Circadian - An Erotic Poem

Circadian

Shrugging the chenille robe from

my otherwise naked body, I bend over

to pick up yesterday’s sweater from the floor.

“Let me see,” he says, reaching across the bed

as if his arm might stretch past the

indentation of my body, the wrinkled sheets,

just to touch the bareness of my backside

before I get dressed.

“I thought you’d be bruised,” he says.

I reach back to squeeze the flesh in question.

“I’m tender,” I tell him, “but I could go again.”

Dizzying warmth runs through me as I recall

last night’s steady stroke of the paddle,

not so softly and not too hard but just right,

so right that the paddling was like sex, my body,

his body, and the paddle a stand-in for his cock,

rocking me forward and back. I met it

with my hips, my hands grasping the blanket

I knelt upon, I gasped as I realized

the paddle might make me come.

My head was made of light as we paused,

my ass still bouncing in the air even without

the paddle. “That was incredibly fucking sexy,”

he growled and I pushed my hips back, sure that

the glisten of moisture dripping down my thighs

would be invitation enough, but just in case

I begged him, “Please, inside me, please,” no other words

possible but he was already grabbing me and

halfway inside, everything behind my eyelids

glowing amber, body turned to fire.

Slipping the sweater over my head, the morning sun

striping the bedroom walls through Venetian blinds,

I slip back into bed, my back to him so he can cup

my warm and sore but unmarked bottom.

He rests his head by my shoulder and tells me,

“Then we can do it all over again tonight.”

Sighing peacefully, I tilt my head so that his beard and lips

are pressed against me. “Or we could start now,” he

offers, but I can wait, I want to wait, and so

I rise and walk through patterns of light towards

clothes, then coffee, then everything the day will bring.

Towards bed, then surrender, then sleep.

The Found Art of Spanktiquing

Definition of SPANKTIQUE  /'spank-ˈtēk/ > 1 noun spanking implement or item that can be used as a spanking implement belonging to an earlier period, style, or fashion. 2 intransitive verb to shop and/or browse in a traditional antique store for objects that can be used for adult spanking or that incite thoughts of adult spanking and/or eroticism.

Leather straps that would have made ideal spanking
implements if not for the brass horse-themed decorations

On Valentine's Day weekend, we went spanktiquing. "Spanktiques" are similar to what fellow writer and adventuress Curvy Dee has been referring to as "pervertables" for as long as I can remember. I recently wrote about our first experience with this type of shopping in my post Every Ordinary Object but hadn't coined the term yet. Even now, after over a decade of spanktiquing, each trip brings both erotic anticipation and giddy curiousity. What will we find? Will we bring it home? And most importantly, can we spank me with it?


Many of my blog posts are, in essence, love letters first to Mr. W and then to the spanking world at large. I have often spent long hours crafting them. To occupy some of the time in between, I thought it would be fun to start taking pictures and sharing what we find on these spanktique treasure hunts. If it makes us think of sex or spanking, there's a good chance it will do the same for you. All of the photos in this post were taken by me at The Antique Trove in Scottsdale, Arizona on February 13, 2016.

License for Prostitution, applicant Mattie Sue, circa 1893 Prescott, Arizona.
The photo is a vintage pic but probably reproduced from the
nudie cigarette cards and pin-ups from the early 20th century.

License for Prostitution, applicant Midnight Rose, circa 1876 Dodge City, Kansas.

This is just a strange nude. The man is gutting fish. The woman is nude,
showing her bottom, and reading a stack of books. They appear to live
in a very small circus tent. Just one of those great antique mall mystery items.

Signed art on the left by illustrator Dave Stevens, the creator of The Rocketeer,
on a rack of adult pin-up and photography magazines

My Faire Flogger

A few weekends ago, I went to a Renaissance faire for the first time in eighteen years. Unlike my twenty-year old self, I didn't dress up, nor did Mr. W or his mom, leaving only his teenage cousin costumed in a velvet cape that dragged in the sand and covered a jester's costume that was more Harley Quinn than courtly fool.

I'd felt awkward about not being in costume, despite the many other families in jeans and comfortable walking shoes. However, it turned out that the Arizona Renaissance Festival is much larger than King George's Faire back in Boston, and in a great deal more direct sunlight, so the casual weekend wear turned out to be a wise choice. Walking around in those jeans and sneakers, though, I realized that it wasn't the lack of costume that made me feel awkward, it was that I no longer considered myself a person who would wear a costume, even one of questionable historical correctness. The version of me who would craft a velvet dress adorned in ribbons, going so far as to sew a push-up bra into the lining for that classic cleavage-like-a-bum-crack look, then tightly bind a waist-cinch around it had been gone for so long, I had forgotten she'd left.



Exploring the village booths and performances, Mr. W and I made notes of where we'd like to go back to explore if we could get away from his family. We were enjoying being out with them - the trip was part of his cousin's birthday gift - but as we noticed floggers, whips, and books about medieval torture instruments, we knew we'd need some time alone if we hoped to leave the faire with any souvenirs other than handmade rose-scented soap.

Finally, after a lunch of soup in bread bowls, we left them at rest in the shade. As we walked, we talked about the costumes on the attendees who had dressed up. In addition to garb that possibly could have fit somewhere into the Renaissance, a period of time that spanned four hundred years and the European continent, there were pirates, vikings, fairies, a woman who may have been cosplaying Xena the Warrior Princess, and quite a few patrons in either classical Victorian get-up or its steampunk variation. We were startled at one point when Mr. W was greeted by a tree. It had looked like a prop, but it was, in fact, the Green Man.

"I was worried I was going to be uncomfortable coming here because I wouldn't fit in," I told Mr. W as we walked and talked. "I thought everyone was going to look down on me because we aren't in costume." Unsure but hopeful, I then added quietly, "I forgot I was one of them. I think I might be starting to feel like me again."

We reached the stand-alone wooden shop for Rena's Leather, where we'd seen the floggers, along with viking helmets, leather purses, and unusual items. Family-friendly environments are not usually conducive to spanking toy shopping, but I was at last feeling more confident, and the vendor did, after all, bring spanking toys to the family-friendly environment, so I walked right up to the display and began stroking the falls of a variety of floggers. I think Mr. W would have been content to let me shop, but finding one that was soft and supple to the touch, I beckoned him over to see what he thought.

"It's pretty light, but it's super soft," I told him, touching it along with him. The moment I spoke, one of the shopkeepers volunteered, "If you're looking for something heavier, this one is probably the heaviest we have here right now."

I stroked it first, then as I nodded, Mr. W tested its texture and weight as well. "It's buffalo bull leather," the shopkeeper advised. It only had nine falls, but I'd been considering something simple, shorter and softer than our other two floggers, something we could play with to determine if we were interested in growing our flogger collection, especially when some of the floggers we've been looking at online are as much an investment as they are a tool for sensual exploration. The price tag on this one was minimal, and short of actually being flogged at the faire, this did make an ideal souvenir. We made the purchase and tucked it carefully into my bag so we wouldn't be asked what we bought when we met back up with the other half of our party.

The whips turned out to be more for spectacle than for spanking, and the torture books, though compelling, cost more than I wanted to spend, so we met back up with our family and headed home, all of us exhausted from walking and sun and personal rejuvenation. That last one may have just been me, as I decided on the way home that next year I would have a costume at the ready by the time the festival reopens in February.

The faire flogger, however, was not content to simply go home and join the other toys in the cabinet. It still contained a spirit of renaissance within it, and was not about to let that spirit go unreleased.

It was two weeks later when we finally had a chance to bring the flogger out for play. We'd been uncertain what we were in the mood for, spanking or only sex, light play or heavy play, role play or just us. I suggested the faire flogger because it was new and light and soft, something I thought we could use as a gentle starter and see where it took us. He agreed. We were already naked, so I presented the full length of the back of my body to him on the bed while he fetched the flogger from the cabinet.

He began softly, the falls barely a whisper on my skin. It felt heavenly. He dragged it lightly over me, almost tickling me, then gently whipped it against me, hardly a stroke, just a quick rush of soft leather. He continued that pattern, lightly and softly, then increased the pressure and speed. I wasn't sure if I was ready to go harder yet, but I pressed on, sure I would fall into the rhythm.

Even with just the nine falls, the flogger landed on my backside with a lovely thud, though its slenderness did bring out a sting as well. Mr. W was switching between a steady stream of medium strokes and taking a moment to rub the sting from my skin, but each time he began flogging anew, I had trouble matching my breath to the rhythm. I adjusted my hips. I told myself, Any moment, any moment, you'll find it. "It" being that perfect space, the one where the pain is pleasure, where I'm riding it, craving it, holding it and releasing it like breath itself.

I didn't say anything. I kept trying to break through to my headspace, subspace, my perfect place. He let the flogger fall lower, striking the tops of my thighs and the sweet spot. He whipped it up and down my bottom rather than side to side. I was holding very still, often holding not just my body but my breath. I was trying not to make any sound, biting down on a blanket even though I wasn't actually in pain. Then, just as I felt my skin start to warm to where I wanted it, as I started to think, I'm getting there, he stopped. He knew something wasn't right. My breathing wasn't balanced, my body wasn't reacting the way it normally does.

He was right. I wasn't there yet, in that headspace I was craving. I was trying to force it. I should have said then, "I can't get there right now. Come hold me. Come touch me. Come be inside of me." Anything but what I said instead, "Let me push through. Let me keep going."

When we talked about it later, we confessed that we were each trying to please the other. I thought he wanted to keep spanking me. He thought I wanted to push through and find that space. It's happened before. What neither of us realized was that even if that's what the other person wanted, it didn't have to be right then. We could take a break for an hour or a day or however long it took before we had a chance to start again. Instead, we did try for a little while longer, but we finally both gave up, feeling uncomfortable in our own skins and disappointed that we hadn't pleased the other person.

It was the following morning that Mr. W discovered the two spanking and BDSM podcasts I mentioned in my last post. Lo and behold, the first order of business in both of them is communication. We hadn't even realized that it was something we could do better. We have the same fetish. We're the perfect opposite sides of the same coin. We haven't had an awkward spanking experience in a very long time - that is, not until that little flogger came into our house. Now, in the week and a half it's been since it worked its magic, we can't stop talking, planning, experimenting. We are in an era of renewal and discovery.

I am looking forward to the next time the faire flogger comes out of the cabinet. What other tricks does it have up its hilt? If it continues to work changes upon us, the next thing you know I'll be writing about how we've decided to try switching roles and now sometimes I'm the top and he's the bottom. That would take some magic! Or would it?

From the Inside Out

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Every Ordinary Object

To hear us tell it now, we knew we'd be married the moment Mr. W was introduced as my new co-worker at Barnes & Noble. If not then, we certainly knew shortly thereafter, when at the Information Desk, I revealed with a blush that I had a fascination with spanking and he confirmed the same about himself. The only difference was that he was a top and I was a bottom. Things almost couldn't have been more ideal.

The universe immediately began shifting our lives into proper order. My boyfriend broke up with me and his girlfriend broke up with him four days later, neither of whom were into spanking. We began spending all our time with each other immediately. The only problem with our new found freedom was that we weren't ready to date. We weren't even ready to kiss. We were, however, ready to begin our adventures together.


He took me to my first hockey game and on the way, we stopped at the beach so I could watch the late afternoon sun sink into the Pacific Ocean, something I hadn't had a chance to do even after a year on the West Coast. We listened to classic country as we drove around Southern California during fire season. He maneuvered a car with a suddenly dead radiator from the left lane across six lanes of traffic to get off at the next exit, all with the entire right side of the freeway engulfed in flame. We watched another sunset, a field of violet and orange blooming before us, as Willie Nelson's Stardust album played and we talked between the most comfortable silences I'd ever known.

One night, we were nostalgic for the days when books written by Anonymous still appeared on the shelves of regular bookstores. We went on a quest that became a tour of L.A.'s adult entertainment shops, everything from LGBQT-friendly Circus of Books to a shady hole in the wall with that kind of arcade in the back to the nationally known Pleasure Chest. Driving between these nefarious destinations, he told me stories that weren't just pieces of L.A.'s history, they were pieces of his own. Clubs where he'd played with his band. Bookstores and record shops he'd nearly lived in, safe havens and bastions of sanity. Pieces of conversations he remembered as we passed this old building or that shadowed corner. We did eventually find a few erotic titles, even in the BDSM genre, but we didn't buy any. There wasn't anything in those books that he hadn't given me that night - a strong man to show me the ropes, a fantasy to fall into, a longing for when those two would finally be combined.

During this same summer, now almost thirteen years ago, we discovered a hobby we continue to this day. It began with his need for a new belt. As booksellers at a national chain, none of us made very much, so when he asked if I wanted to go shopping with him for a belt, we started off in thrift stores. Suddenly, with him at my side, every ordinary object had alternate possibilities. Wooden spoons and butter paddles, dull with use and time, now glimmered with possibilities of domestic kitchen discipline. Framed calendar pages featuring bare-bottomed pin-ups made us whisper and wonder about the stories of the people who eventually decided to give up this handcrafted erotica to charity. Then there were the clothes.

There were girls' school uniforms in high school sizes that would fit an adult woman, with real school uniform labels and plaids in the appropriate school colors. This was Los Angeles, after all. Nobody wants to go to public school. In most of the school-focused spanking scenarios I've encountered or dreamed up myself, nobody goes to public school either.

There were medical scrubs and hospital gowns, for doctor and naughty nurse scenarios, or perhaps even doctor-patient. No straight-jackets, but my asylum fantasies were nonetheless present as I imagined just how Mr. W - ahem, a doctor, musn't get ahead of myself because we still hadn't kissed - might try to cure me of my spanking fetish.

And of course, there were the belts. In all shades of leather, in all lengths, weights and degrees of wear, they hung on display hooks like a selection of sadism in a mean uncle's woodshed. He tried a few on, first folding them over and snapping them, startling not only a few customers with the sharp cracks as we giggled and blushed. Eventually, he found one that fit, its brown leather soft and supple, the loop of its fold nearly flat. I still remember which store we bought it from, the wall where it was hanging, the giddy sense once we reached the car that we'd bought our first leather spanking toy together.

It would still be two years before our first kiss, and those years would be spent a thousand miles apart. But ever since, our favorite past-times haven't changed. We go for long drives and tell each other stories. If we're not together for a stunning sunset, we call each other just to say, "Go outside, it's beautiful!" We revel in adult stores, from exploring local shops in person to delving into the international world of spanking implements online. Our favorite, though, is seeking those objects, ordinary and extraordinary, that sit side by side with salt-and-pepper shakers, Depression glass, rotary telephones, and taxidermy. The objects that make his hand graze my bottom as he leans in breathe against my ear, "Just imagine how that would feel on your backside, young lady." The objects that could belong on our bookshelf, in our cabinet, or on our walls. Even the ones that make us laugh and wonder what stories they could tell. These stray pieces of other people's lives magnify a core piece of our own life together.

So, the next time you donate to Goodwill or decide to set up a booth in an antique mall, remember there will be those - young and old, friends and lovers alike - who will be browsing for those ordinary objects as well as the not-so-ordinary ones. They'll take them home, clean them up, and possibly treasure them for the rest of their lives. Thirteen years later, they just might be reminiscing gratefully about that time they were just two broke and broken-hearted booksellers with a need for an inexpensive belt.

A Thief of Hearts and Apples

Happy Valentine's Day! While Mr. W and I are busy celebrating with the new toys we purchased yesterday (more to come on those, of course), here is one of my favorite posts from back in 2011. Part fantasy, part real life spanking experience, I thought it was perfect for a day that is all about both love and sexiness.

Discomfort Me With Apples, Parts One and Two

Part One

A few hours after revealing a fantasy I'd been having based on a spanking video I saw a decade ago, I found myself at the mercy of an apple farmer ripe with anger over my theft of his produce.

"What have you been doing?" he demanded.


"N-n-nothing," I stammered, unsure where the line of query was heading. After all, I thought I was in our bedroom, naked and ready for a little playtime but not at all realizing I was standing at the base of a maturely gnarled and heavily laden apple tree, bag of stolen Mcintosh in hand, about to be spanked for my collection of this forbidden fruit.

"I hardly think that's the truth," Mr. Williams replied. "What's this? A bag of my apples?" He pointed to my right hand, empty but for the fruits of our imagination. In this case, that was enough.

I caught on, realizing he was allowing me to play out the fantasy I had confessed to earlier. Of course, it would have his own twists to be detailed in good time, but quickly I replied, "Yes, sir. Your apples were so bright red and beautiful, I could not resist."

"Red and beautiful, hm? I have my own mind of what we shall call bright red and beautiful, but let's see what you have to say for yourself first. How many of my apples did you steal?" As he spoke, he removed his belt. He folded it and snapped it, letting me know that no matter my answer, the leather was destined for my bare skin.

I don't know why I said it, but I told him, "Three sir. Only sir." He peered into the imaginary bag then put his hand on my lower back, pressing so I bent slightly forward. "Only three?" The belt whipped quickly across my backside three times. "Fuck!" I hissed without realizing I was cursing before the word was out of my mouth.

I heard him swallow a laugh. For a moment I was embarrassed at my expression of shocked pain, but then I realized this was my character, obstinate and foul-mouthed, ready and willing to steal for the thrill, but ready to take her comeuppance as well. "No sir, not only three. I subtracted ten. I stole thirteen apples."

Mr. Williams sighed, as if he really was disappointed in me, as if he would have preferred that I had not stolen thirteen of his pretend apples. Of course, the actual disappoint was that I had not stolen twenty-three, or thirty-three instead, but he allowed me the grace of only thirteen. As if it hurt him more than it was going to hurt me, he instructed, "Bend over and touch your toes."

I bent over, fingertips to toes, shifting my body weight from side to side as if I really was an impatient young thief, ready to receive her spanking so she could be on her delinquent way. "Thirteen strokes, then," said Mr. Williams. "You will count."

"Yes, sir," I murmured, but at the first stroke of the belt, I found myself angry, irritated with the pain and the situation. I huffed, letting him know I was irritated with the punishment. "One, Sir," I sneered.

The second stroke landed, harder than the first, just where bottom meets thigh. I refused to show how much it stung. "Two, Sir."

The third stroke fell as hard as the second, whipping across the same spot. I cried out and felt shame. He was making a point. I wasn't going to get away with obstinacy. The only appropriate reaction was pain, not irritation. But I wasn't giving in. "Three, Sir," I counted through clenched teeth.

He rubbed the folded end of the belt across my bottom in a sawing motion, the same he uses when he's holding a cane. If I was clever I'd have noticed the foreshadowing, but I was too caught up in the character and the sensation of the belt. I wanted him to know how much it hurt. The character wanted him to know she was non-plussed, that a little belt whipping wasn't going to change her ways. Confusion won and I wasn't at all prepared when the fourth stroke came. It was across the full of my backside, stinging from left to right. I stood up, and I am not sure if I was fully broken from the character or completely subsumed by her when I squealed, "Holy shit! That fucking hurt!"

"Bend over," he commanded. "Watch your language." He paused a moment. "Are we not counting?"

"Four, Sir." I collapsed a little into the pose, a signal I hoped he would recognize as submission.

The fifth and sixth strokes were less shocking. I counted them properly and I didn't make a scene. Stroke seven would mark the halfway point. I had started to relax after the two strokes I could handle; I thought I had shown that I was willing to take the punishment and that he would be less forceful about the punishment, in kind. I was wrong. The seventh stroke crossed my thighs in a painful amalgamation of cruelty and curiosity. Mr. Williams knows that I detest any spanking upon my thighs, and I know he's always interested in my reaction. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that I was being tested. Instead, I screamed. I don't know if I was speaking to Mr. Williams or myself when I followed the scream with, "What the fuck?" I just had not been expecting that level of pain in our apple farmer scenario.

The silence then was so strong that I began to twitch. "I'm sorry, Sir," I whispered. "That's seven."

"That's right," he said tersely. I was in for it.

Strokes eight through twelve were hard, but my submission was no longer an act. I wasn't going to fight the belting any longer. I counted, and the strokes stung. At one point, I don't remember at which stroke, I became a little dizzy. But I held position as long as Mr. Williams held the belt.

After stroke twelve, we both knew I had only one left to come. Mr. Williams paused to give the stroke the gravity any presumed last stroke of a punishment deserves, and this was no different, despite the punishment being for an imagined crime. My only misdeed, in retrospect, was confessing the fantasy to him in the first place, as it had been turned on me, as the best fantasies, when shared, are wont to do.

"Last stroke," he said. "Are you ready?"

I prepared myself, making sure my position was as he would desire, bent fully, hands resting atop my feet, bottom pushed out, fully on display to meet the belt. "Yes, Sir," I whispered. I knew the stroke was going to be very hard, that the tears already formed in the corners of my eyes were going to flow, that I would wish I had never mentioned the apple farmer video that afternoon. The belt cut across both cheeks and I howled, but quickly fell silent, trying to catch my breath. "Thirteen, Sir."

"You may rub," he responded.

I stood there, not rubbing, not wanting to show that it had hurt, despite my tears. Pride took over unexpectedly. In other words, I stood there, near the corner of our bedroom, pouting just as hard as I could. Pouting so hard that I didn't notice Mr. Williams walk to the other side of the bedroom until he commanded, his voice now farther away, "Over here, hands and knees on the bed. Now."

"Oh God," I whispered to myself, not mentally prepared for more. What had I gotten myself into this time?

Part Two (the tense changes)

I kneel on the bed, cautiously, hesitantly, as if it is a worn wooden bench outside a barn, as if splinters are poised to break the bare skin of my knees should I move too quickly. I am also tentative of the unknown. The belt hurt more than I expected it to, more than I wanted it to hurt. The balance of character and self is precarious. I want to be playing with Mr. W; the apple thief does not want to be punished any longer.

As wife, I know I'm wet, know I'm ready for Mr. W to take the scene where it always leads, but the swish of a cane through the air behind my poised backside lets me know the farmer is not ready to let the apple thief off so easily. I clutch a pillow just before the cane lands.

Thirteen strokes of the belt have not properly warmed my bottom and I lurch forwards into the pillow to stifle my howl of pain. A tap on my lower back reminds me to return to position, kneeling on my hands and knees properly with my back arched and bottom presented. I tensely shift back, not ready but not wanting to seem unwilling.

The next stroke cuts full across the spot where bottom meets thigh, and though I begin to wimper, the thief, who can say the things I would not, says through clenched teeth, "That. Fucking. Hurt."

"Maybe this will help with the pain," Mr. W says. He goes to the nightstand and I think he's going to pull out one of the smaller paddles, something to finish warming me before the remaining eleven cane strokes I know he still wants to give me. Trusting in my husband, I close my eyes.

He returns to his place behind me, stroking my bottom, then clutching the flesh beneath his palm, pulling me open so that I feel even more naked than I already am. His finger touches the orifice between my reddened cheeks, pressing just a little. I relax into the touch. He presses deeper, then pulls out. I think I am about to receive a gentle leather paddling, something sexy, something that will finally send the farmer and the thief from the room. Instead, he presses into me again, this time with something thicker, firmer. It's not flesh. I recognize the toy we bought just weeks ago specifically for this purpose, for this spot, and irrationally, indignantly, the apple thief rears back. "Sir! I hardly think I know you well enough for that!"

Mr. W, clever farmer that he is, pushes me back down. "You've been on this farm before," he says.

I can't hold back. I snort, then giggle, then I'm all out laughing. He begins to laugh too, and the tenseness of the entire scenario is broken. I wiggle my bum at him. "You're right," I say, "I have been on this farm before. I remember now why I came back."

He slides the toy into me and I groan, but happily. The caning begins again. I don't have to count aloud, I just have to take it, holding the toy inside me, trying not to cry out too loudly. It still hurts - it's a caning, after all - but the fear is broken and I ride the pain as I love to do. The strokes are slow, with plenty of recovery time. Tears form but it's nothing I can't stand.

We get to stroke ten and Mr. W pauses. "Three left," he tells me, his voice low and rough, the voice that means he wants the caning to be finished as much as I do, the voice that says he, too, is ready to be inside me. "Would you like your last three to be gentle and slow, or hard and fast?"

"Hard and fast," I say without thinking. He rubs my welts for a moment, surely planning the final three. As he rubs, I reach down to touch myself, not surprised to find how wet and swollen the play has made me. My fingers stray back a little; the toy is still firmly in place. Mr. W sees my exploration and strikes the air with the cane, prepping. "Ready?" he asks.

"Yes," I breathe. Three strokes land in an explosion of agony, but so quickly I can barely breathe, nevermind scream. He throws the cane down, pulls my hips back, and drives into me. I am completely filled. The arch of pain from the last strokes has not yet finished and the combination of toy and man is still so new as to be overwhelming. Moments in, I'm already coming, the orgasm rendering me back to my complete self.

But as the apple thief leaves the room, she and I are finally in agreement about one thing: she'll be back to this farm again.

If You Show Me Yours...

Are you on my naughty blog list yet?

After an afternoon of reading blogs and updating my blogroll, I've come to a realization:

I need your help!

I started blogging here in July of 2007, writing an posting steadily for a few years, even going so far as to make a short series of spanking movies with Mr. W called Naughty Abby Films, which I chronicled and sold here as well. I have always felt most myself when I'm sharing my enthusiasm for eroticism and spanking with others. But in the last few years, I lost touch with myself, and while spanking has remained an important part of my life, spending any time writing, blogging or even reading erotica and blogs fell by the wayside.

Well, as my readers both longtime and new have discovered, I am back. I am trying to post sexy, unique content, and as you may have noticed, I'm once again comfortable with photos of my own backside. (The one pictured here is not mine, though I do have similar panties.)

I am looking for suggestions for blogs and websites that I don't yet have on my list. My blogroll is to the right, just a little farther down. Ideally, I'd like to share reciprocal links, so if you like what you read and see here, please let me know! I would love to swap links with you. Toy and implement website suggestions are also welcome.

Show Me Your Links

Email: abby.schoolhouse@gmail.com

Twitter: @naughtyabbyw

Or comment on this post with suggestions.

Having been away for a few years, I am also ridiculously behind when it comes to Google members who follow this blog. I'd love to see that number increase. I will follow you back!

Thank you and happy spanking!

xo, Abby

Afterwards, Across Your Lap - An Erotic Poem

Tender is the Night, a melting massage bar by Lush Cosmetics,
is the bar that leads to the sensuous aftercare described below

Afterwards, Across Your Lap

Exhausted, sore, I settle slowly

onto my left hip and thigh, robe riding up,

the friction of leather on still-damp skin

barely a sensation

compared to the welts your rattan raised

across my ass in tight red lines,

a fetish formation well-practiced, well-appreciated,

well-delivered.

After the caning you’d driven into me hard

from behind. I was already kneeling at the edge of the bed,

back still arched and feet still flexed when

you threw the cane down and spread me wide.

I cried out louder at cock than cane, the surprise

of pain twisted into pleasure more shocking even

than that one stroke that drew

the smallest, most delicate

drop of blood.

Afterwards, streams of water rushed over me,

stinging those striped marks, washing the shared rewards

of my punishment past my thighs, swirling with soap

around my feet before dissipating - foam into the sea.

I ran my hands over the welts

before stepping from the shower, water still running,

and marveled at how easily our bodies allow

our flesh to be transformed.

Then wrapped in a robe like a towel,

I found you asleep where I’d left you.

I woke you with kisses then left you with

a view of my stripes and a small paper bag

clutched in my hand.

You come to me on the couch, sitting to my right,

your cleansed and gleaming body naked so I

let the robe wrap fall away. You pat your lap;

“Over my knee,” you say. I shake my head,

“I can’t,” I whisper, but you laugh and hold out your hand.

I put my hand in yours, expecting to be pulled, but

you shake your head and nod towards the little bag.

Pulling out the shea butter massage bar you brought me home as a surprise,

I place it in your hand.

You tap your thigh, still smiling, and I twist

to lie across your lap, knowing you could just as easily

set the bar down and begin spanking me anew,

but instead you touch it to me where there are no marks,

circling, letting the bar warm and melt onto our skin.

Slowly slowly, you slide it over me, over the welts,

over the slight mark of broken skin, over the white flesh

that surrounds the perfect patch of red stripes over pink.

Slowly, slowly, over my thighs and up onto my lower back,

my hips, the scents of vanilla, jasmine, ylang-ylang turning

my body back from crisp cleanliness to the ripe fragrance

of a woman well-wanted, well-pleasured, well-used.

You set the bar down, its butter now coating both your hands,

and you spread my ass once again, your fingers massaging

the inner cheeks then sliding down from the base of my spine to the

moistening crevice still swollen from earlier service

and slipping across every inch in between.

Slowly, slowly, the circles over my backside begin again, but

among the patterns, tips of fingers grace the tender spot

between my cheeks, barely tracing the entrance to

its tightly guarded but not unbreachable depths.

Slowly, slowly, one hand remains. As the other continues

to caress away my decreasingly insistent pain,

the insistence of my body for the presence promised

by your fingertips is unable to be ignored.

So slippery, so slick, a single finger slides into me, the oft barred

passage unlocking easily at the pressure of your lubricated key.

Unexpectedly, I push back, welcoming, squeezing

around you. You slide into me deeper and I bite the arm

of the leather couch, tilting my hips to take you in, all the way

to your third knuckle, until you pull back and I almost release you.

I clench to draw you back in. You whisper, “You like this,”

and God I do as you knead my ass like handfuls of flowered dough

with one hand and thrust into me with the other, the single finger

turning into two as I open ever more greedily around your

plunging, provoking hand, prodding me to beg for three.

Slowly, slowly a thing of the past and your hand goes at me

as forcefully as I’ve ever felt it, faster, faster,

and neither of us knows if it’s the jockey spurring the pony

or the pony bucking underneath him; he has no choice but

to ride this one out until the end of the race and

the leather is now taut between my teeth because the glass

is thin on the sliding glass doors and the neighbors could

hear me if I cry out as you frictionlessly fingerfuck me

to completion and my hips are still rocking when

you slowly, slowly don’t let go and don’t slide out and

when my teeth have released the leather and I’ve turned

back to look at you, lips open still gasping,

“You liked that didn’t you,” you say. You smile again

like you did at the beginning and thrust one last time

and no one cares anymore about the sliding glass door

or the sound or the slickness we’ll leave on the leather.

I nod. “I liked that too,” you say.

The Marks That Do Not Fade

Sometimes, for the sake of the length of the post or because I don't know how to tie a piece of real life into the narrative, something gets left out. Usually it's nothing that will affect the story, but in a recent post, Mark Me, I left out the most important part.

As you may know from that post, it wasn't the marks, which had faded by morning. Most of that session was a caning, starting on an unwarmed bottom. This was something that happened in the middle, after the first eighteen cane strokes.

After standing me up from the spanking stool, Mr. W did comfort me, assure me, and tell me how sexy those eighteen strokes had been. He then pointed to the corner of the bed and told me to bend over it and to ensure that the mound of tender flesh between my thighs was pressing right against the corner. I slowly positioned myself, at first straddling the corner, only to find my legs spread too far apart. I tried again, resting my weight of my upper body on the bed and straightening my legs behind me, keeping myself balanced with the balls of my bare feet. "That's perfect," he said, then walked away to the cabinet.

The position I was in made it awkward to see what he removed. Turning my head as best I could, I saw something leather in his hands. I thought it was one of the barber strops, the darker, heavier one. but I learned all too soon that it was a strap that hadn't yet had a chance to burn into my backside.

The first stroke was a blow to both my senses and to my previous understanding of what a strapping feels like. It landed with intense weight, though I knew the actual swing had been light, a test swing. There was just something about this leather, its thickness, its age, its strength. I knew which implement this was now. This wasn't a strop, strap, or any common leather belt. This was a gun holster, doubled over right at the spot, Mr. W observed later, where the larger part bends perfectly so the harder section with the dip in it is on the backside and the more supple part bends just right.

Found at an antique mall here in Arizona, of course, it was stiff but in good condition, the actual pistol holster removable from the belt itself. I had originally rejected it, but Mr. W had already fallen in love not just with the piece but also with what he was imagining doing to me with it. At last, I relented. He spent hours cleaning and conditioning it, turning it pliable and plausible so that by the time he finished, I was longing for the sensation of it swishing across my cheeks. But it has been in the cabinet since, life as well as less daunting toys keeping it from its debut.

Now that I was finally experiencing it, I had no idea how to process it. The second stroke was a struggle to understand. Was I in more pain, or was this a relief from the caning? Mr. W continued slowly but steadily, my body rocking against the corner of the bed, his placement of my body well-chosen.

"I called your father, young lady, to tell him about the punishment you'd be receiving," he began, clearly now a teacher or a headmaster, though I no longer remember if the first part of the punishment had started that way. "When I told him about the strap I intended to use, he implored me to carry on with the cane or the paddle instead." The leather landed fully across both cheeks, a blaze now building over the welts that had already risen from the canes. "He said that he has caught you, many a time, reading stories or watching videos of naughty young women receiving the belt or the strap in punishment. Reading or watching with your hand between your legs." He was getting a feel for the snap of the belt now and was exploring the heaviness of its swing. I was beginning to moan into the mattress.

"However, after explaining my intentions and my methods, he agreed to this form of punishment for you," he continued. "I promised to whip you so that you no longer have such desires. You will understand what it means to feel the strap in a way that will keep you from craving it ever again."

Two more strokes landed, three. "Please Sir," I begged into the blanket beneath me. "Yes Sir, please take these perverted wishes away from me."

"Oh, I will," he promised. The strapping continued until tears welled and I began to tremble, the intensity now almost too much too bear. "Please. Please," I whispered.

Laying the strap down, he began to soothe my bottom with his hand, first with light caresses then with firmer massaging circles, rubbing the sting and the burn away from my now sanguine skin. I could still feel the stripes left from the caning, but the strapping's bruises felt almost subcutaneous, as if it wasn't just my skin feeling the burn but the entirety of my flesh.

It was after a few minutes of this calming and caring that he once again picked up a cane, as detailed in the original post. To be honest, the details are fuzzy from this moment on, because I remember it as emotions rather than the exact order of events and words. He gave me another six cane strokes, totaling twenty-four for the evening so far. It was here that I learned we were going for thirty-seven strokes total, to celebrate my last days at that age. I still felt confused after what I had thought was aftercare, I felt overwhelmed at the thought of taking any more punishment, but I also wanted to please him, to rise to the challenge, to be everything we both wanted me to be in that moment. I agreed to more.

After stroke thirty, with seven left to go, he said to me, "Alright, young lady. Are you ready for six of the best?" I knew I couldn't take six hard strokes, even if he were to let me off lightly on the final seventh stroke for our grand total. I could take it physically; it was my head and my heart I was worried about.

Tearfully sniffling and with both despair and pleading, I asked, "How about just seven okay ones?" 

He sighed. "It's just a phrase," he said. He sounded so disappointed in me. I began to sob. I didn't know he didn't mean truly hard strokes. Sometimes I actually ask for those. I'd ruined the whole night. He was mocking me, thinking I was stupid, that the spanking writer doesn't know the phrase "six of the best." My breath was becoming hyperventilation.

He set the cane he'd been holding down and leaned over me. "Look at me," he said, warmth in his voice. "Sweetheart, look at me."

I looked at him askew, ashamed. "I disappointed you," I sobbed.

"No, no," he insisted. "Do you have any idea how sexy this is? This is us."

"But you were mocking me," I carried on. "You were making fun of me."

He made me look into his eyes. "I wasn't making fun of you. And you need to know," he continued, rubbing my back, stroking my hair, keeping my attention on him, "I'm not punishing you. We're playing that you were naughty. You aren't bad. You aren't a disappointment. You are good. You are beautiful."

My breath began to calm but I wasn't ready to talk. "I am so proud of you. You are amazing." He wasn't only proud of me for taking my spanking. I'd had a rough weekend and I was having trouble believing I was a good person, but he sees that in me and so much more that I have yet to see, but I'm learning. I may not have woken with spanking marks, but his words stayed on my heart. These are the marks that do not fade.

"When I see that you're getting too much into your own head, I bring in a story for you, So you can play with me, be present with me. So you can be naughty, so you can be punished, but so you can come out of it still feeling like you. You are good. You are my wife. I love you."

Still crying, but now with tears of relief and gratitude, I nodded my head. "I love you," I told him. I nodded. I was ready for my last seven strokes.

Afterwards, well-loved and my bottom well-soothed, we spent the night in each other's arms. Even in the morning from his desk at work he texted me to tell me how close he still felt to me. I felt that close to him too. I initially kept this piece of the story as something only for us, but that first post just isn't complete without it. This little piece is what makes that scene, and all of our spanking scenes, more than just spanking or sex. I think it's what makes my blog more than erotica or a spanking diary. I hope it's what keeps readers coming back after all these years and my many periods of hiatus. The only thing we unitedly love more than spanking is each other, and we wouldn't have our spankings any other way.