Becoming My Fetish Incarnate

If you're not up for reading - more welty bruisy pics below. But I'd love if you read my love letter to spanking as it slowly begins to consume more and more of my time and life. xoxo, Abby


I am overwhelmed with a renewed sense of desire, as if on the verge of something so illicit and delicious that my skin can barely stand the anticipation. An underlying but constant distraction keeps my mind and nerves abuzz. I get through the day but the thrum in the shadows grows louder and stronger and faster - I have become lust incarnate for a thing I cannot possess.

I crave this thing called Spanking. I want to live inside it, taste it, fuck it, be it, know it like an acolyte knows the meaning behind the meaning behind the meaning of a favorite prayer.

Suddenly I'm writing again. I have ideas for stories. I'm putting together collections. As you know, I've been more comfortable posting photos of myself as well, either spanked or just in celebration of the body and the bottom. Mr. W is working on a number of spanking-related projects that I hope to be sharing with you here soon. We've started going out smut hunting again, and looking for pervertibles, and just being in the mind-space all the time. It's starting to feel like we're always turned on.

For too long, spanking has been a core part of each of our identities, but we haven't allowed it to be front and center. Yet, if you asked each of us privately, it is THE thing that makes us each who we are. And if you asked us together what makes us amazing as a couple, if we were comfortable enough to say so, we'd tell you it's because we not only complement each other's fetish, we ARE each other's fetish. He is my top and everything I would want that to be. I am his bottom.

Starting next week, I've actually adjusted my work schedule so that I have more time to write and play and share all this with the world that knows what I'm talking about. And I want to be an advocate for spanking play! This blog contains eleven years of (on-and-off) writing about understanding why I am like this. I am at long last through with that. I am like this. I think things are about to get really good.

The pic at the top and these here below are from playtime with the strap and cane with Mr. W last night. I wrote the above yesterday but didn't get a chance to post it. Then all this happened. One of my "vignettes" to tell you the dirty details will be coming up in the next few days.

Afterwards, I asked him if he had a favorite moment or part from what we'd just done, but in true brat fashion I was too excited to tell him my favorite to let him answer. "My favorite part," I told him, "was when  you had my in - for lack of a better term - diaper position on the edge of the bed, and the strap really hurt and I started wiggling. You grabbed my legs and did your best to hold me in place, but you let me cry and twist and turn." That twisting and turning resulted in some of the welts you see on my left leg - truly my own misbehaving fault! "There was a moment in there when I realized you were just going to let me cry and squirm and I just let go and existed purely in that moment."

"My favorite moment," he replied, "was that same moment, when I felt you let go."

I'm writing up this last bit early this morning and I have the most delightful shivers. Someone's going in to work wet today.

An Early Stock-ing Stuffer

Stock-ing stuffer, get it? Because I am stuffed into the stocks! Still dorky after all these years.

We had a delicious first time playing with the stocks. Mr. W built a pillory that allowed us to place the main piece at three different heights (for standing, kneeling on the floor, and lying on a bench at mid-height). We were both overwhelmed with the sexiness of the thing, having both grown-up with fantasies of punished village women of imagined yore, their plump buttocks whipped on the town square for all the world to see, unable to cover their backsides or their faces due to the restraint of the stockades. And yet, Mr. W also made safety and my emotional comfort his first precaution. Much as we both wanted him to thrash my backside and leave me trembling, we played slowly and mostly lightly, ensuring more vicious sessions to come.

The flogger warmed my bottom, back, and thighs as I stood restrained at both wrists and the neck. This was followed by the strap on just my cheeks, bottom to top. He released me then and I allowed myself to fall to my knees, but we skipped the stocks at that height and moved to mid-height and the bench. The bench has been with us throughout our life together as well as our visible spanking life - it features in both Introducing Abby and The Breaking Point, the first and last of the Naughty Abby videos. It was "on set" for Please Not My Hands, right next to the front door and the chair where I received my tawse strokes, and I remember how hard we made love on it after the cameras were off.

Now, I lay upon my belly, legs angled to the ground and resting on my tiptoes, wrists and neck constrained. My hair hung in my face, leaving me feeling hidden and anonymous. From head to toe, I was all too aware of my exposition and it was easy to invite dread into the scene, but Mr. W tickled that same head to toe route with the tips of the flogger, just light wiggles against my body. The hair against my cheeks matched his tickling and my skin lit up, every cell open to sensation.

Just as I was welcoming the teases of leather upon my skin, the deerhide was traded for rattan. The cane cut deep with a thud. A welt rose so quickly that Mr. W's index finger was admiring its width before I caught my breath from the stroke. On to the next stroke and I began to cry. The strokes felt so deep, even though you can see from the photographic evidence that they were just right for easier play. We are still learning what it is like to play with my new shape, with the muscles of new size, with their exposure where there was once layers of thicker flesh. I am still learning what punishment on my new parts feels like. Liquid from both nose and eyes flowed to the carpet and to a support beam that ran across the base of the pillory.

Mr. W set the cane down and stroked my hair, then gently told me to hold on. He returned with tissues and held them to my eyes and nose. Although I was capable of releasing my arms, when he held the tissue to my nose and told me to blow, I blew, fully in his care and control. It was my favorite moment of the scene. It was so intimate, even more-so than the exposure, whipping, and caning of my ass.

We continued with a short caning. I wanted beautiful marks and he gave them to me in just the right proportion. It was just enough that afterwards, as I straddled and rode him on the couch, I whispered, "Next time. More vicious. I want it hard." Hands on my hips, he agreed. "I wanted you to feel comfortable this time. So next time I can beat you terribly." All the good muscles clenched around him. "Yes please," I whispered. Then just, "Yes, yes, yes..."

Return to Position, Part 2 - The Continuation and Conclusion of Abby's Vacation Spanking

Read Part 1

“Kneel facing away from me,” he said.

I climbed onto the couch knees first, resting my elbows on the same over-sized throw pillows that had made the couch so comfortable the night before as we sat up chatting and sipping from ranch-themed mugs with cowgirl coasters. I spread my legs into a somewhat reverse-cowgirl position myself, knees wide enough apart to straddle a horse but feet together, tucked under my bottom. Then I leaned forward against the cushions so that my haunches rose into the air.

It was the tawse’s turn for a taste of my backside. He’d conditioned it before the trip and the ten year old leather was soft and supple again after an extended hiatus in the implement cabinet. The first stroke was quick and sure, a smooth pull of the long leather strap across both cheeks. “Aa-ugh!” My breath caught in the back of my throat, unsure if I was crying or moaning. The second stroke landed and I bit the pillow in front of me. “Uhnh!” Definitely both crying and moaning.

The next four strokes came in even succession, allowing me breathing space between each. “It’s so much,” I sighed between two of the strokes, though I couldn’t tell you which ones. I didn’t mean pain. Spread and arched before him, I felt sexy and beautiful, punished but pleasured. Everything I love to feel during a spanking was rushing through me in one wave of wanting more.

He paused to run his hand over my well-warmed bottom, squeezing each cheek then massaging the flesh. “You are so hot,” he told me.

“Already?” I asked.

“Always,” he answered. I looked back at him, my eyes wet but not weeping. “You are so hot,” he said again, emphasizing that he meant all of me.

I smiled. “I can take another six, Sir,” I told him. Another six, another sixty, another hundred.  I felt like me. It felt like us. I didn’t want it to end –the trip, the spanking, the togetherness of that moment. Once again, I returned to position, arching my back as deeply as I could, giving him a full canvas and a peek at how ready I was for a session of a different kind after the spanking ended.

“Six of the best it will be, then,” he told me. I nodded. I don’t like to count aloud, even though I know he likes it when I do. He hadn’t asked or told me to, so I didn’t when stroke number one striped me with a flare of scarlet.

“Are we not counting that one?” he asked.

“You didn’t tell me to count!” I stammered, playfully indignant.

“Well, count the next stroke. Starting, young lady, with ‘one.’”

He whipped me in the same spot, this time pain catching in my throat before I could mumble, “One, thank you Sir.”

He patted my stinging bottom. “That’s right,” he said. “You’re welcome.”

I was still trying not to laugh when the second stroke hit. “Oh! Two, thank you Sir.” The laughter was gone and it was all I could do not to reach back and rub.

Strokes three and four came hard and fast. “Oh God,” I whispered, realizing I hadn’t counted stroke number three. “Three and four, thank you Sir?”

It was his turn to try not to laugh. “Yes, three and four,” he confirmed. “Well done.”

He teased stroke five, doubling the tawse to tap my thighs and between them as well. I caught myself clenching each time the leather touched me, so I took a deep breath, relaxed my muscles, and pushed my bottom towards him. “That’s it,” he breathed. “Just like that.”

The stroke would have been mean if I hadn’t wanted it so much. This time I cried out in earnest. Then, after a moment – “Five, thank you Sir.”

“Last one, young lady,” he told me. “Are you ready?”

I nodded, deepening the pose. I wanted to feel every inch of that leather burnish my bottom to a bright glowing red. He knew what I wanted and was happy to oblige. He pulled back and let the tawse sting its way across my flesh. “Ohhh,” I groaned with all the air that was left within me. “Six. Oh. Thank you, Sir.”

Some spankings feel like they might never end. This one, however, seemed to have come to a conclusion. He stood back and admired his work, sated, content. I let the full weight of my body collapse against the back of the couch, feeling sensual and satisfied. I knew he’d let me off easy, the two hour drive back home looming before us. For as much as he’d teased all weekend about what an unpleasant return trip it was going to be for me, I didn’t think he truly wanted me to be unfocused and uncomfortable.

He was being too kind. We’d had an incredible weekend and I wanted to give him just one more souvenir that would stay in his memory. “What about the cane?” I asked.

“It’s okay,” he told me. “You were amazing.”

I turned towards the side of the couch and lifted myself so that my stomach rested on the arm, my hands touched the hardwood floor, and my bottom was turned straight up in the air. “What about the cane?” I asked again, giving him all the invitation he could need.

Upside down, I watched him as he watched me, not averting his gaze as he reached back towards the twin bed and fumbled to find the cane. We both blushed. “That is the most beautiful position,” he said, stepping towards me to tap my backside with the cane, gauging the angle he would need to stripe me evenly across both buttocks. “Thank you, love,” he whispered. “That is so, so beautiful.”

He found his stance and tapped again. “You don’t need to count. Just three.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The first cane stroke landed perfectly across the full of my bottom, sending electricity through my entire body. I felt it course along my spine, tendrils of heat spreading as far as my shoulders and the nape of my neck, while my toes curled against the couch cushions. My breath left my lungs in a rush, the force of air the only sound I made.

The second stroke came down just below the first. “Ow. Oh, ow, ow,” I whispered. He let me gather myself and to thank him, I deepened the bow, pressing my weight into the palms of my hands, sweaty against the knotty but smoothly polished floorboards.

“That is amazing,” he told me. “My God, yes,” he ran his free hand over the welts that had surely risen white above my warmed pink skin. “Last one,” he reassured me.

The third stroke struck my sit-spot with perfect aim and a little skid off the curve of my cheeks so as to add an extra thrill to the sting. I cried out in agonizing bliss and slammed my right palm against the floor.

“Well done, young lady.” He soothed the sting out of my skin with gentle, massaging circles of his hand on my flesh. “That was amazing. You are amazing.”

I wanted the praise and the comfort of his hands on my body, but we didn’t have a couch with arms like this at home and I couldn’t picture a way to get into this position for him again. I took a deep breath, re-centered, and extended my lower back so that my bottom was presented to him in its full vulnerability. He noted the return to position and this time it was his breath to catch in lustful uncertainty as he awaited my next move.

I nodded, signaling that I was ready for the next stroke. “I can take another three,” I told him. “Maybe more.”

He moved forwards and swished the cane through the air behind me. I shivered. It was nearly time to go home, but not yet. Not yet.

My Body His Drum

When it was time, he asked me to lie face down on one side of the bed, naked and trusting, as he readied two slender canes and a short stiff leather whip known as a sjambok.  We'd already discussed the session we were about to commence. It would be different from our usual spanking sessions and we were both excited to try this new experiment in sensation. Despite my body's light trembling, I was thoroughly calm, my usual pre-play anxiety set aside in favor of anticipation.

Placing the canes and whip next to me, he leaned over and stroked my hair, allowing his fingers to comb through the waves. His fingertips rubbed tiny circles over my scalp and the nape of my neck, waking the nerve endings, gently commanding them to welcome his touch. He then moved down my back, first working delicate patterns on the surface of my skin, then sweeping arcs over the musculature with the flat of his palm.


Continuing downwards, he took both cheeks of my buttocks in each hand and squeezed. This part of my body is always ready for his touch, no coaxing needed. I arched my back, presenting my bottom more fully. He kneaded the flesh, switching sides, pressing deeply into the soft, welcoming tissue. Before I was ready for him to end his touches there, he continued the journey down my thighs and calves until he finished at my feet, where he stopped and reached for the sjambok.

The whip picked up where his hands left off, stroking not striking, tracing a path from the soles of my feet back up to my neck then down again. Its journey was meandering, teasing and tickling. Every cell of my body answered yes when he finally asked if I was ready.

Despite the plan, my body expected pain. I tensed, but the sjambok landed lightly and quickly on the lower curve of my backside, then again, and then again. Tap, tap, tap, it struck a dancing rhythm, the leather bouncing off my bottom in teasing wisps. He let the sjambok fall across my flesh as quickly as he could, each stroke blurring into the next, building with intensity as he began to unpredictably allow the whip to fall harder than I expected every few strokes. These blows stung but so quickly merged back into the overall pattern that I began to look forward to the sudden peaks of sensation.

Once my bottom was tingling, he allowed the whip to travel down the backs of my legs, still tapping a steady rhythm, and then to the soles of my feet. He lifted my left foot and placed three firm lines across the arch, then circled his thumb deeply into the flesh, massaging away the sting as quickly as it had come. He repeated the cycle, then used the handle of the sjambok to continue the massage over the sole of the entire foot. I moaned encouragingly. We had not discussed including feet but now I didn't want him to stop. He gently set the left foot down and picked up my right. I wiggled my toes at him in delight and he laughed quietly, teasing and tickling me before letting the sjambok do its work.

Finally the whip traveled back up my legs to its final destination, where after a few more moments of tapping, the rhythm stopped. He set the sjambok down and picked up the canes, taking one in each hand. Tracing patterns with their tips all over the back of my body, he spoke to me in a warm, assuring voice.

"Breathe into the sensation. Long, deep breaths. Sigh, moan, or cry out if you want. Let your voice and your breath flow. Tell me if you want me to go faster or slower. If you want me to go harder or lighter. Feel free to touch yourself. You are welcome to come when you are ready, if you are ready. This is for you."

"Yes, Sir," I breathed, my entire body tingling as he began the tapping rhythm again, this time with the canes falling one after the other after the other, back and forth, percussively coaxing a pink blush to the surface of my skin. I could feel the warmth rising even without seeing the change of tone.

The canes felt completely different from the tapping of the sjambok.  Whereas before I had felt trembling throughout my body as I became more and more open to whatever sensation he was about to bring to me next, there was now no awareness of sensation other than the tingling of the area where the canes were striking. The harder strokes blended seamlessly into the overall pattern he was playing on my flesh and soon I wanted more of them. "Harder, please," I asked.

He allowed the canes to strike with more force. "Let your body move as it wants," he told me. "You may allow your body to meet the canes. Arch, twist, take what you want from the strokes."

I arched my back so that the cane strokes were all landing in the curve between thigh and buttocks. He teased down my thighs and I wiggled, begging the canes to come back to that same spot. The flesh there buzzed with electricity; I could nearly feel sparks with the landing of each cane. He continued to tease, drumming down the backs of my legs quickly, only to return to that same spot that was now sending tendrils of energy to the furthest extremities and deepest recesses of my body.

I slid my right hand beneath my body and between my thighs. I pressed two fingers to the flesh there and found that I was so wet, so ready, that my fingers nearly slipped inside without any further pressure. I adjusted and trapped the tips of my fingers between the bed and my clit. "I'm ready," I urged him. "Harder, faster, please. Please."

He let loose an intense rhythm across my ass and thighs, my body his drum. My head spun, sensing that the blows would have felt like pain on another day or in another body but in this body, today, the canes had both grounded me in pleasure and lifted me into ecstasy. The muscles of my thighs tightened as I felt myself rise towards orgasmic peak.

He noticed the change and directed all of the attention towards my backside. Moments later, I was coming in spasms that shot up into my shoulders and down through the soles of my feet. Every inch of me was trembling as I collapsed atop my hand.

He set the canes down and put one hand on each of my hips, wordlessly directing me to twist and kneel on the edge of the bed, thighs parted. I was still shuddering, unsure how I would take anymore sensation. I craved the firm grasp of his hands on my shoulders, craved being held, centered. When he rested his hands exactly where I wanted them and began to knead the muscles at the top of my spine, I had to ask. "How could you tell I wanted that?"

"I could tell by the way you moved," he answered.

He continued to massage and sooth me until I caught my breath. I nodded and arched again, opening to him. He trailed his hands down my back and stroked the heated backside presented to him. Once more, he asked if I was ready.

I was ready. I was ready to do this every night with him for the rest of our lives.

Mark Me

I can't imagine the punishment it would have to take for my bottom to mark the way it used to after a single spanking. I'm sure it could be done, but I think even Mr. W, lover of all things spanking, would have trouble delivering that level of corporal discipline to me. The strapping that resulted in the above pictures seemed to go on forever, and it was on top of the spanking I'd received the day before. By the end, I was pink. Not red, not scarlet, not crimson. Pink!  By morning, most of the marks were barely even a blush. There were a few tiny bruises on my innermost flesh and the tenderness remained, but the proof of my pain was gone.


That two-day spanking session was last weekend. This past weekend, we didn't have a chance to play until Sunday night, so when Mr. W and I found that we had time to ourselves, I asked for a cold caning. Without any other weekend play, it would truly be without any physical or mental warm-up, but I wanted to test myself and give him a gift of trust, love, and my about-to-be-welted backside, Of course, he agreed.

As I bent over the wooden spanking stool, grasping the lowest rung and spreading my legs just to the width of its legs, he picked three canes from the cabinet - a small, whippy crooked handle cane, a straight cane of medium thickness and severity, and our thickest and heaviest,  a senior cane that is just as suitable for sex scenes as it is for role-playing schoolhouse and reformatory scenarios.

I didn't know how many strokes I was to receive, or even if he planned to use all the canes or was just frightening me with the threat of an extended thrashing. He kept me wondering, tapping me with the smaller cane, aiming, planing his blow, then whipping the air instead of me. When the first stroke landed, I was shocked that it had finally arrived and I unexpectedly screamed. I'd almost begun to think he wasn't actually going to go through with the cold caning, that it was just an elaborate ruse to get my legs spread and backside towards him. I was not to be granted such a reprieve. After briefly rubbing the sting from the first stroke, the cane swished again.

He continued to rub each welt after placing it. It was too early in the session for me to ride the pain or fall into its rhythm. Each stroke was a quick but agonizing blaze hastily extinguished by Mr. W's own firm but gentle hand. After the sixth stroke, he laid the cane aside. "Well done, young lady. Well done."

I had expected at least twelve strokes from each cane, so I allowed myself a sigh of relief. I looked over my shoulder to see him picking up the straight cane. We've been using this one most often for over a year and I'm familiar with its sting. When we have longer sessions, or those where I become the recipient of an amorphous rhapsody of cock and cane, this is the one he reaches for.

My backside was hardly warmed from the first cane, but I know how to take this second one. How to breathe, how to bend my knees the moment after he raises each new stripe, how to pull back into position. I would like to say I took this round of the caning gracefully, but I might be romanticizing. If nothing else, I can say I took this round decently, as he once again assured me after six strokes that I was doing well. "So sexy," he added. He let me stand a moment, kissing me, before bending me back over the stool.

I still wasn't sure of the plan. The first twelve strokes might have been the warm-up and now I had an indeterminate number coming in the form of the heavier senior cane. As it always does, the first stroke knocked the breath out of me. With this cane, there's always a moment when I exhale and I'm not sure if it hurt or not. Then, as I breathe in, it's as if I breathe in pain as well.

He landed another stripe, touching the welt but then letting his fingers wander. "I think you like the heavier thud of this cane," He rubbed deeper between my thighs, spreading wetness in tight little circles pressing into my flesh. "In fact, I think you like being punished a little too much. I think I have a lesson to teach this naughty bottom that will teach you the proper response to a caning."

Removing his fingers, he placed two quick hard blows to my backside. I moaned and clutched the rung I was grasping as hard as I could. "Two more, young lady," he advised. Okay, I told myself. I can do two.

I didn't breathe during the last two strokes. No breath in, no breath out. Just pain. Switching gears, he helped lift me to a standing position. My legs had gone stiff and I was now gasping just a little, tears welling up in my eyes. "You took that beautifully," he told me, wrapping me in his arms. "Why don't you kneel on the bed?"

I was so relieved. I'd taken an eighteen stroke cold caning, my first in so long I can't remember the last one. He rubbed me softly, promises of aftercare and whispers of how sexy the caning had been on his lips. I pressed my face into a comforting pile of blankets, my knees on the edge of the bed, legs spread, welcoming him into me. I turned to look at him, to whisper back, to tell him "Thank you, Sir," to tell him I love him. Instead, I burst into tears. He was picking up the small cane again.

"You didn't think we were done, did you?" he said, the words a little cruel but a genuine smile in his voice.

I frowned and pouted. "I don't knowwww," I cried.

"Can you take a little more? For me? I can't resist this bottom."

I knew I could take more. I'd been feeling vulnerable and tricked, but when he tells me he wants to play just a little bit more, I can never resist. I love the challenge, especially when it's one I know I can meet.

"Just to thirty-seven. Can you make it to thirty-seven?"

I nodded. "Yes, Sir. Is it for my birthday? And for my birthday you'll give me thirty-eight?"

He stroked my hair. "That's right. Now, bottom up. Back arched." He tapped the small of my back with the cane, then the outsides of my thighs. "Legs together just a little. Perfect."

Part of me wanted to beg him to go much harder on this second half of the caning, now that we were going. I wanted not just the sensation or to give myself over to him, but also the marks. Even if nothing else marks, paddles, straps, floggers, or slappers, I expected a cold caning would. But knowing we'd have another night of play, perhaps even two or three in the coming days to celebrate my birthday, he went light on me, and I did not beg.

When I woke up Monday morning, examining myself in the mirror and finding not one remaining welt, I nearly regretted not asking for at least six, if not more, of the best. But we still have tonight. Tomorrow's my birthday, and we have no other plans than to be each other's for the rest of week. One of these nights, my flesh will have no choice but to yield to him. His birthday gift to me will be a shared gift for him - he will mark me.

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.

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.”

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?”

Discomfort Me With Apples, Part Two

Read Part One

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.

Piece of Me

Preview of Introducing Abby

Here is a short sample of what happens in that first film we posted on Naughty Abby. I have to admit, I can think of nothing but making more of these right now. This is my first time uploading video to the blog, so I hope it works, but most of all, I hope you like it.

These past few days have been some of the strangest of my life. There have been quite a few times that I have felt like I have been wearing too many hats. Trying to get through the work day then come home, help design the shoot, provide input on camera angle, be punished (more harshly than usual--there is a post to come on the strapping I received last night), then approve the edit and get it posted both here and on the new site... there are moments when I'm no longer even sure what my name is, my job is, who I really am in all of this. Then I watch the videos we've made, and I see myself in a way I've always longed to see. Suddenly I think I'm beautiful and made just for this thing we do. My bottom is soft and round and just begging to be beaten. This is me. And I can finally say that quite literally. Just push play. This is me.

Core

Sometimes during sex I see images in my eyelids. Most recently it was a mosaic of turquoise, rippling like stained glass under water. For a time it was a bare cherry tree, Japanese brush strokes stark against an expanse of white. When I was younger, I saw a ship with golden sails, distant against a gray horizon. I was often overcome with the beauty of the visions, but I never lost my place, my rhythm, or my partner. I've never been overcome with the occurences inside my own eyes.

During a spanking, I see the swing of my husband's arm in the corner of my eye. I see the rumpled tan of the comforter on bed, the speckled plaster on the library walls, the grain in the wood of the desk. If I'm bent over, wrists to ankles and hair in my eyes, I see glimpses of my bare toes curled or my reflection in the patent leather of my Mary Janes. I may see tears gather on the hardwood floor. I am present, whether I am counting or squirming or stamping my foot in defiance. I am anxiously awaiting that one stroke that takes me from wanton to weeping. I wouldn't miss that moment for anything--

anything, except, apparently, for a blinding white light.

The last time we played, I missed the ending of my punishment. It had been about a month since my last spanking, so we were at it for a while. A long warm up led to one of my more intense strappings, the leather strap being my current fantasy implement of choice. We experimented with our three barber strops, each of different weight and texture, the results of which remain in violet outline upon my bottom a week later. By the time I goaded him into caning me, the scene could have been over. Instead, I began describing what might happen next, the stripes as they would appear on my already terribly pink flesh, the way I might cry out, the way it might make me come.

In moments, the strokes were raining upon my upturned backside. Firmly, not viciously but controlled, stern and agonizing. I remember flashes of pain unlike anything I'd experienced before, fascinating even now both because they hurt like nothing else ever had and because I was so aroused.

I don't like pain. I struggled with this statement for years, not understanding what I was, what I wanted, until very recently. I had even, for a while, settled with the invented term "self-sadist" rather than call myself a masochist, because it is so very much not what I am or what punishment is about for me. Experiencing pleasure at what was surely one of my most painful experiences of punishment was terrifying and overwhelming and exhilarating. And then it was over.

Afterwards, I knew I had been thrashed. I had bruised my sternum on the edge of the desk and a seemingly brutal diagonal welt across the crease of my left bottom cheek was proof of just how much I had thrown myself out of target. My thighs were sticky and the source throbbed in time with my racing heart. I've never missed an orgasm before, nevermind the last strokes of a caning, but this time, all I could remember was white lightning. He held me and I tried to remember, but all I had was an intense sensation of bliss and burning and blankness.

I've gone back to that moment countless times in the past week. I keep thinking the initial shock of the experience will pale to a more exact memory of what I felt there at the end, but all I am left with is a craving to experience it again. I'm afraid of myself a bit for this. I know I've been wanting to go farther, into the extremes of what we do, deeper into the dark places. I'd never have thought that the deepest, darkest core of me was so filled with light. I want more.

How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Cane

Photo from Red Charls. Note the quivering end of the cane.

The cane was once my ultimate squick. As a college girl, encountering my first spanking films and stories online, it was "the thing to be avoided." Most of my time was spent on Laura's Spanking Corner, and if a story, even my beloved schoolgirl stories by Mary Catherine and Daria Little, started to become a caning scene, it was the back button for me. My terror was not decreased in my search for free videos and encountering snippets of what was then Rigid East. I remember watching in utter horror as Pavel Šťastný caned a Czech girl strapped to her desk. (I just looked this film up on RGE Films and the girl was Drahuše Brdečková in "From the Headmaster's Study: A Note for Absence.") The clip was only 30 seconds and it was far too much for me.

See a preview here.

I maintained this squirmishness until my mid-twenties, when I met the man who would become my husband. Flirting in the bookstore in which we both worked, our jokes and teasing comments made it more and more obvious that we were of like minds with the exception that, as we are in most things, we were opposite sides of the same coin. We quickly learned that he was a top and I was a bottom. Then came the terrifying news. I was still afraid of the cane. It was his favorite implement.

He called it the whippy stick. I called it the "No, no, no way in hell am I getting beaten with that stick" stick. He took advantage of our place of employment and special ordered me an early favorite of his, a Blue Moon novel by Richard Manton called Fancy Girl. Rife with delicious punishments, it also included the first caning scene I read in its entirety. I'm still not sure which made me so wet upon reading it--the scene itself, or the knowledge that it was something he wanted to do to me.

So it came to be that he caned me two years before he kissed me. We went on the first of our now many implement shopping trips. At Target, we found a perfectly flat-backed square wooden hairbrush, an item that maintains a place near the bed or the schoolbench to this day. At Home Depot, in the outdoor gardening area, we found a bundle of dried bamboo. Red-faced, I was made to carry it to the cash register. No one could have known that the bamboo canes were to be applied to my bottom rather than a gardening purpose, but one look at my face and I'm sure my excited shame showed through.

The events that transpired back at his house are now a blur of exhaltation and agony. I know he cut the bamboo down to cane-lengths, about a yard long each. I remember the swish as he tested them against the air. I believe that he warmed my bottom with hand and brush before the caning, but what I remember clearly, so clearly, is being told to bend down and touch my ankles--a new position for my limited spanking repertoire. I remember trembling.

He told me to count, and I tried. Each stroke brought a pain so quick and sharp, unlike anything I'd ever felt, that with each stroke, I thought that I would die. Three sets of six. I lost count on the way to six at least once. I'm sure I cried, but the only wetness I now remember is the one between my legs, juices webbing across my thighs, aching for the touch that would for years be denied. Even so, the stripes and bruises left on my flesh were indelible. The cane had claimed me. So had he.

We whisper now of how I will be caned. Whether he'll strap me to the bench or bend me down to touch my toes, my tears leaving tracks on the hardwood floor. Whether I will count or if, as he likes to tenderly threaten close to my ear, the caning will just go on... and on. I like to tell him how much I want it, how much I deserve it--as long as it's not happening yet. Once I am in position, waiting for that first stroke, I am again terrified, trembling and convinced that I can't take it, that I will never be able to count to six, or tweleve, or twenty-four, or more. Then he begins, and my only fear is that he will stop at six, or twelve, or twenty-four, or...

The book that started it all, and my very first spanking-related gift.

The Monster at the End of This Post

Yahoo's homepage today features this photo of students in uniform with the question, "Are school uniforms harmful or helpful?" The link leads to Yahoo Answers, one of the most terrifying sources of information on the Internet. If you need a question answered by a twelve year old with an attitude and poor spelling, this is the place to go. Needless to say, most of the responses were against uniforms. A few adults chimed in to point out that school is a place to learn, but nobody seemed terribly impressed.

Now, if I was one of the tween or teen students responding, I, too, would have been against being made to wear a uniform, though being a spelling bee champion, I could have made my case more convincingly. In fact, I was part of an anti-dresscode rebellion during my first year of highschool. A male friend was sent home for wearing a skirt. It was the early nineties, after all. We made posters and passed out petitions, telling students that if the boys couldn't wear skirts, soon the girls wouldn't be allowed to wear pants. We won, to a degree. Boys won the rights to wear kilts. Good enough.

This is all so humorous in retrospect, considering I spent a good portion of my weekend putting together a schoolgirl outfit that I could get away with wearing in public. Friday night found the perfect plaid skirt, knee-length, with a slight A-line. I'd have to be ten years younger or thirty years older to have gotten away with pleats. A simple black sweater vest was next. Throw it on over any button-down shirt--instant schoolgirl/librarian (perfect, as I worked in a library in highschool, and still miss it terribly). Oddly enough, the white blouse was more difficult to find. I gave up on the long-sleeved version, especially as I already have a few, and found a very fitted one with adorable puffed sleeves. It could double as a milkmaid blouse, which is fine. Milkmaids need spankings too. New black Mary Janes on Saturday completed the ensemble. Naturally, I already had the white knee socks at home.

This is where Yahoo's question becomes problematic. Whether a school uniform is harmful or helpful really depends on the goal, doesn't it? If my goal was to get a 24-stroke caning with no warm-up, then I'd say the uniform was quite helpful, indeed. However, from a hands-on-my-ankles, tear-drops-on-the-floor perspective, I'd say the outfit was fairly harmful to my poor plump bottom. So it's a toss-up. I had a wonderfully terrible, or terribly wonderful, time of it. So, to sum up: Plaid skirt on sale at Macy's, seventy dollars on debit Mastercard. White schoolgirl-milkmaid blouse, thirty dollars on debit Mastercard. Mary Janes at a terrific price, seventeen dollars on debit Mastercard. A perfectly striped caning from the man who loves me? Priceless.

Halfway through the caning, I was put in the corner while my husband went to find my camera. We've never taken photos of me during or after a punishment before, mostly due to my own self-consciousness. He left such perfect marks, though, that he couldn't resist, and I wasn't exactly about to say no. Halfway through a caning could easily have turned into a third or a fourth of the way through. After we admired the pictures, he encouraged me to post them here. I never planned to share my bountiful bottom on this page, but I do want to show of his handywork.

See how much I love my marks, Sir? Let's hope they like 'em too.

P.S. For those not current on their Sesame Street literature, "The Monster at the End of this Book" was a classic Grover tome, in which the monster at the end of the book turns out to be Grover himself.