Spanking the Mermaid, Part Two

from Our Glass Stained Glass Studio

image obtained and shared by

the fabulous and sexy Curvaceous Dee

Here's the rest of the scene. If you haven't read the previous post, well, you got here just in time for the good part. Don't worry about the backstory--there are 10 pages of size 10 font before the beginning of this scene, so the only thing you'll miss is a bit of blushing and going over the knee. But who doesn't like a bit of blushing then going over the knee, right? Anyhow, here you go:



"Stop struggling, Melodie," Bluebeard commanded, three slaps coming down in hard succession. "Do you want me to spank your bare bottom instead?" Three more firm spanks landed on her cotton-clad backside, its reddened flesh showing through the thin white fabric. She flailed, her right hand reaching back to protect herself. He grabbed her hand and held her arm against her back while pulling her pants down to her thighs. She stiffened in embarrassment. This wasn't supposed to be happening. She needed him to love her as a woman, but he was treating her like a little girl. This, more than the pain, brought tears to her eyes. As he resumed the spanking, the tears began to fall.

His hand found a rhythm. Left side, right side, left side, right side. Two slaps hard, two slaps soft. She tried to ride the pain and found that as he warmed her bottom, the stinging slaps were fewer and farther between. Now each spread a warmth over her flesh unlike anything she'd felt before. Left, right. Pain, pain, gentle, gentle. She stole a glance back at the man with the blue beard. His face was set with concentration, his brow furrowed, his gaze firmly set upon her backside. She shook her hair to get his attention.

"Melodie, do not try to distract me," he began, but when he looked at her, her pale little face now red and wet with tears, he stopped spanking and began to stroke her reddened flesh. She bit her lip and he found himself grinning. Her eyelids fluttered as his hand stroked the sting out of her bottom. Her skin had never been so sensitive, so alive. She understood the pain now. Again, she wanted to tell him. Do it again.

But he had finished. The crop would have to wait for another time. He lifted her up off his lap and stood her before him, her pants falling down as he did so and landing around her ankles. She looked at the ground, red-faced, confused at what had just happened, ashamed at being punished and more ashamed at finding she hadn't wanted it to stop. The man with the blue beard stood and tilted her chin up. "You did very well, Melodie," he told her. She tried to smile. "That was your first spanking, wasn't it?" She nodded. He laughed and couldn't help but take her in his arms. "I could tell," he told her. "You looked so confused." He stroked her hair. "Good girl," he whispered down to her. "Good girl."

She nuzzled her face against his chest, relaxing into him. His hands had wandered away from her hair and returned to her punished bottom. She stepped out of her pants and pulled away from him, climbing onto the bed on her hands and knees. She looked back over her shoulder as if to say, "Are you coming?" His hands were already at the waist of his pants.

Spanking the Mermaid

image from Mermaids Volume 4

by by Luis Buci, Diego Cirulli, and Pedro Cuevas

I've been working on retellings of fairy tales, and recently decided to give them a cp twist. The following is from a work called "Seasiren," based on Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid as well as the traditional folktale of Bluebeard. I actually started this scene months ago in September 6th's entry, A Writing Spasm. In honor of the amazing response I've received thanks to being recently featured on The Spanking Blog, Abel and Haron at The Spanking Writers, and Dave at The Cherry Red Report, I thought it might be to time to share some fiction--or at least the rest of that scene. So, if you were wondering, this is what I do in my spare time (when I'm not getting spanked, of course).

The little seasiren had not bothered to dress, other than to slip on the sheer cotton pants and camisole she’d found in the armoire. She wrapped herself in her sheet and sat at the window, watching the world go by, knowing now that she was not meant to be a part of it. When the sky turned violet with evening, she did not light the lamps in her room. She barely noticed the knock on the door when it came. Marie or Serena or another man--it did not matter. She continued to stare out the window listlessly.

The accent, when she heard it, startled her back to herself. "I've come for you," said the voice. She turned, clutching the sheet in shame. The man with the blue beard had entered the room and closed the door behind him. He slapped his palm with a riding crop. She had seen men with such implements riding large four-legged creatures down the street below her window. Perhaps he had come to rescue her. Hope, fierce as the frenzy with which she and her sisters had once torn men apart, tore through her. She stood, allowing the sheet to fall from her nearly naked body.

He could barely see her in the darkness, but the rustle of fabric and the gleam of her pale flesh made no secret of so much bare flesh. His body stirred, but Marie had sent him for a reason. "Light your lamp," he commanded, pointing to the small gas lamp on the vanity by the window. Serena had showed her how to do this, and she accomplished a small flame with shaking hands. Once he could see, he lit the other lamp on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed, placing the crop on the disheveled blanket next to him. The little seasiren stood bravely in the light.

"Come here," he said to her sternly, his voice rough but soft. She approached. Their eyes were level as they measured each other. "Do you know why I'm here?"

She nodded her hand. With a brazenness that surprised them both, she ran her hands over her breasts and belly then reached for his hand, encouraging him to do the same. Bluebeard laughed and she blushed a violent crimson. He shook his head.

"No, no, little one. That is not why I'm here." The little seasiren's eyes sought the sheet lying on the floor. Bluebeard took her chin in his hand and brought her gaze back to his face. "Madame Marie told me you deserve to be punished, little girl," he told her, "but she didn't tell me why. I don't know what you've done, but I will punish you until you are contrite."

She tried to step away from him, but he grabbed her wrist. "Over my knee, Melodie." She shook her head, not understanding. Her new legs trembled. "Come here," he demanded more forcefully, pulling her towards him and over his linen trousers in one swift motion.

She lay limply across his lap, for a moment too shocked even to struggle. The small of her back glistened. She was so pale, so delicate. He wondered whether Marie was not being cruel in asking him to punish so fragile a girl, but once she was positioned fully over his lap, her bottom surprisingly full and splayed wantonly over his thighs, he silently thanked the Madame for this unexpected gift. He cupped one cheek, then the other, testing her bottom's resiliency. Now she squirmed. When he slapped her once, firmly, she tensed then looked back at him slowly, shaking her hair from her eyes. He saw shock there, and confusion, but at the core of her gaze was a hunger unlike any he'd seen from any woman back home or here on this godless island. In the humid evening, he shivered. "Eyes on the floor, young lady," he demanded, catching the tremble in his throat. "You know what you've done." Even if I don't, he thought to himself before raising his hand over her.

Pain akin to the tearing of her tail into two legs seared through her backside. She shook her head wildly and kicked her legs, but it only made him slap harder. Her mother's voice flashed through her mind. "Every pain you feel on land will be double," she had said. But so would every pleasure. She had to find a way to take this. At least she had blacked out when she had taken the draught. This agony did not end.

(Second half to be posted this weekend... this bit takes up enough space as it is!)

Wheel of Fortune

Happy 2008!

Whether you're on the giving or receiving end, may your spankings be all that you've dreamed them to be. As I bend over, writing this shortest of messages standing up, I know I'm already off to a good start.

I Like to Be Told

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Let's All Beat Abby

Since I was a teen, one of my recurring fantasy scenarios is that of being spanked in a public or semi-public setting. As often happens, I was surprised when I found myself orgasming to something that hadn't occurred to me in normal thought. It worked, though. I've carried this one with me for at least fifteen years.

I'd been a naughty girl, but my parents, who didn't believe in doing the spanking themselves, had sent me to a neighbor's house for my punishment. (In other versions, it was a wicked uncle, and--this is fun--later on it was the man who would become my husband as a character who ran a spanking operation that looked like a noir detective agency, complete with the huge wooden desk that nearly fills the front room and a frosted glass door leading to the punishment room.)

This time, after the lecturing and the tucking of my skirt into the waistband of my panties, he opened the curtains that had been covering the French window in the front room. A small crowd of people had gathered on his lawn and were leering in at us. I shrieked; he laughed, placing a wooden chair just feet from the glass. "Over my knee, young lady," he demanded, commanding me to leave the corner in which I'd placed myself in attempt to hide from the neighborhood crowd.

I shuffled over to him, grateful my panties were still up, and, tears already in my eyes, awkwardly bent myself over his lap. Immediately my left arm was in his grasp and held against the small of my back. I kicked and squirmed. "They're watching!" I cried. "You can't do this! My parents didn't ask you to do this!"

He laughed again. "Oh, but they did," he said, slapping my cotton-clad bottom lightly, as if in jest. "In your galavanting, you have crushed Mrs. Johnson's herb garden, Mr. Alan's exotic rose bushes, Miss Violet's pansies and impatiens, and cracked Mr. Smith's new walkway. You broke the latch on your parents' back gate and at least three slats of the fence that is meant to keep miscreants like you and your boyfriends out of the woods behind my yard. Shall I continue?"

"No, sir," I gulped. He was right. My friends and, yes, some of them boyfriends, had been sneaking around late at night when we were supposed to be in our own beds or at slumber parties. Apparently, we hadn't been exactly careful in the sneaking.

"Your parents let everyone on the block know of your punishment." He slapped my right bottom-cheek quite firmly, three times in a row. I moaned and wiggled. "You're lucky they didn't offer to let everyone have an equal go at you." Three quick slaps to the left side made me writhe all the more, more in embarrassment than pain. I snuck a glance towards the window and saw Miss Violet nodding in approval. The set line of Mr. Smith's face led me to believe that he would have accepted his turn on my backside had he been given the chance.

My attention was drawn back to my predicament when I felt my panties being yanked down to the tops of my thighs. "I'm not a little girl anymore," I cried. "You can't let them seeeeeee..."

"Stop whining." His hand began to land in steady firm smacks back and forth across my bottom. "A little girl might not realize when she's stomping on prize-winning roses, but you ought to know the difference between a bare patch and a bush, shouldn't you?" I felt both sets of cheeks growing red. "And a real young woman does not dally with her boyfriends behind fences at midnight, does she?" The spanking was relentless now. As I kicked, my panties slid down my thighs. He followed their progress with firm slaps before trailing back up to his main target. "I ought to let them in," he told me. "Let each of them whip you as they see fit. Would that teach you not to trample from one yard to the next? If instead you are beaten with hand then strap then paddle, from one lap to the next?"

I always come at the word "beaten" and this first fantasy of a public spanking was no exception, and so there is no more of this particular tale. If it had continued, would I have been beaten by the band of neighbors after all? Of course, in due time. In some versions, the neighbor has set out implements for them to choose from, the only rule being that the same implement cannot be used twice. In another version, there is a lottery, or I get to choose who gets to punish me, only to find that I've chosen terribly, terribly incorrectly.

I've never been spanked publically in reality. I'm not sure I'd want to be. Our bedroom being a yard away from our neighbors' front porch is probably close enough. But my mind comes back to scenes such as this one, so rife with shame and humilation along with the promise of punishment. Sometimes the set up is so good I don't even get to the spanking. It's the possibility that gets me, I think. Anyone could be watching. Anyone, though even in fantasy these days it's anyone as long as it's my husband's hands and face, could have a go at my backside.

Today I finally added a stat-tracker and found one of the biggest turn ons of all for a spanking exhibitionist, even a secret one like me. Anyone could be reading this. Judging by the list of countries that has popped up this afternoon alone, everyone's having a mental go at my backside after all.

(I should start noting where I'm stealing my titles from, even if I can't always remember where I've found some of the pictures I post. This time it was inspired by Ray Bradbury's Let's All Kill Constance.)

Santa's Not the Only One With Pink Cheeks!

Merry Christmas!!!

Now to go play with our new toys...

xoxo,

Abby

Self Discipline

This odd figurine turned up when searching under the keyword "discipline" on eBay. Apparently, she is part of a line of figurines called Vintage Virtues. I appreciate gathering one's own birching twigs as being a vintage virtue. And she does it so happily! "Hurray, I am so excited to be gathering my own birching twigs that I went out barefoot to do it," says our little modicum of self discipline. Is she going to birch herself? Was the birching her idea? Is the true meaning of self discipline that self control is less important than admitting when one deserves punishment?

If so, I am a self-disciplinarian of unequaled measure! Even when it comes to my Internet "Favorites," I have a folder entitled Spank Me, with a subfolder of implement toy-stores called Beat Me. I manage to work the subject into most text message conversations with my husband during the day, and by the time we get to talk and see one another in the evening, I have all but turned myself over his knee. So much and so often do I beg for punishment that I think I may have made it impossible to actually be punished. After all, the best spanking stories are not exactly the ones in which the schoolgirl runs to the headmaster's office after misbehaving, calling out along the way, "Get out the long cane! I ought to be disciplined quite severely!"

Afterwards is a different story, of course. I just read a wonderful story called "Value for Money" (Hi R! Hope it's ok that I quote this. Didn't think you'd want your name in here, though!) in which the soundly punished girl says to the Headmaster after her punishment, "Thank you very much for caning my bare bottom. It was richly deserved." That acquiescence, that change of heart, is one of the elements of a good scene. If a change of heart were to occur after my pleading for a paddling (um, not really a paddling, please, Sir, it was just good alliteration), I would end up impertinent and outraged at the end. That sounds like a terrible ending for everyone.

The message I am attempting to learn here is that I'm probably not going to get what I want by asking for it. I can make implements aplenty arrive at our door (thank you Phil at Conventry and where on earth is our tawse, MC Customs? just in case anyone out there reads my blog), but putting them into my love's hand is seemingly something I have to earn by more than begging. I suppose this entry isn't helping any. Points (or demerits!) for honesty?

So. Perhaps I will try not to take the advice of this little vintage virtuoso so seriously. It's not about self discipline. It's about running amok and being terribly naughty and, well... letting the fates of flagellation take it from there. (Really, I just like alliteration.)

Jeal-ass-y

I've just realized that I've seen the naked bits of far too many girls lately. Good chance, if you're reading this, you have too. It's not that I'm about to diatribe about naked girls in this favored genre. If I'm seeing so many of them, I obviously don't have an actual problem with them. It's just--well, it's Christmastime. Somebody buy these poor girls some panties.

Seriously though, I think my bottom is jealous. How often I think to myself on a random Tuesday, as I'm adding up numbers for general ledger accounts, Gosh, I wish I could just get beaten for a living. Since that's not an option, I've tried writing spanking fiction recently, but there is too much of the Would-Be-Great-American-Novelist in me. I start giving what should be a page-long scene a full novel-sized scenario and I realize that if I'm going to have my way, I will have to start a whole new genre of mainstream spanking fiction. I can't draw, so artwork is off the option list. So, no spanking as a livelihood for me. My only option is to make the most of it at home.

My computer is obviously making the most of it. More so than I am, I think. Its bookmarks and history files are literally clogged with naked bottoms. I know the computer spends far more time with naked bottoms than we get to spend with mine. Hence, my ass wishes it was on the computer.

I realize this is an absurdity in and of itself, as my ass is on the computer. Right here and now, not to mention in the archives. No ass, no blog. But it's not the same. If it was my livelihood, I would have to give it the attention it deserves. Instead, I've spent a month away from this blog, which only goes to show that it was a month before I had a spanking to inspire me. What kind of girl have I become that I complain when I can sit down comfortably?

I tried giving my own bottom attention by purchasing it new attire. Victoria's Secret has an entertaining pair of red panties in their Pink line with the words "Gimme More Pink" across the backside. Even my underwear now demands a spanking! I tried gussying it up in lacy Bel Nientes. It still demands more. I tried giving it entertainment--it turns out my arse is really terrible at watching movies and wants to fast-forward through the bits with the talking. It's lucky that Merchant & Ivory never made spanking films--I'd never get a chance to appreciate the costumes and clipped accents.

So what's a girl to do? Besides run away to Scotland? I really do love and appreciate many of the girls out there who go through a great deal to get onto hard drives like ours. After all, I know I'm getting Niki Flynn's Dancing with Werewolves for Christmas, and I'm thinking of asking for the paddle named after Amy Hunter for my birthday. But, even if it was only within the confines of my own house, I wish I could take their place.

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.