Pretty Ugly

"Les Folles" (1970) by Bernard Buffet

Mr. Williams found this image in The New York Times under the headline "Pretty Ugly," a review of an NYC gallery show of the same name. The show features 75 artists across two galleries, and is summed up by Times writer Holland Cotter as merely weird for weirdness's sake, and therefore a waste of time.

The painting remains of interest because it should be erotic, but it is not. A painting of a group of nearly naked red-haired women, one of whom lies over the lap of another, ought to be a favorite of mine, but the description hardly fits the tableau. I am instead reminded of John Lanchester's fictional memoir-cum-cookbook The Debt to Pleasure, in which the narrator explains the "erotics of dislike:"

"To like something is to want to ingest it, and in that sense is to submit to the world. To like something is to succumb, in a small but contentful way, to death. But dislike hardens the perimeter between the self and the world, and brings a clarity to the object isolated in its light. Any dislike is in some measure a triumph of definition, distinction, and discrimination--a triumph of life." (Lanchester, The Debt to Pleasure, pp. 6-7)

I dislike this image, especially the girl turned over another's knee. The dislike truly is a physical reaction, a knot tightened in my belly, an active response. It's not that I simply do not like the painting, I actively dislike it.

The core of my dislike is my perception of the image as mirror. In this case, art imitates life. The women portrayed are withered whores, weary of their wantonness. They extend their tongues, not in lasciviousness, but as if they are dogs gasping for breath. Their wrinkles deeply set; this world, the world of the beautiful unclothed woman, the dancehall, the cabaret, is no longer theirs.In their blank eyes I see myself, or the woman I was about to become. In disliking their image, I separate myself from them, I defy commiseration. By defining myself as other, my own life triumphs.

I don't think anyone will be surprised when I note that I am closing down the Naughty Abby website. It was an utter joy while it lasted, and I can honestly say I am more myself for having that experience. It could return, in another form. To those who contributed to its modest success, I thank you from the bottom of my heart and from the bottom of my bottom. You have a piece of me that I am happy to have shared. The moment I began to feel that filming was required of me and that my heart was no longer in it, we stopped filming. There are no Naughty Abby videos extant that are anything but honest and joyfully experienced.

The day I looked in the mirror and saw one of those withered women was the day it ended for me. That day came early in the summer, when I was worn out with work, with writing, with the demands of being anyone other than a woman curled up with a glass of wine and a good book. Knowing that I could not allow myself to be a painted shell of a voluptuous and sensuous creature, I began instead to explore the parts of me I had ignored. My quest for my individual spirituality and sense of bodily self returned. I also began to explore new perspectives on my fetish, although the explorations so far have been more theoretical than physical. My day to day life has changed as well - I began a new job, albeit within the same company, two weeks ago, and while I finally have my own office, I am completely out of my element. There are even changes within our family structure. I'm not pregnant, but a course of events has occurred that finds me in a distant but distinct motherly position, and I am not ready to be both porn star and parent.

I am, however, ready to continue writing. I am keeping this blog, for when inspiration - ahem - strikes, but I also started a new blog today. It's called (link defunct), and my intention is to write about the rest of my internal and daily life (i.e. those aspects that have nothing to do with my own naked arse). I'm keeping my pseudonym. Much as I don't want to be Abby the fetish film star right now, I do want to continue on with this course of writing and adventure that I began in that naughty Puritan's name.

Abigail Williams: Writer. Spankophile. Seeker. Philosopher. Woman.

Torture for Fun and Profit

Issue #4 of Raulo Cáceres' erotic horror comic, Elizabeth Bathory, in which the infamous countess is portrayed (quite logically) as a demoness from Hell

Every Wednesday night, I watch a television show on the Sci Fi Channel called Ghost Hunters, in which skeptical plumbers use their logic, home improvement skills, and New England accents to try to capture paranormal events on film. I appreciate their understanding of the difference between an orb and a dust particle, between an apparition and a finger in front of a camera, or between an EVP and a cameraman in the next room. Their goal is to disprove claims of paranormal activity, not celebrate the mere chance of ghostly happenings. For that reason, when they do capture something inexplicable, it's all the more interesting and exciting.

This past week, they didn't capture much in the way of the paranormal, but it was one of my favorite episodes to date. The reason? Every other word was "torture" or "whip" or "punish." References to a torture device called a Spanish horse were made a number of times. I misheard the phrase every single time.

The reason for the erotic magic words? The team was investigating two Slovenian castles, the first being Predjama Castle, which contained the equivalent of a corporal punishment courtroom, as well as its two verdict options - a giant pit and a torture chamber. The second was none other than the ruins of Cachtice Castle of Elizabeth Bathory fame.

If you, dear reader, are not familiar with Vlad Dracul's spirtual sister, vain torturer and mass murderer extraordinaire, get thee to a copy of Andrei Codrescu's The Blood Countess immediately! This novel is the most erotic novel I've ever read - and that includes any actual spanking fiction. It is the story of Countess Elizabeth Bathory, a sadistic Hungarian royal who believed she had found the secret of cosmetic beauty after slapping a maidservant so hard that blood landed on her cheek, only to discover that the skin beneath the blood had a more youthful appearance after the human stain was removed. Cleopatra's baths of ass's milk was no match for the blood of virgins! So, naturally, Elizabeth went on to have approximately 650 women killed over the course of 25 years, in order to bathe in their blood. Like any good sadist, she couldn't just kill the women - she had to main, torture, and coax the blood from their flesh. Nonetheless, Codrescu tells a sensual tale of historical quest and iron maidens, untouched round bottoms and woman's eternal struggle for beauty. And if it sells the novel any more, I got off to it when I was seventeen. So there.

I always have had a fascination with suffering, with torture, with man's connection of body to soul. I've been reading up on the early Christian hermits, the Desert Mothers and Fathers, as of late, as well as a brilliant novel, Liz Jensen's Ark Baby, on evolution. I've been struggling to find my place in the society of mankind, and of spankingkind. It's interesting that this episode featuring torture chambers was aired at this of all times. What if what I find erotic isn't spanking, pain, punishment, discipline, girls' bottoms, or any of our favorite subjects? What if the true heart of my desire is suffering?

What does that mean for me? And if that is the direction my writings will be taking, reader, what does that mean for you?

Here's Elizabeth getting ready to take a bath.

She Served

France was once overrun by dragons. I know this because last Tuesday heralded the feast day of Saint Martha of Bethany, dragon-tamer and patron of servants and cooks. That morning, before heading off to slay my own daily dragons, I read about her commitment to hospitality in her small home just west of Jerusalem, where she was overshadowed by her siblings' ostentacious foot-perfuming and rising from the dead. She was often chided for her diligence to the hearth rather than contemplation. While Jesus proseletyzed to the rest of the family, Martha bustled about the house, the consummate hostess.

At the after-party following the resurrection of her brother Lazarus, you know what Martha did? Did she celebrate? Did she borrow some fancy foot perfume from her sister Mary and toast to the newly undead? No. Everyone else got to party, but Martha served. (John 12:2) Is it any wonder that later in life, she ran off to evangelize France by vanquishing it of mythological beasts?

The story goes that after the Resurrection, Mary and Martha traveled to Gaul in order to spread the good word. However, the people of Provence were spreading another word, Tarasque, the name of a dragon-like beast tormenting the countryside. Martha, who apparently liked to clean up messes, thought that a dragon sounded like quite the messy way to keep house, so off she went to see the beast. Upon meeting him, she sprinkled him with holy water, explained that his behavior was not to be tolerated, and looked upon him with love. Naturally, the dragon realized the error of his ways and became docile, whereupon the Tarasque was either kept as a pet or torn apart scale from limb, depending on the tradition.

Of course, depending on the tradition, this feat was not accomplished by Martha of Bethany at all, but by a Phoenician goddess named Martis, or in other versions, a Syrian prophetess named Martha, who accompanied the Roman general Gaius Marius in his campaign against the peoples of the north. At this point in human history, most of us know that early Christians often begged, borrowed, or stole mytholigical traditions in order to assimilate entire cultures into the new patriarchy. But why take Martha, servant of God, and turn her into Martha, slayer of the Beast? Why did Christian tradition turn the perfect submissive girl into an action hero?

I wonder if Martha watches us from her place in the pantheon of saints and cries out, "Why? Why wasn't I good enough? Why has my broom been exchanged for a staff? My dust bunnies exchanged for monsters? I served, but you held out your bowl and wanted more."

In every spare moment since her feast day, I've been considering the dichotomy of Martha in Bethany and Martha in Provence. I have been relating to her story in my own identity as a submissive, dedicated wife and my invented identity as Abby Williams. I've been taking a break from blogging and filming because I have become so comfortable in my own skin that suddenly, I don't have the drive to expose myself or my internal search for meaning in my fetish because I can see myself fully, as I am, for perhaps the first time in my life. I am Martha in her humble home, serving as I serve, allowing those with fancy perfumes and attentive contemplation to shine while I do those things that make me whole in the background.

But the dragon of the blogosphere still looms. For a while, my actions were based on its existence. Martha demonstrated the power of her faith when a dragon was put before her. I demonstrated my adoration of spanking and receiving discipline when a camera and the Internet were put before me. Perhaps the story of Martha and the dragon was meant to prove just how powerful her faith was. A faith so strong that it doesn't just serve bread, it slays demons! And perhaps my exhibitionism was meant to show that I had a fetish so strong, I didn't just submit to my husband, I submitted to computer screens across the world!

But the story of Martha is no less admirable when we remember that there were no dragons in France 2000 years ago. After all, she served. And I serve. And some days I want to continue to build on the story of Abby, the trials and tribulations of her bright red backside, her battles with the twin dragons of Cane and Strap. But sometimes I just want to clean my house and bring Mr. Williams milk and pancakes in bed. There will be days when there are dragons. But on the days when I'm just reading a book and baking muffins, don't worry that I won't come back to slay your beast. I find it wonderful and sexy that you want me to slay your beast. And I will. Right after I get those dust bunnies and refill that glass of milk.

Little Fun to Be Had in Explanations

I've recently become compelled by the unknown. In my quest to ascertain the necessity - the readability - of plot in spanking fiction, I've allowed myself to explore the darker half of my fantasies. These are the ones that make me squeamish with myself, the ones that make me wonder if I'm actually on the other side of this whole cruel business, if I am a sadist out to wound the helpless and it just so happens that too often, one of the helpless is me.

In exploration of plot, I've forbidden myself to imagine reason in the scope of punishment. I envision harsh canings solely because a girl has had the bad luck of the draw. I picture being tied down and strapped for longer than I can take, crying "Why?" until I am gagged, no explanation forthcoming. I foster the feel of cobwebs in my hair, flung to the floor of an unused basement, no light by which to see a tormentor, hands bound and unable to soothe anguished skin. No reason to be there, no sign of escape, nothing, nothing, nothing but punishment for a crime never committed, never accused.

I used to cling to reason, even in play, even in rushed fantasy. I'm not sure I ever used these words aloud, but I can recall thinking, "Tell me what I've done so I can repent." I do remember asking for a reason and there being no reason, that the spanking, albeit not much like the less savory scenarios above, continued despite neither of us coming up with a cause for discipline.

Perhaps I've molded to the style of play we've embraced. Maybe that's why I seem to have lost my desire to repent imagined sins. Real ones, too. I've made plenty of bad judgement calls recently. It seems they have nothing to do with my identity as a spankophile. Life itself deals out the consequences for human error. My fetish, these days, is about punishment dealt as nothing more than the consequence of being human.

In last week's issue of Entertainment Weekly, Stephen King wrote about the scariest films being the ones with no explanation. "But nightmare exist outside of logic," writes King, "and there's little fun to be had in explanations; they're antithetical to the poetry of fear." I've been thinking about that phrase all week, the poetry of fear. The punishment, as they say, must fit the crime. Knowing twelve strokes are to come for talking back? Any of us can handle that. But if there is no crime, how does the punisher know when to stop? Or does he stop? Is it discipline or cruelty? Is it punishment, or only stark, unending, blissfully blinding white pain?

If we skip the plot, isn't that all that's left? Meaningless chaos wreaked upon the bare flesh of the innocent? Or is that pain the plot itself? The poetry of punishment, of pain, of fear, with little fun to be had in the explanation, and all of the fun to be had in the execution.

The Tower, a Retelling of the Tale of Rapunzel, Part One

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Tale or Tail?

A page from Serpieri's Obssession. View more here.

Serpieri's graphic novel series Morbus Gravis kept a place of pride on my bookshelf for six years before I read them all. If you've seen them, or any image of Serpieri's heroine Druuna, you'll understand. What does plot matter, even when the plot involves drooling multi-penised horny mutants, when the artistry is an ode to the main character's glorious backside? Several other volumes, such as Obsession, Druuna X, and Druuna X 2, were published just of Serpieri's artwork of this ample goddess, justifying my inattention to the graphic novels.

Now, if it takes me the better side of a decade to getting around to reading the non-juicy bits of a graphic novel series, can you imagine how long it takes me to read the entirety of a blue piece of fiction? I am definitely guilty of reading only the "good parts," leaving the rest, often including character development and plot, for some other time, also known as never o'clock.

I would write more fiction if I treated it as I did my erotic reading. I get so caught up in the wheres and whys, even the last names, whether they're mentioned or not, that I never get to write those "good parts." I've started so many stories that I think would be really fantastic if I could just finish them. The naughty parts would be all the better for the care and attention I put into the reason for the scene, the mental space of the characters, the exact shade of grass outside the window. And why? Why? I'm an avid reader and writer, whether I ever finish anything or not, and if I don't bother with the pages before the panties come down, why do I think anyone else will take the time to get to know the tale before the tail?

I started writing a handful of stories based on the suggestions you shared with me over the past week. If I ever actually finish anything, I'll start posting them on the Naughty Abby site. That's the plan, anyway. What I wonder is, should I mark off the good parts so no one misses anything in the scrolling? How important is plot in a spanking story? And is that really what I'm writing? Perhaps that's the real trouble. I haven't decided whether I'm writing literature with a bit of spanking, or spanking with a bit of literature. Is there a place for me in this genre? Does anyone care about punishment with plot?

This one was always my favorite. Wonderfully unsettling.

Subject Me

I've had trouble writing lately. I'm not out of ideas. In terms of fiction, I have countless documents consisting of one to three paragraphs, stories with intent but not content. For the blog, it's not as if the subject of spanking is suddenly uninspiring. I have so much I want to write about for you: the auditory experience of spanking, the notion of violence in what we do, the surprise places one finds corporal punishment--the all-too brief beating of the Russian prostitute in the video-game inspired action film Hitman comes to mind.

No, the ideas are in plenitude. What lacks, what I lack, is ambition. I want to write. I do. I want to "be a writer." However, dear reader, I'm having trouble doing the actual writing. I was briefly inspired by the list of crimes and punishments posted above, as found on a random Flickr page. It got me to start this post, all the way up to the phrase "dear reader," at which point I walked away, wandered into the kitchen, and forgot about writing entirely. It's now two days later and I'm back at it, but it's really more of a "yes I'm still out here" post than it is one of reflection or eroticism.

That said, I wonder if your ideas would benefit me. Get me back into finishing fiction, or inspire brief sexy tales to be told for your more... um... immediate enjoyment. Mr. W is working all weekend. Send me your story ideas, and perhaps I'll finally write something worthy of calling myself a writer, not just a naked blogger. My bottom is taking a break from taking requests. Subject my hands to your wishes.

Unsolicited Nakedness

from photographer Spencer Tunick's Amsterdam shoot

I've become comfortable here. Comfortable spilling mental viscera onto the virtual page. Comfortable as part of the community, despite historically, in Groucho Marx fashion, refusing to belong to any group that would have me as a member. Comfortable in sharing my fetish, my fantasies, even my face. These comforts are the product of time, trust, and an ever growing comfort in being myself. If I were uncomfortable in any of these things, this blog would have faded to silence long ago.

My persistent nakedness, however, surprises me constantly. It is the result of being comfortable, yes, but it catches me when I'm not expecting it. I am Eve with short-term memory loss. At ease with my bare flesh, I take a bite of the apple, and oh-my-goodness I'm naked in front of God and everybody. Then the taste of the apple fades, and I am again posting screenshots and video of my backside, occasionally including the camera angle I call the "up-my-guts" shot, for all the world to see.

I had two moments this week when I realized that perhaps not everyone is expecting this unsolicited nakedness. The first was in an email, when I found myself using the phrase "unsolicited nakedness" for the first time, after writing something akin to "I was going to send you this, but--" I realized that perhaps not everyone wants an email full of porn. The second was in conversation with a friend who sought out the Naughty Abby site after I'd confessed my activities of late, and he commented, "It's all there, isn't it? Black bar and everything." He was referencing the picture I have illustrating one of the videos. To titillate, I'd included one of the "up-my-guts" screen captures, but to be tasteful (ha!), I slapped a black bar over the pink parts. My friend's comment was comic, but it also held a morsel of apple-flavored truth. Maybe everyone I know doesn't actually need to see my guts, or even the unclothed parts that hold them in.

I know this doesn't hold true for everyone. My visitor stats are heightened for about a week every time I post even a short clip. At this point, except for the stray or accidental reader, any nakedness you find here is by implied solicitation. You know that I'm going to bare something, my heart or brain or bottom, and sometimes you'll get all three. The trouble is that by becoming so comfortable here, I want to share this world with everyone--and not everyone is a part of this world. The very word spanking is unsolicited nakedness for some. When I first started The Little Red Schoolhouse, one of my constant struggles was balancing the girl who loved submitting to a spanking and the woman who needed to be in charge. Now that I feel like I've found that balance, it's about how much I can really be that person. I'm learning when it's time to eat the apple and when it's time to forget its taste.

Spanking Abby, The Blog

I came home from work the other day to the most wonderful surprise--even better than the new spanking horse and umbrella stand full of canes that greeted me when I walked through the front door. Mr. Williams has started his own blog!

He found the most perfect picture to start it off, which I've copied here because I'm jealous that he found it first. Terrible beast that he is, he also created a poll for which implement should be used for my next spanking! I'm intrigued to see what he'll do with the blog in the future. Will my take on each of my spankings and punishments be countered with a description and perspective of his own? Will I get to know even better what he's up to when I'm not around? Will I get to know my own bottom even better than I do now, thanks to my own blog and the appearance of cameras in my life?

From some of our first flirtations as booksellers together, spanking has been our favorite subject. It was in the subtle and not-so-subtle conversations between helping customers at the Information desk. It was in the finding of intriguing titles, especially those by the ubiquitous Anonymous, that gave us both shivers and caused us to turn to each other with heat in our eyes, amongst other parts. It was even in late night drives through the less savory parts of town, at that time Los Angeles, in search of that one book or magazine or implement that would turn us from intimate friends to permanent partners in fetishism and in life. It took three thousand-mile moves and a few years in between, but we found that final connection in the bands we now both wear on our left hands. So what is left after all that time and conversation and discovery?

The world, it seems. My blog has enabled me to learn so much about myself. Surely he's learned a thing or two as well about myself, us, and our relationship with this thing we do. I'm excited to have the opportunity to learn from his written thoughts as well. The hands sometimes express what the tongue cannot or did not expect to say. As long as his hands continue to say the most important things on my backside.

Spanking Abby. The other side of the coin.

Julie's Sixteenth Birthday

Number 36 on the list of worst album covers ever. Number 1 on Julie's list of worst birthdays ever.

One of my favorite newsletters seemingly has nothing to do with spanking, believe it or not. It hails from Very Short List and often contains pop cultural gems, such as this list from a newspaper in Florida featuring the top fifty worst album covers ever. But as tends to happen with most things, there's always a way to tie a subject back to spanking, and this list was no exception. I just knew there would be something I could post here, and sure enough, number 36 did not let me down. "Julie's Sixteenth Birthday." Her worst birthday ever? Apparently!

I've been trying to come up with a story behing the image. Is that her dad? Her older brother? Her uncle? I figure Julie went to the pub to celebrate her birthday, but got caught. The man in the picture is trying to explain to her that beer and cigarettes are for grown-ups, not sixteen year olds. He's taken them away from her and is now explaining that just because she thinks she's grown up now, she really isn't, and sixteen isn't too old for a spanking.

In my version, Julie's family knows the pub owner, who doesn't mind when she's bent over the piano bench behind her and strange-hat-man takes off his belt. In an alternate version, she's made to lean over the table (elbows on the table being perfectly acceptable for this position) and the entire pub is offered a few swats at her. Birthday spanking, indeed! Poor Julie. Little did she know when she posed for this picture that she would be blogged about thirty years later by a dirty-minded girl like me. Not to mention retroactively spanked most unrelentlessly...