both a new camera and time, so I'm trying to find just the right image to go with the post, plus time to write it. I have the fantasy clearly in my head, but haven't had a chance to write it yet. If I don't manage it tonight, I will make time in the evening tomorrow. I'm still hoping that someday I will just manage to write spanking stories for my portion of our living, but until my co-worker chooses to work more than 50% of her assigned hours, it's hard to make time! If anyone needs a spanking it's her, but since I have such a wonderful (and patient) man to give it to me, I guess I'll take it all in her place.

More soon.

xo,
Abby

A Basement - An Unfilmed Fantasy

I was reminded of an imagined but unfilmed Naughty Abby movie, a fantasy never enacted, by a picture sent to me by a fan who encouraged a film in which I was a slave girl, cleaning like Cinderella but punished while working because my feet had been found to be dirty. Therefore, I had not cleaned well enough. Little did he know, I had already envisioned such a film, and though we are we no longer filming, nor are we living in the house where the scene could have been set, I can't help but allow myself the memory of the fantasy now.

The story is set in the basement of the old Portland house, the first house we lived in together. Built in 1902, the house was a maze of doors and ill-advised windows and ceilings. Even our bathroom had two doors and a window looking into the laundry room. The basement was only accessible from outside. To get inside, we had to go down a short flight of concrete steps set into the earth of the backyard. The first door had to be both locked and unlocked with a key. This opened into a crumbling short hallway, where we kept our yard and garden tools. To the right, leading to the actual basement, was a second door, its padlock latch missing the padlock. Someone had painted on the unfinished wood-slatted door in dripping white paint, “Keep Out.”

The floor, once inside, was dirt. There was a rusted push-style lawn mower and a rake in the corner. On the opposite side of the room was a sink that was connected to nothing, a remnant of the remodel that surely created the bathroom window anomaly. A ladder no one dared climb rested against the wall. There was one window that looked out onto the street, but it was at ground level and a rhododendron bush prevented light, or anyone’s gaze, from getting inside. There were two dim ceiling lights, 40 watt bulbs at most. They were enough to see by if one needed to change the filter in the furnace, or imagine the terrible scene that could take place at the far end of the basement.

I imagined the film would begin with Mr. W entering the basement, but it would be shot from his point of view. He wouldn’t appear on film, thus heightening the abandonment of the film’s victim/protagonist/star. Down the stairs, through the locked door, through the wood door and its message of “Keep Out,” letting the viewer know this wouldn’t be like the previous films with their yellow walls and carefully chosen panties.

He looks around, catching the various oddities on film, then sets his gaze on the most unexpected object in the room - Abby, in a long white nightgown made of thin white gauze, its straps slender over her shoulders, her arms and her upper back exposed. She is lying on a tarpaulin, curling auburn hair covering her face. The bare soles of her feet are exposed and dirty. She has clearly wandered around the room but found no escape. The camera walks toward her.

A cane comes into view, alights upon her backside lightly. Tap, tap, tap. “Wake up,” we hear him say. He is not angry or gentle. Matter of fact. She will wake up.

She looks up at him, the camera. She doesn’t speak. She is afraid of smiling because it’s her fantasy come to life. She looks up pitifully then casts her gaze back down, awaiting command.

“Get up,” he says, again with little tone in his voice. He points towards the ladder against the wall just a few yards away. “Go stand before that ladder. Grab the highest rung you can reach. Lean forward against it.”

She does what he commands as he walks slowly behind her. “Six strokes,” he tells her. The point of view is now a little from her right; he is left-handed. We see her spread her legs beneath the sheer nightgown. Her arms are extended fully over her head, grabbing a rung of the surely antique ladder. “Count them.”

The first stroke makes her unexpectedly cry out. She’s so much in the head space of being the victim, held hostage in the basement, that she forgets how much she loves this.

“Quiet,” he says.

“I forgot,” she whispers. A hand reaches in front of the camera towards her hair, touches her, caresses her gently. “I know,” he whispers back. Then again, “Count them.”

“One, Sir,” she says. She takes the second stroke quietly, and moans on the third. She counts each diligently. He is caning her firmly but not excessively. His force is just enough to sting and, hopefully, raise a few welts beneath the fabric.

“Hold tightly,” he advises for stroke four. As it lands she throws her head back, then turns just her head to face him, the camera. Her eyes are brazen, enraged. We hear him try not to laugh. “Four,  sir,” she says, still facing him. She loves this little dance before she completely gives in, the illusion that she is in control before she lets go and no longer wants to control any of it. It’s the moment between playacting and truly experiencing the punishment her body is receiving. Her gaze taunts, begs to be taken over the line.

He taps her again, more firmly than when he woke her. “Face back to the wall.” She obeys. He draws the cane back and though he wouldn’t usually do so, he raises his arm just slightly, a few inches higher than he normally would, and we hear him exhale in anticipation. The cane lands directly where he’d intended. She inhales so deeply that we can hear it, then breathes out in a sound that cannot be titled sigh, moan, breath, or even silent scream. It is all these things, a depth of feeling so intense that there is no one way to react. Her breath coming shorter now, she murmurs, “Five, Sir.”

Anxious to see his handiwork, he reminds her, “Just one more.” He strikes her with a sharp crack against the center of her bottom, glancing the blow so that it raises a welt and makes her gasp but does not incite the pain of the last stroke. “Six, Sir.”

He steps back and places the cane down on the tarpaulin. He turns to her. For those who know them, this is his wife, trembling against a ladder before him, waiting for the next command. For those who haven’t read her blog or seen their previous films, this is just some woman who hasn’t exposed her bottom yet in this particular spanking video. Will the viewer still be watching?

“There’s so much more to come,“ he says aloud, so there is no doubt that the film is not over in six strokes. He knows she wants, and he wants to give her, more than this, but it had to begin this way, with this conflagration of violence and innocence. This is her fantasy. Above ground, they lie together happily, making love even when they’re fucking. But now they are enacting this scene she has been rambling about for months, trying to plan what he would do to her, when and how, and he knew the whole time that it wouldn’t be up to her when the time came, but he’d let her buy her gown and plan her scene. And then he’d thrash it all.

“Step back from the ladder and raise your nightie,” he tells her.

She steps back, still facing the wall, and raises her nightgown to her waist. Six distinct welts are visible, with the brightest and thickest, stroke number five, placed exactly where her thighs curve into her ass. He had aimed to spread the caning over the full of her backside and now that the strokes to her flesh are fully visible, he prides himself in their spacing, even when administered over fabric. After a moment of admiring the welts and letting the viewer do so as well, he says flatly, hiding his pleasure, “Turn around.”

The dust and years of the ladder have left stripes against the front of her nightgown where she leaned against the rungs. He knows she will be so pleased when she sees the footage, how perfectly her scene played out, how unusually striped she is both front and back. “You’re filthy,” he tells her instead. “Take that off.”

“Please, no,” she begs.

He can’t remember if this was part of the plan. “Take it off, I said.”

Hesitatingly, she slides the gown over her head and holds it out. He takes it and places it on the tarp alongside the cane. She stands before him, tears only sliding down her cheeks now that she’s naked. “Touch your nipples,” he tells her. She does it awkwardly, leaving dark smudges on her breasts. “Touch your clit.” She pretends to, but her hands are dirty and he knows she won’t. She'll leave it for him, for when her bottom is a far more raw and complete set of raging red strokes. For when the camera is off. “I’m going to come back in two hours and beat you again. Harder. Longer. Remain unclothed. If you‘re dressed, it‘s an extra dozen. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” she says, eyes downcast, head nodding.

He turns off the camera. “Happy?”

“Not nearly.” She grins, then gets down on her hands and knees on the tarpaulin. “What position do you want me in for the beginning of scene two?”

Having Been Spanked

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weekend Spanking Challege - Spanking #4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re standing on my foot!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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