Sunday, February 24, 2013

Implement Inquisition #1: The Riding Crop

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Long Night's Journey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cane you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please?" he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, February 17, 2013

Breaking Points, Ball Gags, and Blog Rolls

A sample clip from The Breaking Point

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

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

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

Saturday, February 16, 2013

A Short Note

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