Throwback Thursday - My Favorite Belting

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!

Throwback Thursday Hand Tawsing

Hello spankos! I pulled this short hand tawsing out of the Naughty Abby archives last night so I could post it to Twitter for MC Customs, maker of fine leather tawses, straps, and paddles. This snippet is from "Please Not My Hands," starring Abby, Mr. W, and a heavy tawse we bought for Christmas in 2007 from MC Customs. This video is from spring 2008, happy #throwbackthursday!

Let me know if you like these throwbacks, I'd be happy to grab a few more short scenes from the archive to post here - spanking, caning, strapping - let me know what you'd like to see in the comments! You can also message me on Twitter @AbbyW2007, or email me at abby.schoolhouse@gmail.com. :-)

I'd also like to take this moment to encourage everyone to watch the Picnic at Hanging Rock miniseries on Amazon Prime, starring my beloved Natalie Dormer from The Tudors. (I'm not an Amazon affiliate, I just really enjoyed it and want everyone to check it out.) The series is luscious and dark, punishment and eroticism around every corner. A few weeks back, we enjoyed quite the sexually charged weekend watching it naked in bed. From a fetish standpoint, I would say this is for the schoolgirls crowd. However, it was also a beautifully told and gorgeously filmed piece of art and a compelling mystery.

#TBT: Origin of a Sexy Species

There are a lot of rules in this world about who
I am allowed or supposed to be as a woman, a feminist,
a writer, and a sexual creature. I'm making my own rules.
Here are my brains and my butt.

I keep hearing these days that as a culture, we need to stop slut-shaming. I think the intention is good, but I have a real problem with the terminology.When we rally a war cry against slut-shaming, it seems to me that we're saying, "Yes, that's a slut. But don't shame him/her." It's still name-calling, isn't it? Or are we trying to take the term "slut" back and make it mean something feminist? There are all kinds of "shaming" out there now: slut-shaming, fat-shaming, skinny-shaming. Why don't we just work towards the end of shaming in general?

For Throwback Thursday, here's a post from 2009 about how women are told to be sexy (but not TOO sexy) all the time. I've struggled with this throughout my life, even on this blog. As a writer, I often wonder if it's "wrong" of me to also share images of my body. As you'll have noticed from the sidebar, I've re-embraced the Naughty Abby videos Mr. W and I made years ago, and I'm even working on making them available for sale again, as a way of funding my writing. I love sharing every aspect of my passion for spanking, including sharing visuals of the bottom that gets spanked. It's who I am.

Throwback Thursday: Origin of a Sexy Species, April 2, 2009

I have XM radio in my office, but it only gets three music channels - Top 40, hip-hop, and a mix station. The mix station, called Pink Channel Radio, is bearable in regards to music, but every now and again it offers up "life tips for women" from pop doctors and psychologists. They tend to be cringe-worthy on a good day, but today's tip especially irked me.

The subject was feeling sexy. "Show me a woman who feels sexy 24/7, and I'll show you a liar," intoned the condescendingly friendly voice. She went on to explain that feeling sexy is all about self-confidence, and if one is self-confident, then one will naturally feel sexy, look sexy, and be perceived as sexy by others. This isn't bad advice, in general. Self-confidence is fantastic. Feeling sexy is fantastic. Aside, however, from the obvious offense of implying that all women share a desperate need to look, feel, and be perceived as sexy by everyone at all times, this radio blurb assaulted the millions of women - and men - who struggle with their own self-confidence, among other more serious life issues, because of how they are perceived in regards to sex and "sexiness."

So let me get this right, Radio For Women. I need to improve my self-confidence so that I can be sexy, and then once I am sexy, the world can objectify me, ostracize me, or embarrass me, because a sexual woman, and in addition a sexual woman involved in kink, is not the most openly embraced woman in the world. Then, objectified, outcast, and ashamed, I can search deep down for that self-confidence, bring it back to the surface, take pride in who I am and - because, by your own rule, Radio For Women, as a woman I need to be perceived as sexy - fall into the same painful cycle again.

Maybe I'm just a little sensitive right now after reading an insightful blog post from the brilliant and beautiful Miss Tori (and I'm not just saying that because she's a disciplinarian). On her (now defunct) blog La Dolce Tori, she recently wrote about the possibility that the influx of women into the adult industry during the recession could raise acceptance and remove the stigma of being a sex worker. She cited an article from the SF Gate, which stated "In this economy, 'desperate measures are becoming far more acceptable,' said Jonathan Alpert, a New York City-based psychotherapist who's had clients who worked in adult entertainment." Acceptance due to necessity had not occurred to me, and I have found myself hopeful since reading Miss Tori's post. If acceptance of traditional sex work (i.e. "vanilla") becomes commonplace, can the acceptance of fetish work and lifestyle and its practitioners be far behind?

I can admit that I have not experienced hardship because I like to be spanked. However, friends, strangers, and those I admire in the spanking world have experienced far more than hardship, often publically, always unnecessarily. Sex workers of the world, be they providers, pornographers, models or mistresses, have the right to their careers perhaps moreso than anyone else in the world.

Sex work isn't known as the oldest of professions because it was the career nobody wanted or the service nobody sought. I've been reading a vastly entertaining collection of sex trivia called Sexy Origins and Intimate Things by Charles Panati. It light-heartedly traces early prostitution from hunter-gatherer society onward. One theory as to why we, as humans, are essentially constantly "in heat" is because women bartered sex for food and protection for themselves and their children. The men fed and protected the women who remained sexually receptive for the longest periods, thereby essentially creating a race that was ingrained to want sex all the time. The need for sexual satisfaction is literally in our blood.

Why, then, are we outcast when we want to provide sexual satisfaction to others and obtain it for ourselves? Cultures and mores aside, why would we as a society subscribe to the denigration of the men and women who, quite literally, uphold our origin of species? Whether the work is for pay or for pleasure, we are doing what our genes, not our radios, have instructed us to do: be sexy.

Being sexy, in this sense, is not comparable to that of the pop psych radio pop-up. We have long outgrown our need to propagate the species. The fact that we still crave to satiate our sexual needs indicates that somewhere along the way, sex ceased to be about procreation. I think, as you read my blog, we are all in agreement here. The fact that the need for sex did not dissipate, and instead actually took on new forms (balloon fetish, anyone?) indicates that we now require our sexual needs to be met for our own innate human requirements. No assembly necessary, we came as we are and we now want to cum as we are as well.

The key is the fact that those needs are innate. I was born to become a woman who wants a lot of sex and to be spanked to varying degrees quite frequently. I was born to want that mostly from a man, but now and again I have sought a woman in his place. I was born to prefer leather and the cane over hard flat wood. I was born to want to be erotically commanded, reprimanded, commandeered. When I am confident about who I am and how I was born, I am also someone who cannot express this "sexiness" to my family or co-workers or most of my friends. Let me tell you, Radio For Women, when I am feeling sexy, looking sexy, and being perceived by others as sexy, I'm also bent over a solid object and having my ass beaten with any number of implements.

So thank you, Radio For Women, but until this world has changed, I am afraid your advice does not adhere to me, or to any woman, or to anyone. We don't need to be sexy 24/7. We need to be accepted and allowed to live our lives. Offer a tip on that, and maybe I will be more willing to listen to Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" three times in one day. Until then, Top 40 it is for me.

(The Pink Channel does provide a valued and charitable service to breast cancer research and treatment, which is why I am not going to actually send this diatribe to them. Still, I'm fairly sure that when they state that breast cancer affects one in three women, they didn't just mean the vanilla ones or the ones who could grace the pages of Maxim. And no one should be expected to "feel sexy 24/7." Don't give us tips on how to do so, give us tips on how to tell those who expect us to do so to piss off.)

#TBT: An Easter Tawsing

Happy Easter from 2009 and today!!!

Don't miss the "Easter Egg" link in this post.

Throwback Thursday: A Return to Form and Function,  April 13, 2009


Temporary souvenier handprint from the first strapping, mentioned below, with an antique barber strop on our honeymoon. In pain, I reached out and pressed my arm against our vehicle, as we were outside at night. We took a photo the next morning, when we realized I had left a handprint on the window. I remember us looking at it and Mr. W commenting, "It looks like someone was in distress."

Last night, whilst on my hands and knees and thinking we were about to do something quite different, I found myself receiving a short hand-spanking. It stung, but I became giddy and lightheaded; I'd been thinking of nothing but this for too many days. When it stopped as quickly as it started, I was disappointed, only to realize that Mr. W had paused in order to reach for the long, fur-lined toybox that had gone into hibernation for the first time this winter. The latch opened with a slow metallic pop, but we both knew the meaning behind the rasping snap: "At last, it's spring."


He began to rummage through the box, searching, I supposed, for the perfect implement, but after a few seconds I became curious and peered over the side of the box to watch him. I felt a bit like I was cheating, like it was supposed to be a surprise, but he let me watch, and gauged my reaction when he laid one of the more pliant straps alongside me. Our eyes met, and I cannot say what my gaze held for him. Did he see fear? Trepidation? Lust? I felt a confused mix of all three, remembering both the ecstasy of a long strapping session we'd shared a few years ago, as well as the biting sting of a newly purchased stiff antique barber strop, which he'd tested on me at night on a bluff by the Pacific Ocean, under a million stars with no other lights for miles. I wasn't sure that I was ready quite yet for a strapping, but there was only one way to find out. I braced myself and cried out when it struck me, but oh, was I in heaven.

I'm not sure how long the strapping lasted. A few strokes? A few minutes? I think it was just enough to remind me how much I'd missed it. I never once had that thought I used to have all the time, that question of "Why do I like this?" It was a playful spanking, not one meant for punishment or anyone's enjoyment but our own. Then just as I was falling into the rhythm of the strap, he switched implements and began spanking me with an ovular, flat leather equestrian slapper, one of our first toys, and one we bought within our first few days together in Oregon. I adore this item. When used with enough force, it produces a sensation that causes me to say "Ouch!" or "Ow ow ow!" but it never makes me scream. It's a warm-up toy, a play toy, and a welcome opening or intermission. In this case, it was the intermission between the strap and the tawse.

For the first, and probably last, time ever, I nearly said, "Yaaaay!" when the tawse came out of the box. I have been obsessing about the tawse for weeks and was so relieved to see it rather than the cane or something dastardly and wooden. That last video clip I posted is proof that I am not in love with the sensation of the tawse, and certainly not when it's used as discipline, but I am in love with the scent of it, the weight of it, the idea of it wrapping its fiery tongue across and around the inside of each cheek, making me squirm and cry out and struggle to escape its sting. The sentiment of celebration dissipated the moment he began to use it upon me, but rather than fighting it, I fell straight into the focused mindset of taking each stroke, letting the sting settle, then consciously moving back into position to receive the next one. I squealed and pulled away a bit, don't get me wrong - it was the tawse, after all, even if it wasn't being used as viciously as I've felt it in the past - but I had been craving this so much that I didn't want to miss the experience by fighting it as I normally might have done. Finally, kneeling on the bed, back arched and legs apart, bottom red and hair flying, I felt completely like myself.

I didn't cry until it was over. I hadn't realized I wasn't crying until the spanking had stopped, and then suddenly I was overcome with a rush of tears. They were exhausted but happy tears, not born of pain but of the elation that comes with survival. It wasn't the punishment that I'd survived, however, it was its absence. Now, spring had sprung in bright red and pink blooms across the pale winter expanse of my backside. In years to come, I will happily leave the chasing of eggs and rabbits to my youth and look forward to a new Easter tradition - the Happy Easter Tawsing.

see the original comments on this post here

#TBT: The Monster at the End of this Post

The photos in the below post are the first we ever took of me after a spanking. It's clear that I was a little shy about it, leading up to the pictures at the end rather than putting them at the beginning, as I would now, or even stating proudly that the pics were coming if you scrolled through the post. I'm happy that I no longer consider myself a monster to be hidden away at the end.

#ThrowbackThursday: The Monster at the End of this Post, 8/26/2007

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.