3F#22: excerpt from tentatively titled "Whitelight"

The words to use in this week's Flash Fiction Friday were matrix, air conditioner, and steganographer. Somehow, having to use these words enabled me to pull together elements of a story I've been trying to figure out all summer. If I keep writing it, this will be just a small scene in a much larger story.

When the elevator doors opened to reveal the second basement, I could actually feel my eyes widen in shock. "These," said Ledger, "are the Matrixes."

The room was round and empty but for two narrow beds upon a low dais in the center. Each bed was occupied by a naked woman. The woman on the right was asleep. Her straight black hair looked like it had been combed across her pillow while she slept. Her skin, darker than mine, seemed to glow. The woman on the left was awake and lying on her side. She was pale, blond, and luminescent. She appeared to be the main source of light in the room.

Ledger touched my shoulder, encouraging me to step forward. As I entered the chamber, the blond smiled at me, then winced. A young man knelt behind her, applying a salve to her thighs and buttocks. I was led around the dais to see why. Across her flesh, deep scarlet welts, some wetly gleaming with salve or blood or both, were set close together. The striping was so dense that her skin was barely visible at the fullest part of her backside and at the very tops of her thighs. The skin I could see was starting to bloom into patches of deep violet bruises. The sight of it all was starting to make me nauseous. She winced again, her entire body going rigid, then shivering.

"It's cold," I said questioningly. It wasn't the most important question I had, but it was the one I could form into words. Everything else was, for now, incomprehensible.

"We keep the air conditioner set to fifty-eight degrees. It's not cold, just colder than your normal comfort level. When the Matrixes are," he paused to search for the right word, "active, a great amount of heat is generated. The cooler temperature helps keep them from premature release."

I knew my brow had furrowed when he nodded and told me it would make sense later.

We continued around the dais until we were standing in front of the blond again. I raised my hand in awkward greeting and tried to return her smile. She nodded as if she understood. I supposed she did. After all, she must have once stood in my place, wondering how she'd stumbled into this torture chamber of happy prisoners.

I turned away from her so that wouldn't hear what I was about to whisper. "Look, I'm no goody-two-shoes, but I'm no steganographer, either. I don't see the secret code in that woman's poor flesh that tells me how her suffering is beneficial to anyone but the sadist who did that to her."

She heard me anyway, which I realized when she and Ledger both laughed simultaneously. I turned back to her, feeling tears starting to form. Everything was suddenly so confusing. She reached out her hand and I stepped up onto the dais to take it. She squeezed. "Look at me," she said quietly. Her voice was steadier than I'd expected and, looking into her eyes, I realized she was at least a decade older than I'd originally thought. "No." She shook her head. "Not my face."

My own grip tightened as I craned my head to tentatively look over her hip. A pink the color of cotton candy lined the areas that were bleeding just minutes before. Her entire backside and much of her thighs were tinged yellow. I inhaled in surprise. It was the yellow that marks the last trace of a dark bruise. Even as I watched, her skin lightened until it matched the rest of her body. The pink stripes remained a few moments longer, then they too faded and were gone.

I looked back into her eyes. "Is it magic?" I asked, my amazement whelming up in my chest. It had become difficult to breathe.

"No, not magic," she answered, her smile now just a little bit proud. "It's me."

What's That Got To Do With the Price of Fetish Fettuccine?

While reading this list of the top 20 most bizarre Craigslist ads, I became fascinated by a listing searching for a "Woman to sit in my bathtub full of noodles, wearing a bathing suit." It reads:

• I will pay you $1 USD to sit in my bathtub full of noodles while you wear a one piece bathing suit.
• I will not be home, nor will anyone else while you do this.
• I will leave the key for you, and you will sit at your leisure.
• I will require at least a 5 minutes stay.
• A neighbor will watch the front door from across the street and using a supplied stopwatch, will time your entry and departure.
• Please supply your own footwear.
• The noodles will be cooked, and therefore slippery.
• DO NOT bring any sauce. I will season the pasta after I return home prior to dinner.

I love this ad, presuming it was genuine, although I realize that is unlikely. Firstly, this person is admitting to an unusual fetish and seeking a way to fulfill it. Secondly, he/she has considered the bathtub sitter's need for privacy, or perhaps has a very specific fantasy of what the woman in the bathtub looks like, and rather than spoil the imagined scene, he/she has decided that just knowing a woman was in the bathtub full of noodles is enough.

Past that, the details have been considered, like loaning a stopwatch to the neighbor (how did that conversation go?). A one piece bathing suit is a must, though I would have also requested full body hair removal and a swimming cap. Also, the diner will be seasoning the pasta, so it is imperative that although the bathtub sitter may be compelled to bring her own sauce, she should NOT do so. If I was the woman in the bathtub, I know I would have wanted to bring my own vodka tomato cream sauce, so it's important to know that the pasta, prior to seasoning, should be woman-flavored only.

The stumbling block in the plan is that the hopeful diner is only willing to pay $1 to the pasta woman. Unless this is her fetish too, why would anyone answer this ad? Is it naive and/or selfish of me to think that people should be willing to pay a premium for having their most secret desires fulfilled? It seems like an entire bathtub of fetish fettucine (or similar) is worth at least $100, even $1000.

There's something interestingly cocky about offering a single dollar. On the one hand, I can't help but feel that it devalues everyone who provides a unique fetish-based service. On the other, the single dollar may indicate that this person believes that a woman in a bathtub full of noodles is either a common occurrence or it's his/her God-given right to be granted such a thing. Isn't that the epitome of confidence that fetish communities aim to inspire? That what we like and want is normal and acceptable and completely within reason as part of our experience as human beings? After all, the woman would sit in the bathtub of her own free will. My brain just can't get to why she would do this for free.

We live in a world where some people will pay good money to see fully-clothed women hug balloons and step on things because that's what turns them on. And that's just on film. If that was my fetish, I wouldn't expect someone to come over to my house and pop balloons or squish fruit with her high heels free of charge, whether I was in the room or not. Maybe that would happen if we were at a fruit squishing convention and we were having a private party, but a house call? I think not, pasta man. I think not.

There's no moral to the story here, no grand statement. I'm not really ranting, I just thought this was funny and I'm enjoying getting back to posting, even if every post can't be super sexy and worthy of repeated reading or viewing. I guess, if I had to make a closing statement, it would be "Don't offer only a dollar for fetish services," but I'd be preaching to the choir. I'm lucky to have a fetish that has such a generous and friendly fanbase. I shudder to think if the subtitle on my blog was "writings on sitting in a bathtub full of noodles, ziti, elbow macaroni..."

3F#21 : Holiday

from Patty's A Creative Spanked Wife. I can't believe it took me this long to find this site. Great artwork! I won't even mind if you go check out her gallery before reading my story. This drawing is called "Pirate Bride." Note the ropes! Fantastic.

It's been a while since I participated in Flash Fiction Friday, so I figured I was due for another go round. This week, the wildcard words were "libretto," "Ophiucus," and "sweat." I exceeded the 250-word limit, but I've been editing out one word at a time for 45 minutes, so at 297 words, this is as close as it's going to get. And yes, the holiday referenced is real and is today. Follow the link!


"Arrr. Would you rather be tied to the mast or walk the plank when we get home, yeh scurvy wench?"

I grinned. "You know I'd rather be tied up than take a walk any day." We were lying on our backs, watching the night sky after picnicking and making out like teenagers. It had been a long time since I felt this happy. Even the mosquitoes, drawn to our sweat on this Indian Summer night, didn't bother me.

"No, no. You're supposed to say it like a pirate. It's September nineteenth!" Will shook his head.

"Now you'll have to be flogged as well."

Giggling, I remembered. "It's Talk Like a Pirate Day! Who came up with that?"

Will pointed at the sky, unusually clear and full of stars. "Those guys."

"I poured you one too many glasses of grog, didn't I?"

"No, no. The constellations. Hercules, with his powerful palms. Ophiuchus, with his feisty snake. Orion, with his great big belt. They all really like flogging, so they made a holiday for it."
"Talk Like A Pirate Day is actually a holiday for pirate-style spanking?" I was going to get hiccups from laughing so much.

He shrugged. "When we get home, I could dig out the old libretto from my high school production of Pirates of Penzance. We could have a sing-a-long instead."

I turned my head towards him. "Avast, me hearty," I whispered. "You know I can't sing."
He laughed. "Well, blow me down. Let's get that pirate booty in gear."

"Aye, aye, Captain." I sat up to pack the remains of the picnic. My eyes flickered upwards. I had a feeling it wouldn't be the last I saw of firm hands, a feisty snake and a great big belt tonight. I couldn't have been happier.

A Tail of Two Dreams

Dreams Made Flesh, photo by Antonis DCD, found on Flickr.

I thought this photo captured a sense of self-created violence. There seems to be a desperation in the hands of the shadow, but nothing looms behind the figure to indicate threat.

I've had two interesting spanking dreams this week.

Last weekend, I dreamed that a high school friend and I were still in our teens and had gotten into some kind of trouble. We were to be punished by her two uncles, and the punishment was for us to be caned simultaneously. I was bent over, made to put my elbows and forearms on the seat of a straight-backed chair, and told to await my caning. The uncle in charge of my discipline walked away for a brief moment, then came back swishing the cane forcefully through the air, creating that sweet whish of terror and anticipation. After a few more swishes, he brought his arm back then quickly forward, flicking his wrist and... tapped me.

Now, I am no stranger to the cane tap. It marks the place the cane is to strike, or, when Mr. W is toying with me, it marks the place he wants me to think the cane will land, only to raise a weal elsewhere. But in this dream, after a few of these pretend cane strokes ending in taps, I began to rise up on my tiptoes, wiggling my backside in the air, encouraging the uncle to really let me have it. He did not.

Three nights ago, I dreamed that I was part of a rehabilitation program for violent criminals. The goal of the program was to help them learn to divert their rage before it turned into crime, or death. Lucky me, I had been put in charge of the rehab of a serial killer. I asked him why he needed to kill people, and he told me, "I like knowing I'm hurting them." Well, what top doesn't understand that sentiment? (Not to call all you tops out there akin to serial killers.)

My job was to show him how, with the help of a willing and preferably naked woman, he could unleash his violent tendencies and bask in the knowledge of their pain while remaining a decent citizen. He could be violent, create pain, and let the girl get up and walk away. We talked about these concepts at an outdoor wooden picnic table. Then I got up on the table on my hands and knees and told him to try spanking me.

He was afraid to try it. There were guards nearby, and I think he was a bit abashed. "Go ahead," I coaxed him. He stood to the left of me and whacked me with his right hand. The spank was weak, but I told him, "That's it. Try again." After a few more awkward attempts, he got into the swing of things. He began to wrap his left arm around my waist and the guards started towards us. I shook my head at them and let him restrain me. I knew that it was the only way he was going to learn self-control.

The dream then began to flash in and out, as dreams will do. In the next scene I was standing next to him, demonstrating how to use a belt for spankings, and talking about the difference between belts and leather straps. The dream flashed out, for a moment I was bent over the table while he practiced his lesson upon me, and then this particular part of the dream was over.

I don't think any of us are surprised that even in my dreams, my attitude is, "Come on, do it already!" I'm pretty much over the victim fantasies of my youth. I still find punished brats and naughty nieces hella sexy, but the truth is, these days I'm not aroused by the thought of inflicted discipline. I'm more intrigued by my innate physiological erotic response to spanking and by the idea that we do this because it's what we choose to do. I no longer want to see the schoolgirl sent to the headmaster's office for punishment. I want to see her walk in and demand it.

'Nuff Said

Sure, I could go on about demon schoolgirls and the possibility of an alternate world where demon headmasters (ideally ones who look like Anthony Stewart Head) keep them in check. But I won't. It's just a sexy picture that, like most things, makes me think of spanking. 'Nuff said.

Abby Vs. The Slippers

I should point out that the story below is about obtaining this fancy pair of slippers. I thought it was amusing, but no actual spanking events take place.

My mother-in-law was just in town. Now, normally sexy spanking toys and mothers-in-law do not go hand in hand, at least not in my world. So how did she come to actually purchase spanking implements for Mr. W?

The whole thing started with a shopping trip Mr. W and I took a few days before his mom arrived. We were both looking for shoes when we happened upon a pair of men's leather slippers. The slipper not being one of my go-to fantasy implements, all I saw was a very nice pair of leather slippers, complete with smooth leather sole and soft interior. Mr. W tried one on and when he found it to be just the slightest bit too small, he commented, "You're lucky those didn't fit." Ah. So we weren't just looking at a pair of slippers. However, they didn't fit, and they didn't have them in any other size, so my backside was safe.

At home, he tried to find the slippers online in hopes of ordering them. They really were lovely slippers, even if they were just to be used as slippers. Well, lovely slippers indeed. They were a style called Wolcott by the shoemaker Allen Edmonds. They were, absurdly, shockingly, and completely unnecessarily $225. The pair we had found was on clearance for $40. Thus the obesessing began.

Three days later, Mama W arrives, and lord bless her, she wants to take us shopping. We begin in a department store and, while I try on clothes, she and Mr. W pick out some kitchen items I've been wanting. When I come out of the dressing rooms, she shows me the wok she's found, along with a bamboo spatula. She shakes the spatula at me and says, "Now, no spanking with this! It's for cooking."

I couldn't help myself - my jaw dropped and I looked to Mr. W in shock. "Umm, ok," I replied. Then I realized she was playfully joking, telling me that I couldn't use the spatula on him. Well, that's a given! But talk about awkward.

Then, done with that store, we headed back to the store we'd been at three days before. Mr. W had a pair of shoes he needed to exchange, but naturally, while there, he wanted to look at the slippers again. He'd read online that they stretch with a wearing or two, so the fact that they were slightly too small meant that they'd be perfect within a week. This time around, though, there was only one slipper. The other had gone missing, and despite the fact that one slipper really would have sufficed, there was no explaining that first to a salesperson and then to his mom. So, in Abby vs. The Slippers, Round Two, Abby wins again.

No good story, however, ends after Round Two. The next day, while I was at work, Mr. W and his mom went shopping again. Mr. W had a feeling that the slipper god was going to act in his favor. And what does he find when he goes to the men's shoe department? Both slippers, left and right, sitting together on display. Abby vs. The Slippers, Round Three: Slippers win with a TKO.

Thanks to Mom, we have a winner. And now that she's out of town and not present to witness my wiggling, let the slippering begin.

Suffering to Sooth the Soul, or, Assedia & Me

Although I have long since come to terms with my fascination with and craving for the pain of a good hard spanking, in all its various forms and by means of all its various implements, I still ponder the reasons why I like what I like and why I want what I want. I've expounded on theories over the years - the need to relinquish control, the healing power of tears, the reversion of woman to child in order to fully embrace the identity of woman once again - but I haven't settled on any one reason. I don't think there is or can be such a thing. And yet, through my casual reading I've developed another theory. Let's add escape from spiritual ennui to the mix.

I'm currently reading Acedia & Me by Kathleen Norris, author of the monastic memoir The Cloister Walk. In Acedia & Me, she explores the concept of acedia, a sort of boredom of the soul that was once considered the eighth "bad thought" in the philosophy of the early Christian desert monks. The eight bad thoughts of the monks became the seven deadly sins of the church and acedia was subsumed by sloth, but sloth does not cover the greater meaning of acedia. Sloth, as we know, is the act of being lazy. Acedia, in contrast, describes the state of being detached from that which we once found meaningful because we have found it, or all things, to be meaningless. In suffering from acedia we might be lazy, yes, but it is because we can perceive no value in doing that which we are avoiding.

A simple example, for Norris as well as myself, is that of acedia and writing. A few years ago, I decided that every story has been told. I have never wanted to do anything but write. I call myself a writer. But having come to that decision, it's hard to find the motivation to write when I believe that all I am doing is regurgitating in text. I've been "working" on my collection of retold fairy tales for years. "Working" means I've started a few, thought about them, abandoned them. There are all ready so many retold fairy tales. Do I really have anything new to offer? A small piece of me knows that I do. The greater part of me has trouble finding the energy to waste on mimicry.

Early concepts of acedia were tied more closely to spiritual suffering and rejecting one's closeness to God. Essentially, it's the idea that God, or the Universe, or Life Itself, metaphorically comes to a person and says, "Here, have this gift. It is the gift of now and today and your presence in it." In response, the person says, "No thank you." It is Melville's Bartleby, having accepted a job and arrived to do it, proceeds to respond to each task with "I would prefer not to."

Early in the book, Norris considers acedia's etymology and word associations. In listing its synonyms, she lands on indolence and writes:

"Dolor is an ancient word for "pain," and indolence is the inability to feel it. We've now come close to the worst that acedia can do to us: not only does it make us unable to care, it takes away our ability to feel bad about that. If we can no longer weep, or desire, or feel pain or grief, well, that's all right; we'll settle for that, we'll get by." (p. 45)

From a masochist's perspective, what could be more terrifying than the inability to feel pain? Although the quote above refers moreso to internal pain and emotional suffering, I could not help but see the parallel between feeling pain and feeling alive, feeling as though I and my actions have purpose. I think my mental state after an experience of corporal punishment must be much like the feeling one has after sky diving or white-water rafting a dangerous river, or even after riding a particularly terrifying roller coaster. There is a life-affirming sensation of having survived. Is it too far-fetched to say that reaffirming the ability to feel pain can ease the spiritual suffering of acedia? If I accept pain, I accept feeling; if I accept feeling, I acknowledge presence; if I acknowledge presence, I accept implied purpose. If I accept implied purpose, I impart meaning.

In other words, if I am punished I will feel pain. Feeling pain grounds me in myself, a self I view first and foremost as a writer. Being present in myself, as a writer, I am meant to write, and if I am meant to write, then my writing, be it word or blog post or epic tome, cannot be meaningless. I am spanked therefore I am.

Of course, this entire theory does nothing to explain why I like the thought of others being spanked. I can honestly say that I have never watched a spanking video or read spanking erotica and thought to myself afterwards, "Well, my life now has purpose and my soul is no longer wretched and abject." Then again, reading and watching erotica does always make me want to write my own, so perhaps there is greater meaning in our dirty art forms after all.

Spanking Shakespeare and Other Teen Tails...Erm, Tales

It's not what you want it to be.

When I was a teenager, there was very little published for my age group, which is why I read Miller and Nin and Plath perhaps a few years before my time. There were the school library classics - Twain and Austen and the Brontes - little of which satisfied my cravings for true explorations of the body politic and the human psyche. There were the Christopher Pike and R.L. Stine horror novels. There were the godawful Lurlene McDaniel teen romances and the cringeworthy Sweet Valley High twins. Then there were the tales of true teen life, meant to ward us hellions off of sex and drugs. For those who recall Go Ask Alice and Mr. and Mrs. Bo Jo Jones, I wholeheartedly sympathize.

Last week, while browsing at the Powell's on Burnside for birthday presents for an about-to-be-fourteen year old, I found the selection to be almost fantastically lascivious. Was I in the teen section or the erotica section, heretofore known to be located next to nautical fiction and across the aisle from sci-fi? Girls in corsets draped the covers of historical fiction. The cover of Melvin Burgess's Doing It consisted of a shadowed outline of a couple having upright sex. A favorite of both mine and Mr. W's was a zombie cheerleader lying back on a bench, one leg bent up in come hither fashion.

Anyhow, this post is not to analyze the past or current teenage landscape. It's to celebrate the apparent complete lack of difference between the stories we tell our sixteen year olds and the stories we tell ourselves. The fact that we are not, by now, a race of spankophile sex-craved zombie vampires in school uniforms remains a mystery.

These both look like BDSM erotica, don't they? Untamed, especially, looks like something published by Blue Moon.

The Ass Seen 'Round the World

Reuters photo, link obtained from associatedcontent.com

I'm sure this photo is popping up on spanking/bottom blogs around the world, but as I'm at work and can't double check on what everyone else is posting, here it is anyway, the ass seen 'round the world.

If for some reason you would like to read more about it, here's the article about the direction of Obama's eyes while at the G8 Summit in Italy. Or, if you'd like to watch news anchors agree that, yes, he really is checking out that girl's backside, watch this.

Really? This is news? She's Brazilian, for heaven's sake. It would make more sense if the headlines were "Brazilian ass passes by unnoticed." If only the Summit was being held on a beach...

Hollywood Goes to Fetishland

A scene from Californication, Season One Episode Three


If you're planning on watching the first season of Californication, I think this post counts as containing spoilers, though nothing you couldn't have figured out on your own. There. You've been warned.

Having referenced this scene in the post below, I figured I might as well put it up here too, especially after Miss Tori asked about it. I'm conflicted about the scene and the storyline concerning these two characters because, on the one hand, it's spanking, yay! On the other hand, we are presented not with a scene of personal discovery or eroticism, but with a sexual grotesquerie in the style of David Mamet's Oleanna or Francine Prose's Blue Angel.

The premise of the scene is an unexpected example of bottoming from the top. Throughout this blog, I've made reference to my own feelings about the idea of topping from the bottom, the act of getting the scene I want despite my role as the submissive. Some believe it's unacceptable behavior; I think it's simply akin to a consenting adult presenting her desires and parameters by guiding a scene without dominating the dominant partner. Bottoming from the top, however, seems more devious, at least as it plays out in the scene above.

I'm trying to imagine Mr. W asking me to spank him. It wouldn't be power exchange, it wouldn't be exploration. We both know ourselves too well, which is why I say trying to imagine. This request will never be forthcoming. For the sake of argument, though, we'll pretend this could happen. The only reason he would want me to "top" him would be to prove my willingness to submit to his every command, even the irrational ones. Trying to figure how to go about the task would be embarrasing and awkward for me, which of course would be satisfying to him. Even if I managed and ended up enjoying myself, the meaning of the scene would still be clear: his control is irrefutable.

This Californication scene represents the same dichotomy. The young woman, Dani (Rachel Miner), is the assistant of Charlie (Evan Handler), a married man and talent agent. Hapless Charlie, who makes any number of terrible decisions in his own right, doesn't realize that Dani is merely climbing the corporate ladder by climbing over his lap. She's not topping from the bottom as a spankophile presenting her bare behind and saying "Spank me please." She's bottoming from the top, commandeering the situation for her own gain. Naturally, threats of litigation and dramatic conjugal hi jinks ensue.

Still, what is refreshing about the plotline is that Dani is devious for trapping Charlie, not for engaging in acts of fetishism. Charlie, likewise, is devious for cheating on his wife (and yes, in the microcosm of the show, what he is doing in this scene and others counts as cheating, intercourse or no) but is not deviant for being curious about spanking and BDSM. It may not end in everyone living happily ever after in Fetishland, but they weren't wrong for taking a vacation there. They were just wrong for going on vacation with the wrong people, for the wrong reasons. Fetishland, meanwhile, gains a place on Hollywood's map of normal sexual behaviors, right next to Blowjobtown and up the street from Lookingatpornville.

In other words, it's all good. Just don't do it behind your wife's back or to get a promotion. Otherwise, spank away, characters. Spank away.