Spank-tiquing - Brat Party

Superstition Mountains, view from Goldfield Ghost Town

We were trying to go to a few antique malls on the east edge of Mesa , out towards Apache Junction, but as we drove past windows dark and reflective in the bright morning sun, we realized we were an hour too early. At first we thought we'd wait it out, then decided to drive eastward again, just to explore. We were on a road that ran through an expanse of cactus dense as a cornfield when I announced I needed to pee.

We knew we weren't too far from civilization, so we continued onward towards small buildings we could see past the next rise. When we got there, we discovered they weren't real, though they weren't mirages. They were wooden facades, built to look like a small western town, trailers and debris hidden behind them. We laughed and turned left, seeing buildings that looked more substantial nearby.

One of them was an Elks Lodge, closed and of course I couldn't have used it as a rest stop anyway, but on a banner in front of the building was an advertisement for their annual Brat Party. Mr. W saw it too. "Well, looky there," he said, using the cowboy twang we fall into sometimes when we get out past suburbia and into land that's still more old west than new. "A brat party." Visions of bottoms of misbehaved ladies turned over stern knees danced through my head, and surely his, too, but I was the only one to blush at the thought.


Immediately I answered, "Not like that! It couldn't be."

He laughed. "What else could it be?"

My brain was so occupied with thinking that he thought it was a spanking party that I couldn't come up with anything. "Is it short for something they use on horses? Some kind of cowboy thing? I don't know!" There'd been a cowboy on the banner but I knew it couldn't really be a celebration of naughty cowgirls.

He glanced away from the road as we now headed up a hill, seemingly now farther from anywhere I would find a ladies room. "It's not like there's another word that is spelled the same but pronounced differently, is there?" I couldn't think of one. I truly couldn't think of one. He added, "What kind of sausage party were you expecting these cowboys to have?" I thought it was a bad joke and let it go.

Another collection of buildings rose up out of the desert. "I don't know if I'll be able to pee up there," I worried aloud.

"Let's just go see," he said. A sign came into view: Ghost Town 1/2 Mile. This trip was not going as planed. Moments later, we curiously turned in to Goldfield Ghost Town.

It turned out it was a genuine mining town near the Superstition Mountains and the less genuine fabled mine known as the Lost Dutchman. Goldfield was established in 1893 but abandoned by 1926 when it was clear the gold vein had run dry. It had since been turned into a historic stop on the Apache Trail, with restored original buildings now used as museums and gift shops, a tour of the historic Mammoth Gold Mine, and, blessedly, restrooms.

On our way back, we again passed the brat party sign. "I do wonder what that could be," I mentioned.

Mr. W's jaw went momentarily agape, then looked at me with concern. "Yes, I wonder what that could be, at their barbecue. What kind of sausages they might have. At their barbecue."

He shook his head slowly, teasing me, as I turned bright red. "Braawwt," I said.

"I really thought you got it back there when we first drove by, and were just being silly," he laughed.

I started giggling. "Nope. I thought that you thought that - ohmygod. I thought you thought they were having a spanking party at the Elks and I was just like, why would you truly believe that? But I didn't, I didn't..." I was laughing so hard I couldn't catch my breath. When I finally did, I offered my brilliant excuse. "We didn't have bratwursts in New England."

He reached over and took my hand in his. "I'm sure that's a lie. You know you deserve a spanking for this, right? A long, hard spanking."

"Nooooo," I squealed, still giggling. I hadn't laughed like this in a long time. I couldn't believe how ridiculous I'd been, but it was funny and silly and now that I knew the brats at the party were bratwurst sausages, I could be the brat instead. "Pleeeease, you can't spank me for this! We really didn't have bratwurst at our barbecues growing up." I considered adding "We had lobster" but that was really going to get me into trouble for not only being a ditzy brat, but a pretentious one, too.

He returned to his twang. "Well, that's just a damn shame, now, isn't it? For you and yer bottom. I'm going to have to roast it just like those cowboys roasting their bar-b-q meat."

I giggled on and off the whole drive back into town, and by the time we made it to one of the antique malls on our itinerary, I still had tears in my eyes. "I love when I feel like my old silly self," I commented, getting out of the car. He came around and took me in his arms. "I sure love you," he said. Hand in hand, we went inside to see if they might have anything we could use at our own private brat party later on.

A few shots from our stop at the ghost town:

One of the offerings at the shop below,
taken out of context

The General Store at Goldfield Ghost Town, get your
hot sauce and fetishes here

The bordello is a women's history museum, documenting what women's lives were like at the turn of the century in "the old west." It wasn't open yet when we were there, so I didn't get to visit it or find out why there was a cage out front, though I have my ideas. The little chapel at the top of the hill still has Sunday worship services. 

Woman in the Tiger Cage

One of our recent spanking toy shopping trips took us to Smokin' Lingerie, a local adult shop with an interesting selection of spanking, BDSM, and impact play items. To give you an example, in addition to new merchandise, it also has back issues of Janus and videos from Rigid East on VHS. We've been there twice now and I end up wanting everything, even the items I wouldn't normally consider.

This time, I noticed they had a puppy cage, and not the kind you can get at Petsmart. It was large enough to fit a person on their hands and knees or lying down in a curled position. I surprised myself when I said to Mr. W, "I wouldn't mind being in that."


I've never had a desire to be caged, though the fantasy has occurred from time to time. I enjoy power exchange but not power deprivation. Even our wrist and ankle cuffs were purchased with safety in mind and I can escape them in an emergency. When I found myself picturing myself inside the cage, however, a small seed, one that I realize now was planted deep inside me long ago, began to grow.

I saw my first erotic image accidentally and at an early age, young enough that I didn't know what I was seeing. I'd gone along with my dad to the small package store near our house because when I accompanied him, I got a little package of Handi-Snacks cheese and crackers, the kind with the soft orange cheese and the red stick for spreading. It was almost all they sold: beer, wine, liquor, cheese and crackers, magazines.

If I let go of Daddy's hand, I was supposed to stay on the left side of the store. I'd tried and failed to get to the right side a few times, but always had my hand caught at the last moment. "That side is only for grown-ups," I'd been told, but as far as I could tell, except for the cheese and crackers, the whole store was only for grown-ups. Even the MAD magazine that was sold next to the Handi-Snacks at the register seemed like it was for grown-ups. The cartoons on the cover didn't look like the cartoons I watched on Saturday morning at all.

Then one fortuitous evening, it happened. My dad got caught up in his conversation with the clerk, one of Charlie's boys no doubt. Charlie's family owned the liquor store, the convenience store attached, and the creepy laundromat next door, but they were blue collar businessmen. My dad, a truck driver, was always happy to complain about taxes and the cost of gasoline with them.

As they rambled on about something well beyond my interest, I peeked around the corner. More magazines! At home I had drawers full of Sesame Street, 3-2-1 Contact, Highlights, and Ricky Ranger. Maybe they had a new issue of one of those I could look at while I waited. But no, these were not magazines I'd seen before, not even at the library or the grocery store. They were all about ladies - and the ladies were naked.

Right before my dad realized what I was looking at, one cover in particular caught my eye. As he rounded the corner, I looked up at him, forgetting that I was standing where I wasn't supposed to be. "Daddy, why is that lady in a cage?" I asked.

She was on her hands and knees, hay strewn around her, hair in a mass of wild strawberry blond tangles around her snarling face. She was fierce and beautiful. I didn't think the cage would hold her long.

My dad, like any good parent, grabbed the first answer out of thin air, and I realize now that it's why I've remembered her being in a "tiger cage" all these years, the rational part of my brain not recognizing that there is not necessarily so specific a thing without that particular animal inside it, too. "She's pretending to be a tiger," he told me, gently guiding me back to the front side of the register.

After seeing the puppy cage at Smokin' Lingerie, I couldn't shake the memory of the magazine cover. She was trapped, but I saw strength and power in her, as if she'd allowed herself to be ensnared, as if it was for her own pleasure, not for the owner of the cage. Or perhaps she was the owner of the cage herself. She became an archetype I would compare myself to for decades - the voluptuous woman who appears to be in peril, but remains undeniably strong. I wanted that secret voluptuous tiger woman strength for my own.

I wondered what I would do now as the woman in the tiger cage. I have known the snarl, the primal scream buried deep inside, the rage of a beast who would have stared from the cage, daring viewers to come too close. They would step towards me and I would growl, perhaps even roar, until they retreated, only to pace enticingly, to shake my rump and my mane, to watch and wait, knowing they would return. It was impossible to know which was more fortunate, that they couldn't reach me or I couldn't reach them. But I am not that woman anymore.

Then, as that seed of interest in the cage sprouted, I imagined it filled with soft cushions rather than scattered with hay. I pictured it in light soft but bright enough to read by and a stack of books, notebooks, and pens just outside the bars but well within my reach. I pictured being released and bathed, my hair brushed, the kinks of my muscles massaged away before being returned to my safe haven. The only trouble with this cage is that it's unnecessary. I have all these things and I no longer feel like I'm in danger or a danger to others. No safe haven for me or from me necessary.

I tried to find the magazine online. I wanted to see if the cover lived up to my memory of her, if I'd lived up to the legacy I believed she'd handed me as a child to become a beautiful, terrifying, powerfully submissive and submissively powerful woman. I couldn't find her. After so many years and with no memory of the magazine's name, the woman in the tiger cage would be free to anonymously roam the newsstands of the early eighties in peace.

I came to realize that if we were to have the cage we saw at the sex shop, my secret voluptuous tiger woman strength would be my willingness to go inside it even after how long it's taken for me to become the woman outside the bars. Those bars would at last be tangible - cold, inflexible, locked from the outside, keeping the captive within. So unlike the invisible cages we make for ourselves, the ones we first must see before we can see or be ourselves outside them,

As for her legacy, only now do I see that I built that into my own invisible cage. I stand outside it now, a woman of my own breed with a sharpened nail to pick the lock of any cage that captures me. Sometimes I enjoy climbing inside, but I move to and from each cage in freedom.

My Top 10 Recent Google Searches

In addition to this blog, I'm working on a number of spanking-related projects. For example, I'm working on a collection of erotic poetry (see recent posts Circadian and Afterwards, Across Your Lap for a taste), a novella, some fetish based arts & crafts endeavors, and I'm considering resurrecting the old Naughty Abby videos.

I have a lot I want to blog about as well, but I've been a little off today, restless and unfocused, so when I sat down at my laptop, I found myself Googling something that you wouldn't necessarily think had anything to do with spanking or any of my projects. I realized my searches might make an amusing list, so, in lieu of an essay, story, poem, or observation, here are the top ten odd things I've Googled recently all in the name of spanking, in order of most obviously related to least. This is exactly how I phrased them, according to my Google history.

10. thuddiness - I wasn't sure if I was making up this word as a noun and should find a way to use "thuddy" as an adjective instead, so I searched for popularity of usage.

9. is the red room capitalized - I haven't read the Fifty Shades trilogy, but I'm writing a story where the rooms also have names, so I was curious what E L Fudge did with hers. "Red Room" is capitalized. "The" is not.

8. bdsm novel leash dog - I wanted to write about puppy cages in the context of BDSM and I recalled reading a disturbing novel over a decade ago called Leash, but I couldn't remember the author's name. This seemed like the fastest way to find it - it was, and it was Jane DeLynn. Not recommended for the psychologically squeamish.

7. cum or come in erotica - I'm going to write about this literary quandry here on the blog soon. My Twitter feed is depressingly constantly covered in "cum" but I prefer the less porn-y "come." On that note, follow me on Twitter! I'm @naughtyabbyw.

6. magazine with air force amy on the cover - I'm writing a novella and one of the characters may have purchased magazines featuring adult film actresses and famous Nevada prostitutes in the late 90's or early 2000's. I remembered Air Force Amy from HBO's Cathouse and an episode of Jerry Springer, but I wasn't sure if she was ever on the cover of any magazines or what year that would have been.

5. what adult magazines were in regular circulation in the 1980's/nude woman in tiger cage - These were two separate searches, but technically they were for the same thing. I was hoping to blog about the first cover of an adult magazine I ever saw, so I tried to find the image. I have no idea what magazine it was, or what year. This would have also tied in with the puppy cage mentioned in #8. Neither search was fruitful, but if you search "nude woman in tiger cage" you get an amusing mix of women in cages, nude women, and Nicolas Cage.

4. is alligator or crocodile leather more expensive - Most sources say alligator. You have to know whether your character has expensive shoes, or really expensive shoes.

3. taxidermy sphinx cat - I don't want to give away any spoilers, but this also has something to do with my novella. Fortunately, it has nothing to do with cats.

2. what's that antique glass that's pink - Sometimes when I've been alone too long, I ask Google questions like it's a person. It knew I meant depression glass for my posts about going antiquing with Mr. W, so sometimes this method works.

1. okinawan martial arts emblem - On Sunday night, Mr. W and I were browsing Amazon for massage tables when we realized we hadn't searched Amazon for spanking/BDSM furniture. Amazon quickly gave up on showing us furniture and decided it just wanted us to see the plethora of painful looking romantic fiction e-books it had to offer. We didn't want that kind of pain, Amazon! Mixed sporadically throughout were items that had either "spanking" or "bdsm" in the description. One such item was the "BDSM Symbol 50 Shades Yard Flag."

Neither one of us are especially attached to the insignia, but as a student of media and communications, I found the description frustrating. I understand why or how it could happen, but Fifty Shades isn't exactly a brand that needs free bonus advertising, and as the rest of us know, there are plenty of players who want nothing to do with the franchise but have owned that emblem as part of their identity for years.

When I sat down at my computer today and realized I didn't have the energy for one of my usual posts, I thought I'd write a short post about the garden flag. Then I realized I didn't know much about the history of the BDSM emblem, or "BDSMblem" as I've now seen it referred to, so I thought I should do a little research first. This led to an article that describes What Is and Is Not the BDSMmblem. This article indicates that the above symbol, which is the same as it appears on the garden flag, is actually "the coat of arms of an ancient Okinawan family and has since become the emblem of a form of Okinawan martial arts." This is apparently because the dots are dots and not holes. The BDSMblem is, accordingly, supposed to have holes, not dots.

I proceeded to do additional Google image searches, including "okinawan martial arts emblem," but I never found this exact emblem to be linked to Okinawa or martial arts, although there are similar triple-spoked designs. That is not to say my search was at all thorough. This was curiosity, after all, not academic research. However, as I looked at "okinawan martial arts emblem" on the search page, I laughed as I realized how many absurd phrases I must have Googled recently, and so this post was born.

In addition, Amazon showing us all those e-books made me realize that a vast amount of romantic or erotic fiction is being easily published with clearly not a lot of effort. Much of it is shorter than I realized, and from the descriptions, I could probably put something together pretty quickly without worrying about plot or character development, though I'm two pages in to this novella I keep mentioning and I am definitely worrying about those things. Still, I'm hoping this spring will see me up on Amazon, if only for the practice of putting together an e-book and sharing a longer story with the world. I promise no sphinx cats, or cats of any kind, will be harmed or taxidermied in the process.

Circadian - An Erotic Poem

Circadian

Shrugging the chenille robe from

my otherwise naked body, I bend over

to pick up yesterday’s sweater from the floor.

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

as if his arm might stretch past the

indentation of my body, the wrinkled sheets,

just to touch the bareness of my backside

before I get dressed.

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

I reach back to squeeze the flesh in question.

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

Dizzying warmth runs through me as I recall

last night’s steady stroke of the paddle,

not so softly and not too hard but just right,

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

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

rocking me forward and back. I met it

with my hips, my hands grasping the blanket

I knelt upon, I gasped as I realized

the paddle might make me come.

My head was made of light as we paused,

my ass still bouncing in the air even without

the paddle. “That was incredibly fucking sexy,”

he growled and I pushed my hips back, sure that

the glisten of moisture dripping down my thighs

would be invitation enough, but just in case

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

possible but he was already grabbing me and

halfway inside, everything behind my eyelids

glowing amber, body turned to fire.

Slipping the sweater over my head, the morning sun

striping the bedroom walls through Venetian blinds,

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

my warm and sore but unmarked bottom.

He rests his head by my shoulder and tells me,

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

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

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

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

I rise and walk through patterns of light towards

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

Towards bed, then surrender, then sleep.

The Found Art of Spanktiquing

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

My Faire Flogger

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the Inside Out

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Every Ordinary Object

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Thief of Hearts and Apples

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

Discomfort Me With Apples, Parts One and Two

Part One

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

"What have you been doing?" he demanded.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You may rub," he responded.

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

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

Part Two (the tense changes)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If You Show Me Yours...

Are you on my naughty blog list yet?

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

I need your help!

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

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

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

Show Me Your Links

Email: abby.schoolhouse@gmail.com

Twitter: @naughtyabbyw

Or comment on this post with suggestions.

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

Thank you and happy spanking!

xo, Abby