It's #ThrowbackThursday again - i.e. I'm up early enough to snip a little low-def video from another Naughty Abby Spanking Video, 2008's "Time for the Belt." This is the same clip I'm posting to Twitter, but....
Check out the original post Doctor When? for what I thought about this video at the time, and a not very well-hidden treasure if you enjoyed the 30-second clip. Fun Fact: Even in 2008 there was still some question as to whether spankings on film were "real," as I reference something about that in the post. Good thing we've all become porn stars since then and we all know that what we're doing on film is what we're doing in real life. And having fun doing it!
Dear diary, today I was a very bad girl... (image from the profile of Little Blondie, the person in France who posted one of my old videos)
We were in bed, TV on in the background, both of us caught up in our own activities on our phones. I was playing a farming game. Mr. W was mostly on Imgur, occasionally taking a detour, when he suddenly angled his phone towards me. "I suppose it had to happen eventually," he said.
The video that had just started to play showed us eight years younger in our old attic in Portland. My black skirt was still in place but I was bent over a bench, the tops of my thigh high stocks visible. On the screen, Mr. W began spanking me.
My eyes darted around the screen. It had been years, almost a decade, since this video, or any of my Naughty Abby spanking videos, were available. I knew that even most of the links on my blog were broken. But here we were, uploaded onto xHamster by someone in France last June. The tags were spanking, lingerie, and stockings. The video, almost four minutes just of hand spanking over my panties, had received over eight thousand views and had a thumbs up rating of 97%. I was thrilled.
Since then, I've been fixing the broken videos on the blog, setting up a new Clips4Sale account, and creating new preview videos for my new account on SpankingTube. The clips store went live last Friday night and links were added around the blog over the weekend. Abby the spanking video star is back in action.
Writing is and always will be my first calling, but making those videos was an incredible experience. Having re-watched them all in the last few weeks, they've held up well, which I owe to Mr. W's love for my bottom and our passion for spanking, as well as the effort Mr. W put into the direction and editing. Having had a chance to capture "this thing we do" on video, in the way that we do it, means so much to me.
I would be the happiest woman in the world if I could stay at home to write and make videos. Imagine, to write spanking fiction during the week and to make spanking movies with Mr. W on the weekend! I might be able to make my dream of having my own little spanking publishing house come to fruition.
I'd love to have my readers check out my clips store, Abby Loves Spanking. All the original Naughty Abby videos are there, and I just might be making more soon. There's also a Donate button if you want to help me make my dream of living a life of spanking a reality.
The clip here is part of the tawsing section of my favorite film we made, Fierce Foreplay. It's the most like what we do in the bedroom, though there is no sex. That part is just for us. Even so, the film goes through everything from light spanking to the cane, and I have a very marked bottom by the end. I have a fantastic memory of making this movie. I squeal a good bit, but I can honestly tell you, this spanking was painful, fulfilling and amazing.
I like sharing these videos, because I am not your regular spanking model. I am a working woman who loves to cook, and my body shows it. I have a little bit of extra flesh but a girlish squeal, and just a love of spanking that I hope translates to film. This movie was made in 2008, a year after Mr. W and I were married. It's not HD. This clip is all panty-clad. They get removed later in the film, but there's no need to put that unexpectedly on the blog.
My dryer broke today. I spent hours trying to figure out what was wrong with it, because I rent my house and do not want to have to call my landlady. That would require cleaning the house first, and I'd rather just replace the belt or motor in the dryer if possible. First I cleaned behind the dryer, removing dust bunnies so large I could have named them. Then I spent forever trying to open the top to check the belt. The belt was fine. (Can I just say how sad it makes me that I am writing about my dryer belt and not my husband's belt across my bottom? This is very sad news.) The only thing left to check is the motor, which most likely needs to be replaced. Problem being: I need to get into the back of the dryer to check the motor.
The washer and dryer are wedged into a tight space between two walls. I realized today that the reason the washer, which is newer than the dryer, is dented in the middle is because it was forced into place. That means that the dryer is not coming out. No way, no how. Nor is the washer. They are going to be set between those two walls until the end of time.
Some of you would have very much enjoyed the positions I got into to attempt to move these large appliances. I had just exercised, after which I realized the dryer had broken, as I was trying to multi-task. So I was still in workout gear - snug-fitting running pants and black tank, hair in a pony-tail and cheeks flush with oxygen - when I got down on the floor, braced myself in any number of ways, and attempted to pull the dryer even inches farther than the wall. I'm not beneath hopping behind it to find a fix. I may not be the most physically fit girl in the world, but when I'm determined, I'll do what it takes to get the thing done.
Nothing worked. That thing is so wedged in there that I exhausted every muscle in my body to no avail. Sitting on the floor, right foot braced on one wall, left foot braced on the other, I just began to cry. I've had a ridiculous week in terms of my day job, and all I wanted to do today was work on my new story, work on moving my blog, and work on visiting my friends' blogs. Trying to fix a dryer, or cleaning my entire house so the landlady can get the dryer fixed, was not on the menu. So I wept full sobs of angst. And then I realized that there were better things to cry for.
I came over to the computer and pulled up my old film, "Please Not My Hands." I've been fantasizing a lot about the tawse lately, and had already intended to write a post today entailing my most recent fantasy, which quite literally made me collapse into orgasm earlier, before the dryer debacle. I'd been on my knees at the edge of the bed, as I like to be, and I actually fell forward onto the mattress. Anyhow, the fantasy used then most definitely needs to be written about here, but for now, as it was easier to render a clip and write about appliances, here is a full dozen strokes of the tawse. In this part, I am already openly crying because I've received the tawse on my hands as well as 24 strokes across my bottom. Just when I think it's over, Mr. W decides I need 12 more, and wants to make me count them. There is much sobbing, many exclamations of "ow," and yes, my softly pliant (i.e. a bit fleshy, but do we really care? no, no we don't) backside whipped quite well.
I'm posting this as much to remind myself that there are good things to cry about and stupid things to cry about as I am posting it for your viewing pleasure. There is much weeping. But you've probably already watched it and didn't bother with my diatribe about my dryer. If you did, thanks for listening! I'm still panicking, but I do always feel better about the world when I share my naked bum with it.
Oops! Poor little paddle! And poor me! This is only the beginning.
We didn't call our new film The Breaking Pointjust because Mr. Williams broke the new paddle on my backside, although it did have something to do with it.
Nor did we call it that because I took my punishment staunchly until something inside me twisted and broke open. No, I actually took to sobbing fairly early on. We'd both had a terrible few days and we needed this scene, but it nearly didn't happen because I was feeling obstinate and unsexy. When he bends me over the bench at the very beginning of the film, it's not so much the beginning of our movie as it is the end of Mr. W putting up with me. Guilt flooded me as I simultaneously began to release the stress of the day into the pain. Everything--my mind, my heart, my soul, my backside--hurt, and the tears flowed freely the moment the first one escaped down my cheek.
The real breaking point, the point when everything changes, occurs after the last stroke of what was to be punishment. I was to take eighteen strokes of the cane. After the first six, I begin to feel nauseous, dizzy, not certain I can take any more. At twelve, I feel thoroughly punished and ready to be held. For a moment, I even think I'm going to receive a reprieve and that I am finished. I'm wrong. I receive the next three strokes with squeals of agony, but then, with stroke sixteen, I am silent. I realize my silence with stroke seventeen, and ride the pain with number eighteen. The scene is edited to show my face during these strokes, and the transition from punished girl to woman craving discipline is palpable. After the eighteenth stroke, I ask, "Can I have more please?"
The answer, of course, is yes.
I think the perceived "breaking point" is often when a girl begins to cry, or moves from tears to sobbing. Even the phrase sounds like a shattering, not a union of body with pain. But I'm very vocal about my pain, and have been known to become a weeping wreck at sad sitcom episodes, nevermind physical duress. I'm not saying there have not been times when I've crumbled during a punishment--I have, and in those instances, the crumbling was my breaking point. This time, though, the stressed, panicked, crying girl was the broken one, and I somehow was the one to break through. I've rewatched those few strokes quite a few times now, and I can literally see me become myself. And then I become embarassed, because the strokes that come after the punishment was supposed to be over are fast and hard and hot, and I feel strange at being turned on by myself, and I feel strange that this intimate moment I've written about countless times has been caught on film. It's not just viable, it's now visible to others.
"Why do I like this?" That's a question I no longer ask myself. Now, during a punishment, I ask myself, "Do I like this?" Last night, for the first eighteen minutes of my discipline, the answer was no. The breaking point--when the answer became yes. Yes. Yes.
Braced for Fierce Foreplay. I love this shot. I love this film!
The vocabulary of our fetish is not broad enough to encompass all we do. Some punishment truly is punishment, discipline in the old-fashioned sense, described by Merriam-Webster as "suffering, pain, or loss that serves as retribution." Those of us who make use of punishment as part of our erotic, domestic, and/or spiritual lives have surely experienced those punishment scenes that are based explicitly or loosely on actual wrong-doing. Our tops provide that retribution for us, usually not because they need to, as would a judiciary system based on corporal punishment, but because we need them to. Perhaps it aids us in forgiving ourselves, or in simply releasing ourselves from the perception of wrong-doing. Perhaps it allows us to perceive ourselves as forgiven. Cause and effect, naughtiness and punishment--the bread and butter of the spanking world.
But, as has been confirmed in blog after blog, comment after comment, email after email, there is something else we spankophiles do that has nothing to do with notions of wrongdoing and reprisal, something completely lacking in Dostoevskian drive. It's the thing that makes spanking a viable form of pornography. It's the thing that made my husband know that I was the woman for him. It's the thing that has been the basis of every masturbatory session I can remember in my adult life. It's the fact that spanking--in all it's agonizing, power-struggling, ripe-bottomed glory--is simply hot.
My fetish is multi-faceted, a spanking diamond, if you will. Hold it to the light this way, and when watching a spanking film, I find myself thinking the phrase "Beat her harder" during an already firm punishment. Held another way, all I can think is "Why do I like this?" well struggling not to cry so much it would worry the neighbors or the postman. Hold it one way and I want to hear stories of cruel Victorian canings on the bare backsides of non-consenting young women, but hold it another way and it's the most sensual, most fulfilling foreplay imaginable, the kind that could substitute or even has substituted for sex.
Getting beaten as foreplay is no less painful--some of my more erotically fulfilling spankings have also been the most severe. To a degree, those spankings are no more consensual, either, as usually at some point, my body realizes that a paddling or a caning is not sex, and that it hurts, and that it's going to hurt for days. They're often even more mentally challenging, because there is nothing to repent, no reason to explain to myself why I am experiencing the ordeal. It's happening only because it's what we do.
I came up with the phrase "Fierce Foreplay" in naming the most recent scene we filmed. Our only intention was to capture what it is Mr. W and I do together, usually when the cameras are off. We captured it so well it's taken me a few days just to brave watching the edited version, which Mr. W executed beautifully. The film is so me, so bare and honest that it terrified me a little. In the beginning, there's some giggling, some enjoyment. Then there hits a point when I think I don't want to go on, as a tawsing tortures me between the thighs. By the end, a caning takes me over the edge and leaves me bruised and a little bit embarrassed for days. Abby's fingers, at it again.
I'm really proud of this film, because I think it captures the intensity of what we do as well as the connection we share behind it. But I'm terrified, because if I can forget the cameras are there now, if I can be completely myself, then what might we capture next? I've always known I spent my days dancing with my demons. I never thought I'd have a chance to watch that dance on film.
I must have sounded like a small child in the backseat of a car all day, intoning, "Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" Only, my question wasn't whether we had arrived a destination, but whether we were finally at a point of being ready to film after a month-long hiatus. I'd been craving the scene all weekend, but especially after working on the NaughtyAbby.Com site all day on Sunday, transferring the short films we'd made already to a PayPal friendly agent and redesigning the current main pages of my little baby business. In other words, I was due for a spanking. Past due.
We'd played a bit since that last tawsing we'd filmed, but nothing session-like. As Mr. Williams set up cameras and I changed into pony-tails and the white eyelet panties I'd been so excited to wear since buying them especially for this purpose early this spring at Victoria's, tension resonated through our house. What were we going to play with? What was the scene? How long would it be? Was it a screaming scene? A crying one? A playful one? Neither of us knew. We'd spent the whole weekend talking about it, but we still didn't know what was going to happen once I was face-down on the bed and he'd hit record on the cameras.
The scene, as it turned out, was one of revival. I may have wanted to believe that the short lunchtime caning two weeks ago was was my return to form, but it was this, a full twenty-five minute scene that was, more than anything else, what Mr. Williams and I do together when there are no cameras, when there are no eyes on us other than our own. The scene turned out to be an example of our courtship, our marriage, our love. It was us.
He began with a hand-spanking. I was face-down on the bed and he knelt next to me. A friend the other day told me of how much a hand-spanking can really hurt when you're used to implements, and I thought I understood, but I didn't, not until his smacks started landing on my upper and outer thighs. Unlike last time, not once did I question my dedication to the pain. I rode every moment, experienced every sting without letting go of it or trying to send it away. I knew what was to come next was going to be good.
Oh God, it was. He paddled me with a leather bat from an equestrian shop. He strapped me with one of our favorite barber strops. He double cropped me with two riding crops, and I actually orgasmed as he struck me with one and rubbed me with the other. It was... it was phenemonal. And that was before the caning that made me want to beg for more. It hurt so much and I adored every second of it because it made me feel like me again.
Unlike during some punishments, when I have the agony of a misdeed or a bad day to release, I had nothing to release this time except the heaviness of winter, the fear that this wasn't my calling, my concern that in turning my passion into a business, I was somehow whoring a part of my soul. Two emails influenced my ability to let those worries go and to let go of myself into experiencing one of the most sexual and passionate scenes (and after-scenes!) I've had in some time. One was the one containing the content of my reader Jim. His comments about my tawsing film restored my faith in what I'm doing. I'm not perceived as being a tawdry woman in the face of my husband. Instead, we are perceived as joyfully celebrating this shared fetish, and it makes me both relieved and ecstatic that what we do is seen as being a true part of ourselves.
The other email was from my best friend from high school, who sent a link containing a You Tube clip featuring another classmate performing karaoke Neil Diamond, commenting that she never would have recognized him. I wondered if she would be surprised to know what I'm up to online, or if she might have suspected I had it in me all along. I found that I was and am proud of the Naughty Abby project, of the woman I have become and have decided to share with my fellow spankophiles. I wanted to send her a link with the subject line, "What I'm Doing These Days." I may still.
At the end of it all, we had issues with two of our three cameras. The good news is that the fully-functioning camera was the one focused (with zoom) on my backside. We'll post the full version once we have the Members site up, and for now, we're going to work on picking out our favorite few minutes for a short video feature, if only to share that surprising (but quite amazing, complete with an announcement of "Sir, I'm coming!") riding-cropgasm. The other good news is that Mr. Williams is home every night this week and Saturday. So despite my extremely sore bottom today, even more tender flesh awaits me as the week continues. With any luck, more films and posts await as well.
At this point, this image is a golden oldie, but it has to do with what I'm posting about.
Bear with me!
The Naughty Abby site is taking forever to come to fruition. I've barely had time to write, nevermind film! I know that there have been a few people who have been curious about the movies I'm making, but didn't want to venture into a non-PayPal world, so I finally found a way of posting the same clips from the clip site onto NaughtyAbby.Com. I started with the tawsing clip, as that's one of my favorites, and I just put it on the front page tonight. I kept the pricing the same as the clips4sale site (where the prices were determined by the site, not me) in order to keep it fair for those who have helped me towards continuing to film. Please know that you have! We bought a third video camera and more memory and have been anxious to try them out! Bear with us and my bottom will be back soon. For now, I'll try to get some of the other films up on my own site as well, and that will at least let me know if there's still an interest in my poor red bottom. Also, a thank you to Pandora and Dave, both of whom have shown great faith in the future of the Abby site and have listed it on their own blogs. Thank you so much! For the Paypal people, let me know if there's a video you want me to post sooner rather than later, and I'll get on it as soon as possible. Comment here or email me.
I ran out of time this weekend, so instead of a little montage of the sillier bits of the film I made on Thursday, here is the Ubu logo. Montage still to come!
In my quest to avoid doing actual work on Fridays, I found myself reading up on "pataphysics" after a conversation with Mr. Williams about the Sit Ubu Sit dog featured in the production stamp at the end of many 1980's American sitcoms. It turns out that the dog was named after the anti-hero of pre-absurdist writer Alfred Jarry. His concept of pataphysics determined all things to have meaning seemingly based on the fact that they have meaning. One of the definitions is that "'Pataphysics is the science of the particular, of laws governing exceptions." All things are thought to have a unique set of exceptions, each event in the particular therefore completely meaningful, therefore completely meaningless. Each scientific theory is thought of as an attempt to pin down one viewpoint as real, and to live life governed by that reality, although it may not be reality for anyone else.
I came to realize that this blog is a study in pataphysics. It is my quest to determine my reality, at least my spankoverse reality, and to approach the subject of spanking based on my set of perceptions. Hence my constant battle with the word "masochism," which, in this "philosophy," would have as much and as little meaning as anything else, as all words are equally valuable and valueless. My quest to define these pieces of my reality are an absurdity within an absurdity, as I watch myself search for definitions and realize that in the end, the words I put to them are nothing compared to my experiences, which are individually unique and miraculous events (or so it would seem, if I follow wikipedia's translation of Jarry's theory).
That said (or garbled), I encountered a concept I have come to love over the past few hours, and will here use to describe my random foray into self-spanking and on-camera masturbation. (You see? Follow my rambling and it's bound to get good again eventually.) Jarry quasi-explained, "'Pataphysics is the science of imaginary solutions." An imaginary solution is the arbitary choice made by science and/or the universe when faced with any given problem. "Imaginary" refers to the imagination of science itself, as if it created, out of nowhere, a result. I'm comprehending it as parallel to chaos theory, only the outcome is not random so much as it is miraculous.
At the beginning of the clip site piece I filmed Thursday night, "I Miss You, Mr. Williams," I state that I'm going to play with myself because I am missing my man, but am probably not going to spank myself, and I laugh, because I'm just talking to the camera and the idea is amusing. It's definitely not what I'd set out to do. I was intending to stroke myself with some of my leather toys and, if it was going well, bring myself to orgasm. This, in the pataphysical context, is the "problem," the circumstance. Moments later, as I stroke myself with my little red leather paddle, I whack my thigh. It hurts! And then I do it again. It's a fascinating feeling, not something I normally do, and so, caught up in the experience, I keep going.
Next it's the crop and I quite literally hurt myself with the first tap on the thigh. I cringe and giggle; I'd hit myself much harder than I'd intended. I play with tapping and slapping my breasts with it, something Mr. Williams and I don't normally do, all the while talking to the camera as if it's him. Then, the imaginary solution: I turn around and spank myself for the camera! What an absurdity, and not at all the outcome I'd intended when I hit record. Self-spanking was the arbitrary choice made by myself or the universe in response to the problem of missing Mr. Williams. This was my imaginary solution to missing him, missing spanking, missing opening that secret chamber to myself.
Although the redness of my bottom by the time the vibrator is withdrawn from the toy case is nothing compared to the marks from true punishments, I do have actual light bruises on my thighs, and my backside did turn a lovely dark pink shade, albeit briefly. Most importantly, though, I have an explanation for how a professed disbeliever in the art of self spanking found herself doing so: it was an absurd miracle! At least it turned into a hot absurd miracle, replete with the occasional comic commentary, just like here on my blog. I actually think it's adorable, because I'm so completely myself in a way that's very different from the spanking movies I've made with Mr. Williams. In a sense, it's blog on film. Initially meant for my husband, turned into a sexy romp, turned into tongue-in-cheek but playful commentary, turned into turning myself on so much that I have no choice but to come. And then come write about it. I guess that's the perceived reality of my reality. Absurdist Abby. That could be a whole other website...
Some of the implements escaped their case after all.
The case beckons to me even from the distance of rooms. Play with us, whisper the implements that lie within the repurposed instrument case, nestled together in a bed of golden plush. We miss you, they murmur. Your backside, your thighs, the spaces between. I pretend they do not call to me. And still, inbetween the tapping of keys and the Sia album on the MP3 player, I hear the crop insisting, I want to bite you. The leather paddles try to coax me into letting them tease me, warm me, prepare me. The one short cane that fits in the case sternly demands, Let me out, young lady. Or else.
But sadly, these past few weeks there has been no "or else" to be had. I have been exhausted with work, sleeping earlier and earlier in the evening. Mr. Williams has been working later hours. By the time he comes through the front door, even the cats are too sleepy and cuddled into me to greet him. We all open our lazy eyes and blink at him. He gives us each kisses and lets us go back to sleep. On those nights when we do have the luxury of one another's time, playtime has been last on the list of priorities, favoring instead the guilty pleasures of being man and wife--chiefly, snuggly movie nights and reading in bed.
Now, just getting home on a Thursday evening with Mr. Williams working late, I find myself all too atuned to the voices in the implement case. The strange thing is, I don't miss the vicious creatures that cry for me. I don't miss the pain they cause, or the transcendence that pain has been known to help me achieve. I don't miss the marks they leave, though when I do bear marks I wear them with secret pride. I don't even miss the freedom that comes with giving up control. The world has been spinning so chaotically lately that I lack control most days these days anyway. No, the thing I miss is something so much simpler than all that. In a word, I miss anticipation.
Until recently, almost every day was filled with the expectation that I would come home and be spanked. Likewise, Mr. Williams' days were filled with expecting to spank me soon after I walked through the front door. The phantom tingling of my backside got me through the day. I looked forward to being molded into whatever form he wanted me to become. He could make me his naughty young lady or his tawdry womanly vixen. He could make me cry like a little girl or scream like a feral cat in heat. Most importantly, we were together, doing this thing that has made us a better couple and made me a better writer. I could go so far as to say it has made me whole. Perhaps that's the core of it--I miss knowing that I will have the freedom to completely be myself.
I can do that writing, of course, or doing the dishes, or taking a walk. I don't mean to say that I am not myself unless I am in the process of being spanked. I think most of you will understand what I mean when I say that spanking opens up an inner chamber, the one that holds every version of one's self, and lets them all out at once. The experience guides which will take hold, be it the girl or the woman or some other secret self, but they are all available. There is nothing limiting that release besides ourselves. In those moments, decorum be damned; there is nothing decorous about flailing with one's bottom in the air. I could even go so far as to say that in these moments I am truly human, and there is nothing decorous about being human, either. We are madcap packages of flesh and emotion, intricate thought and base instinct. When I am being spanked, I don't have to worry about how to balance those disparate parts of myself, because they balance on their own. A new credo: I am spanked, therefore I am. I miss the anticipation to be.
The only trouble with all this revelation is that it's no good on my own. I can write about it up and down the block, but the parallels between carpel tunnel and cane stripes are few and far between. To continue thieving classic literature and bending it to fit my spanko whims, I may sing the body electric, but it sure would be nicer if the song was a duet. In other words, I miss you, Mr. Williams. Thank goodness it's almost tomorrow. The weekend is only a day away.
I got really silly with the camera after writing this post. This still is from the end of it all. Note the mischievous glint in my eye. I'll tell you all about it soon. Or if you're really curious, it's posted on (defunct link) already.
My apologies for actual transgressions getting me nowhere in Please Not My Hands, completely breaking character and scene as I sob, "I'm sorry... really I am... I was just scared of the tawsing all day."
I wish I had another camera just to show you the comedy that is "backstage," aka the other side of my living room. You can only imagine the sight of me running back and forth between a tripod and the piece of furniture I'll be bending over in the shoot. Hit record, run forward, test the shadows, bend over, wiggle around, rise up on my toes, arch my back, then go back to the camera to review the twenty seconds of film, critique the curves of my bottom, and move the whole set-up to what I hope will be a more flattering angle.
It's a frustrating and time-consuming process. By the time we're ready to shoot for real, I've become so bratty and bitchy that Mr. Williams is quite ready to punish me for real. In PleaseNot My Hands (the title we settled on for the tawsing clip), my apologies once I break down are very real. We'd had an issue about capturing both the top of my head and the top of my thighs in a single shot, and I became quite testy, insistent that the top of my head was very important. By the time I've taken my tawsing and Mr. Williams has taken me over his knee, I'm sobbing and apologizing legitimately, which I think is the first time a film punishment has been both real punishment for bad behavior and real repentance for the same.
Afterwards, I was so worn out with both the weeping and the whipping, I didn't want to stand up. The film ends with me rising, rubbing my bottom and collapsing a bit against the wall in front of me. I collapsed more after that. Something that wasn't caught on film was me with my face pressed against the lightswitch on the wall, sobbing, "---, I need you." He held me for the longest time, telling me it was okay, that he wasn't actually mad at me for being so bratty beforehand. Then, after I'd calmed down, I leaned back over the chair just to rest a moment, and suddenly it was a photoshoot, my red bottom and welts captured for posterity and posting.
I originally intended to write more about the process of dealing with the photos afterwards, but as I was writing I realized I hadn't written about the rest of the punishment, about the penitential aspects of it, past the intimacy of beginning with my hands. I haven't had Mr. Williams make a sample to post here because I can't get past the wholeness of the experience. I can't say, as I have come to do after a film edit is complete, "Well, get two strokes of that, and then lead into there, where I rise up and my bottom looks tighter, and then...." There is no single shot or two that captures what I experienced. I don't want to just be a disembodied backside. As soon as the actual punishment begins on screen, I lose all sense of character and scene and it's just us, husband and wife, punisher and punishee. My heart and soul are literally pouring out along with my tears and I just can't find a way to edit those pieces of me down.
I bore my first hand tawsing last night. Three strokes to the right, three strokes to the left. I am dizzy with thinking about it, even as I write with those same hands. I feel fortunate that I have this record of the event on film. The memory itself is blurred at best, a mix of emotion more than pain, and more words than emotion at that, though sometimes, like last night, there are no words more emotional than, "My hands."
The last words I remember saying to Mr. Williams before the tawsing began were, "But they're my hands." It wasn't scripted, it wasn't planned. The tawsing was planned. I even remember the night in early winter that I told him I wanted him to use our new tawse on my hands. It was another way of telling him I love him, another way of giving myself and of going ever farther into this journey we've embarked upon together.
Even so, I'm not surprised it took us months to get here. We have sometimes spoken of those parts of ourselves we could not live without, and I have always said I could not exist without my hands. For this reason I have been fascinated by tales of amputation, from Titus Andronicus to Boxing Helena. I can live if I cannot run. I can live if I cannot speak. I can live if I cannot hear morning's birdsong or see its early light. I cannot live if I cannot write. My hands are my strength and my courage; my sorrow, my joy. The thought of losing them is unbearable. If I lost them, how could I tell you how it feels? How anything feels? My hands have words that I do not.
Just before the tawsing began, I thought to myself, "They look like good strong hands, don't they?" These were the words of the Rockbiter in The Neverending Story, after the Nothing comes, after he opens his palms and realizes he has lost those he was trying to keep safe in his grasp. I opened my palms and realized how vulnerable I was, that I have offered my heart perhaps a thousand times, but this was the first time I had dared to offer my hands. Hands may have no tears to flow, but how I could I describe the tears that do flow without them?
I didn't think words after that. I know I screamed. I know a small blister was raised on my left hand. I know my hands didn't hurt by the end of the punishment that came afterwards, that the pain was immediate and fleeting, so unlike the discipline that was admistered to my bottom, which left me sitting uncomfortably today. Still, I look down at my hands now, comfortable and nimble on the keyboard, and appreciate them so much more than I did before I knew how it felt to have them taken, even ever so briefly, away from me.
....And to think, my hands and this camera angle are only the beginning.
One of my favorite things about filming these spanking sessions is that I have a whole new realm of spanking subjects to write about. In this blog, I've covered subjects from "Am I a masochist?" to "Am I secretly a little girl?" I never really thought I'd have an opportunity to focus on the answers to questions such as "Is that really what my arse looks like?" and "Is that a real spanking?" (As many a spanking model has noted before me, the effort in special effects alone make it far more reasonable to just beat a girl than to pretend one is doing so.)
"Time for the Belt," the bit o' fun we shot Thursday night, answers all these questions. For example, if my backside is as pink as a sunburnt baby, I just might be a masochist. Looking at those hips, why, no, I am not secretly a little girl. However, yes, that really is what my arse looks like, and I am finally just loving it. All soft and glowy and curvy and womanly and apparently, quite spankable. It's taken my whole life to be comfortable with my body. Turns out, all I had to do was put it on film and know that people around the world were alright with seeing it. The exhibitionist's delight. And finally, is that a real spanking? If the belt fits, well, take it off and use it on my backside.
I think this is our best film so far, in terms of sound, lighting, and how my bottom looks. It also contains bits of comedy I hadn't noticed at the time of shooting. In the preview clip, I make a funny little goat sound at the end. What is that? I laugh every time I hear it (which has been a few times, what with editing and all). If you find yourself giggling, quite all right! I don't normally make farm animal noises, so I'm finding it quite amusing.
In the full version of the clip, you may also discover our flair for accidental absurdist theatre. As Mr. Williams chastised me for being late, he kept looking at his wrist to indicate the time. The problem is, Mr. Williams does not wear a watch. When he finally realized what he was doing, he scolded me, "I'm not even wearing a watch, that's how late we are." I'm hoping it becomes a catchphrase in the international lexicon of reasons to be spanked.
All Abby's arse, all the time. At least for the weekend. I hope.
Much as I may regret it by Monday, I am dedicating this weekend to spanking. I want to do nothing but work on some stories, work on the new website, and be spanked on camera and off. Perhaps I may go buy some new panties, an activity which is also now spanking related, to a degree. Perhaps some day I can even consider it a business expense.
I have been pulled in a million directions lately, especially at work. This weekend, I want everything to be pointed at my bottom. Figuratively speaking, more or less. Perhaps I'll write a serial about my three days at The Spanking House, a bit like Reage's chateau only far more fun, plus it's my house so it's less scary as well. Perhaps we'll film a mini-series. Perhaps I'll blog naked (but on a very soft pillow). Perhaps there will be a spanking inferno. (Perhaps... perhaps... perhaps!) (Oh, Coupling.)
There are a few standard characteristics I have when I'm about to receive a spanking. I call Mr. Williams "Sir," for starters. I instantly go into little girl mode, pouting and protesting, having a bit of a whiny tantrum, but I do what I'm told, albeit hesitatingly.
As the spanking progresses, the woman takes over. My pride makes me squirm and grit my teeth, trying not to make a sound--usually failing. My breath quickens; I exhale in moans and sighs. I still cry out, I still yelp, I still, most certainly, call him Sir, but the body in which I resided at the beginning, the one that doesn't want to be punished, is overcome by the arch of my back and the tension in my thighs. I am all too aware that when I toss my head back in pain, I want him to grab my hair and pull it. When I lean forward from a powerful stroke of whichever implement he holds, I know what flesh is within his view. The shame I would have felt at being exposed in the beginning is gone. If anything, the only shame I may feel is that of wanting to be harshly disciplined, and even that dissipates as all feeling becomes focused increasingly on my backside. I am then free to fall into the punishment, to let it become, for a short time, my world.
There are, of course, variations to the tale, but the short version is: I am small, I am grown, I am released. Perhaps, in that sense, a punishment scene is like a micro-lifespan for me. Afterwards, I am reborn. I have been experiencing and writing about this long enough that I know this spanking story by heart. I know it, that is, until the rehearsal that has been my life is over and the tale is played on stage.
I'm posting another clip, this time of a paddling we filmed last night featuring the Cane-iac Little Red Schoolhouse paddle. The paddling, by the way, was enormously painful and fabulous and I am ridiculously sore today. That, however, is another post. Right now, what I am fascinated by is the fact that we cut the first minute because I cannot keep track of who I am. Am I my husband's wife, about to play with a new toy? Am I Abby, spanking and schoolgirl enthusiast? Am I a little girl or a grown woman? Why is playing myself suddenly the hardest role I've played?
From second grade through college I was on stage. I have been a 17th century New England colonist, two fairies (one of whom, oddly, is murdered on stage), a wicked stepmother, a wicked queen, Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady--for heaven's sake, I was Dogberry in Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing! How is it easier for me to have a beard, a sword, and a drunken swagger than it is to bend over and be me?
Part of it is knowing that we're not going to film straight through the parts that come after an off-screen spanking. We're making spanking films, but as the one friend I have told informed me, I am not a porn star, despite my insistance that after a week of owning a camera, I most certainly am one. (Insert wry grin.) Part of it is knowing that although my instinct is to play the girl, I am a woman. I'm never going to convincingly play the schoolgirl, and I know that. Part of it, quite simply, is that I am almost always in character. I am a different person at work than I am with my family, who is a different person than I am with my husband, who is a slightly different person than I am with my friends. It's all masks and hats and hoping I wear the right one at the right time. In the past year, I have been more myself in this blog than I have been anywhere else, save with Mr. Williams. I want the me that is here to translate to the me on film, minus the floral language.
The difference, I suppose, is allowing myself to not play a character. To let go, to not even attempt to create a script, to wear what I feel like wearing and to be the person you've come to visit here. Not a schoolgirl, not even a bad girl, just Abby, her arse up in the air and her heart on her sleeve. Maybe I'll be able to fully be m yself next time. Then again, I've had quite a few new readers lately, and maybe the new ones are here for my round red bottom. Either way, here's a taste of why I can't sit comfortably today.
I've never had a spanking not go according to plan. That's because there has never been a plan. Whenever we've tried to plan a spanking, we end up doing something else. Therefore, our play has always been spontaneous and unpredictable. I've learned this week that a planned and filmed spanking is something else entirely, especially when something goes wrong.
At my prompting, we filmed a hard strapping scene earlier this week. We've never played as hard with the strap as we did in this. I actually said to my husband beforehand, "Don't be nice to me. You can be nice to me afterwards." And you know what? He wasn't. I know it was as difficult for him as it was for me, and I think there may have been moments when we both wanted to stop, but we knew it was too good not to finish. Too good, that is, until the lighting wasn't quite right and the camera that was supposed to be zoomed at my (agonized) face from the kitchen counter (a camera angle we had struggled over for what felt like ages) failed to zoom.
In the first third of the strapping, I was wearing jeans. Even through the denim, the strap, a barber strop with a surprisingly vicious bite, my bottom stung and burned. On film, however, it just looks like he's beating a dark blur. Without the facial camera, you can't even tell it hurts, other than my occasional yelping. Therefore, we left that out of the edited 4 minute "movie" we ended up posting on the clip site, leaving only the strapping on my white panties and then on my bare backside. It's a bit mean--not squeamishly so, but enough so that when I watch even the five-stroke clip above, I wince.
What's strange about the whole experience is the feeling of having failed an audience that wasn't even necessarily expecting anything. The table over which I am bent was covered in tears by the end of the ten minute punishment. I don't normally cry that much and it was overwhelming in itself. To feel that I had given so much of myself, that my husband felt that he had taken so much from both me and himself, and then to not have the film we wanted afterwards was frustrating. If anything, it was that feeling afterwards that was squeamish. I've never had to think of a spanking in terms of being a success or not. It's been fun and it's been relieving; it's been arousing and it's been terrifying. It's never been a matter of business.
I imagine this will be a subject I return to as we explore this new endeavour. On the upside--we bought new lighting, hopefully fixed the problem with the second camera, have a better concept of what we want to see, and, best of all, were both still able to be completely aroused by what we had filmed. A strange separation occurs after a spanking scene has been uploaded to the computer, I've discovered. Even knowing how much it hurt, how my husband had to hold me so gently afterwards as I cried, telling me how well I did and how proud he was of me, I watched the strap cracking against my own flesh and I found myself thinking, "Beat me harder."
For all the learning we have to do, for all the fears and doubts and questions I have, I can't help but think I've finally put my toes into the right water after all.
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.
I have so much to say about this experience, I don't even know where to begin. I also don't have time to begin, as it's early Monday and I must be on my way to work. Here, however, are screenshots from this weekend's movie, "Introducing Abby." Ultimately, we want to have our own site, with more than just video content. It would be a place to share my stories, for one thing, and I have some other ideas to make it a more interactive site than just a spanking video store. For now, I hope you get a kick out of these pictures (as you can see, I got a literal kick out of making the film), and if you are able to stop by our clips for sale site, now or later when we have more content, please know that this is a creative endeavor to fuel my ability to spend more time writing and in the world of spanking in general.
Receiving a good strapping here!
Loving how small my waist looks. Not loving the birch quite so much.
What can I say? I love the cane, my husband, and, it turns out, showing my bare bottom to the world.
For a while now, we've been talking about what might happen if we were to start filming our scenes--what we would think of the experience, what others would think of the images, and whether it's something we want to pursue. After getting a tripod for my digital camera as one of our Valentine's presents for one another, we realized we wanted a second vantage point. This weekend, we found the perfect digital video camera. I've never filmed any kind of scene before, nevermind a punishment one. That my first was shot with two cameras and then edited into a viable film is amazing to me, and a credit to my ridiculously talented and beautiful husband.
The actual video is a bit over 20 minutes, including a spanking, a leather paddling, a tawsing, a caning, and a strapping. Yes--we went all out, and had the best of times doing it. I couldn't help sharing it, and we agreed to share our faces in so doing. Here are some of my favorite screen captures. Please let me know what you think... if you wouldn't mind seeing more, or if you'd rather I just kept to writing. Without further ado, this is us.
Loving how small my waist looks. Not loving the birch quite so much.
What can I say? I love the cane, my husband, and, it turns out, showing my bare bottom to the world.
