The Wall

I came home last weekend to find our most often-used implements hanging across our bedroom wall for our sixth wedding anniversary. I sat down on the edge of the bed, overwhelmed by despair and arousal. The sight of so many at once was thrilling and imposing, terrifying and exciting.


The first few nights they hung vigil over our sleeping bodies, I woke in the early hours of the morning and found even the shadow of the wall to be a quiet monster looming over me. To my surprise, it became a comforting creature: a feral beast that guards the abode, an avalanche-prone mountain that keeps intruders at bay, a god angry with its people but determined to see them survive. The wall, capable of setting fire to my skin then destroying the flesh beneath. The wall, a catalyst for a phoenix rising, always rising, from its repetitive destruction.

One of the themes of this blog is my struggle with the concept of punishment. I have embraced, rejected, embraced, and rejected the very idea of punishment. I have rebelled at the idea of naughty school girls, because in reality, they should have better guidance than a cane over wet panties. I have rebelled at the idea of domestic discipline - a marriage is a partnership, not an opportunity for abuse. I have even rebelled at the idea of tops and bottoms, dominants and submissives, because I welcome spanking but I have a say in what happens to me, in what is right and wrong for my body, my mind, my heart.

Then last night, a new leather collar around my neck, committed to a play version of complete submission that we have been toying with these last few weeks, I was commanded not to speak.  Mr. W had buckled the collar but did not use the lock, which along with its key is secured safely in my nightstand drawer, in a beautiful box a Lelo anal toy had first occupied. He had been describing the terms of my submission, whispering in my ear. I had been agreeing aloud, "Yes, Sir," with each term. Then he told me that I couldn't come without his permission. He began to rub my bare clit.

I had a question. "I have a question," I said.

Apparently, "Yes, Sir," were the only words allowed. We had not even reached a state of warming my bottom, but he said to me then, "Did I say you could speak?" I shook my head, too caught up in the moment to assert myself. "That will be two of the best of the cane for you."

I heard "two dozen." We always speak of the dozens, never the singular. He doesn't know I heard it this way, and reading this will be the first time he knows of it. I was terrified to speak then, because I heard "two dozen."

He told me to bend over, and he grabbed the junior cane, the second over from the right in the picture above. He told me that they would come hard and quickly. Still caught up in the idea that I was receiving two dozen hard strokes, I held my breath, terrified to breathe because I knew I would scream without a proper warming first. The strokes came, one, two. They were painful; they left their mark. But it was only two.

He stood me up. My eyes darted every which way. I still had a question. I began to bite the insides of my cheeks. I tilted my head. The collar bit at my neck. I had asked him in the beginning to tighten it one step beyond comfortable. Now, trying not to speak, the tight collar was a reminder that I had committed to submission, that I would not do what he had advised I was not permitted to do. But I was also trying not to laugh, because it was a new and absurd situation, but also one of despair because I am so used to saying what I want. I decided I would wait to ask until the collar was off, when we were back to ourselves, when my voice was never in question. I rolled my eyes and nodded to myself, agreeing with myself that waiting was the best plan.

"I just wanted to see if you would do it," he said then. He grabbed me around the waist and we fell on the bed, wrapped around each other, giggling. "Telling you not to speak, I didn't imagine you could do it."

"I tried!" I said, tears in my eyes. "I was trying so hard."

"I know," he laughed, kissing me. "I didn't think you could do it. I didn't expect you to do it. I thought it would be funny to tell you that."

"Worst. Timing. Ever!" I said, my thighs locking on his, his cock pressing against me and my arousal dripping down my legs. I love these moments, these moments when our connection wins out over any play we might desire. When we know that at the heart of things, we are perfect. We see everything the same way, even the absurdity of commanding me, me of all people, not to speak.

"What did you want to ask?"

""I wanted to know if your permission was implied when you're rubbing my pussy. If it's okay to come just because you're touching me. Or if I need explicit verbal approval."

"You don't have the right to do anything," he said, touching my clit again, slowly pressing it into circles beneath this fingers. "You have to wait for verbal permission."

"So I can't assume that just because you're touching me, you want me to come?"

"Oh no. You have to wait," he said, advancing the pressure, making me tremble beneath him.

He began to rub me faster and faster, pressing my clit into my pussy, demanding with his fingers that I come for him. "May I come?" I asked.

"No," he said. My hips jerked backwards, playfully terrified of coming against his will. The two dozen strokes I thought I might receive before could very well come if I orgasmed under his fingers without his permission. That was the parameters of the play we were setting up even as we spoke and explored each other.

His circles slowed but the pressure increased. "You may not come without my permission," he advised again, My hips couldn't deny his touch. I began to throb beneath him, but I waited, waited, waited until finally he told me to come, and I did.

The paddling he gave me afterwards, however, indicated I hadn't obeyed at all. The bruises I have this morning are the very reminders that I was insubordinate. That I came, and came hard, before he wanted me to.

We plan to mark those bruises farther, harder, deeper. My bottom is waiting. My throat is waiting. I want that collar on. I don't want to worry about right or wrong or punishment. I have reached a new place. I want to submit. I want to obey. I want to be beaten. I want to come, if he will let me. I want to be the phoenix rising under the wall. Paddle me, I will rise. Strap me, I will rise. Cane me, I will rise. And as my bottom burns and writhes under your administrations, Sir, I hope that you rise too.

Star Cock and Spank Tease

Here's a segment of "Dance of the Flogger, Part Two," just so you know it's coming. I hope to post the complete second half of the story soon. I also hope you enjoy this rendered picture of the flogger handle. I love how this came out, and am now seriously reconsidering my sexual attraction to this smooth, beautiful, apparently galaxy-filled piece of wood. If Mr. W and I were to be spanking superheroes, I think I might want to name us after this picture and this tiny segment of story: Star Cock and Spank Tease. If nothing else, I hope the stories I post on this blog conquer your erotic hunger, if not your darkest enemies.

I start to breathe with my mouth open, breathing out each time leather meets my skin. The panting rhythm of my breath along with the sound of the flogger’s tails striking in tandem turns us both on. I close my eyes again and the light behind my eyes flashes turquoise and emerald. This isn’t a painful whipping; it’s new, luxurious, exotic. The light mirrors that feeling. Bound and under the lash though I am, I feel like a queen, a goddess. “Worship me with whipping,” I murmur.

My eyes flash open again as I realize I just said that aloud. The unintentional phrase is not lost on him. “Oh, this isn’t worship,” he says, continuing to flog my breasts, which are more pink with the flush of pleasure than the pressure of the strokes. “This is communion. I’m taking just a little bite of you, just a little bit to sustain me, before I truly give you all my praise.”

“By praise you mean punishment,” I gasp, suddenly all too aware of the praise even a loving sadist might bestow on the body of a woman bent and bound.

More to come soon. Once again, because I love it so, the flogger is the Wood Master Thuddy Flogger, by FlogMeBaby.com. I am not affiliated with them at all, this was just a surprisingly pleasurable purchase. 

Dance of the Flogger, Part One

“Hands behind your head, young lady,” he commands. I’m already not wearing any clothes, but the position he’s requesting makes me feel vulnerable, even more naked. I turn to face the wall and slowly raise my arms, interlocking my fingers and resting my palms on the back of my neck.

He smacks my backside hard enough that I yelp. “Did I tell you to face the wall?”


“N-no, Sir. Should I turn back around?”

He pauses. I shift my weight from one hip to the other and back again, not sure what to do. Then his hand caresses me across the full of my bottom. “Your wiggling has helped me decide. Stay where you are.” He removes his hand and I whimper. He’s crossed the room to the area where the implements are kept. Whatever touches me next will not be the gentle palm of a lover’s hand.

He returns and whips the space behind me. I know better than to look. “Flogger?” I ask. He lets it fly again, a rush of sound through the long, black leather tails. The air cracks at the end of the stroke.

“I wasn’t going to whip your bottom just yet, but since you’re so nicely in place…” he lets the sentence trail off, tickling me with the leather tips. He swings lightly a few times, the tails bouncing off my flesh, lighter and softer than if it was his own fingers dancing on my flesh.

He puts the flogger between my legs, its long polished wooden handle touching the insides of both my thighs. Tapping backing back and forth, the wooden shaft is my instruction to spread my legs. I widen my stance, my bottom presented in full as I lean slightly forward to allow my forehead to rest on the wall. My nipples also touch the wall in this new position and I arch my back to let some of my body weight rest against my breasts. Balanced, I nod my head.

The strokes come hard and fast and I can’t help but moan. The harder he whips, the more sensual the blow, warming my flesh without sting or stripe. He gets in a few lighter strokes that actually hurt more than the harder ones. He tilts his wrist at the end so that the tails whip into the crevices of my body. These bite my skin, though they do not mark. I crave the heavier falls of the leather, the ones that light up behind my eyes as rose, cherry, scarlet.

After a solid minute of whipping, he stops and touches me, gauging my warmth. He slides his finger between my thighs, testing my wetness as well. “Good girl,” he says, his voice rougher and deeper than when the session began. “You have much more to come. Now turn around.”

I turn and begin to lower my arms, craving his embrace. He flips the flogger in his hand and taps my elbows with the handle. Returning to position, legs still spread, I tilt my head and frown. I don’t want to ask what we’re doing, but I want him to know I’m confused, that I need his guidance for what is coming next.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asks, as if, for the first time in all the years he’s spanked me, I might want to be surprised by the next punishment my body is to receive.

I nod, biting my lip. This is going in a different direction that I’d been expecting when I first threw myself over his lap while we were watching TV. “I feel dirty,” I’d announced, counting on him to know that I didn’t mean I was in need of soap and water.  He’d taken a deep breath as I felt his cock stir beneath my thigh. “Are you my filthy girl?” he’d asked. “Let’s go,” I’d answered, climbing up and nearly running to the bedroom, removing my clothes as I went. But now that I stand facing him, bottom pink but now ignored, I’m not sure what’s coming next. The unfamiliarity has  me wet with anticipation. I’m trembling from my clasped hands to my bare toes curling and clutching the carpet as I wait.

He cocks his head as he says, “Alright,” as if he’s saying, “You asked for it.” He goes to my nightstand drawer and pulls out a twelve-foot length of soft black rope. He wraps it around me from back to front, leaving the length at the sides of my breasts. “First, I’m going to bind your breasts, each individually, so that I have two perfect, beautiful targets for my whip.”

He wraps the left side of the rope length around my left breasts three times, squeezing it forward. He does the same to the right, then ties the two lengths behind my wrists, which are still behind my head, and leaves the rest to trail down and tickle my back. I realize that if I pull back, the rope will lift my breasts higher. I tug experimentally.

“That’s right,” he says, his voice now in that place that melts me, as if lust has coated his vocal cords. “Lift them up, you dirty girl. Present them to me.”

I pull my elbows back then press my wrists against the rope. He squeezes my left nipple then the right, then takes each in his mouth, leaving them wet and chilled in the expectant air. I know what’s coming, but I need him to put it into words. “Are you going to whip my tits?” I ask, giving him both the opportunity to tell me what’s going to happen and approval to use vulgarity in his description.

“Of course I’m going to whip your tits. First I’m going to smack them, lightly, teasing you into thinking it’s something that you want. Then I’m going to step back and raise my flogger to them. You’re going to keep them lifted, so I can whip them in full. Every now and again I’m going to lick them, wetting them, so that the leather drags across your skin. If I stop, you’re going to beg me for more. If you don’t beg for more, I’m going to lay down the flogger and get the junior cane. I’ll cane you here,” he rests his finger horizontally across the top side my right breast. “And here,” he does the same on the underside. “And here. As many times as you can take without collapsing.” His finger rests directly on my nipple, hard beneath his touch, beneath his threat. “And if you do collapse, I’m going to fuck you. Wherever I want.”

Surprising me, he leans forward and kisses me, then rests his face against my throat. “I want you so much,” he whispers. I know it’s true. He’s naked too. “What do you want?” he asks.

“Are you going to spank my bottom again?” I ask in reply.

“Before I take you, I’m going to whip that ass so hard it glows.”

I take a deep breath, then draw myself up to stand with my back arched, shoulders pressed back against the wall, wrists pulling the rope so that my tits are at attention, ready for his mouth, his flogger, even his cane if he can’t resist. “Don’t warm me up. I just want you to whip me. Everywhere.”

He smiles; I close my eyes. Twenty leather tails land on the side of my right breast, curling up and over my flesh, licking the nipple as it pulls away. My knees buckle, not in pain but in delight. With one stroke, my body is on fire, every nerve-ending on edge. I return to position quickly, ready for more.

One of our new favorite toys, the Wood Master Thuddy Flogger from FlogMeBaby.Com

A Tawsing Clip for You

The clip here is part of the tawsing section of my favorite film we made, Fierce Foreplay. It's the most like what we do in the bedroom, though there is no sex. That part is just for us. Even so, the film goes through everything from light spanking to the cane, and I have a very marked bottom by the end. I have a fantastic memory of making this movie. I squeal a good bit, but I can honestly tell you, this spanking was painful,  fulfilling and amazing.

I like sharing these videos, because I am not your regular spanking model. I am a working woman who loves to cook, and my body shows it. I have a little bit of extra flesh but a girlish squeal, and just a love of spanking that I hope translates to film. This movie was made in 2008, a year after Mr. W and I were married. It's not HD. This clip is all panty-clad. They get removed later in the film, but there's no need to put that unexpectedly on the blog.

Boston Strong

April 20, 2013. 6:00 am.

“Take everybody out of the bedroom,” he says.

I lift the two cats and our little dog out of the room. I close the bedroom door from the hallway side. I go to the kitchen to fill their separate bowls with breakfast. I refill their water bowls. I start the coffee. The ritual feels good. Today is the same as every day, I tell myself.  Last night the surviving bomber was captured. My home is still Boston. I'm 3,000 miles away, but it is still home. And we are all safe. In the back of my mind I know it isn‘t true. It doesn’t take an actual bomb to change absolutely everything. But it isn’t time to think about that right now. I return to the bedroom, ready and aching to be taken out of myself.

I re-enter the bedroom wearing only black cotton panties, my pajamas of choice. I hear the coffee pot start to percolate behind me as I close the door. I’ve been making the coffee too strong lately. The grocer was out of our normal breakfast blend and I’d had to purchase a darker bean. My husband is already sitting on the edge of the bed, his legs spread, his knee ready for me. I hope I’ve gotten the coffee-to-water ratio right this time, not because I’m afraid of not doing it right, but because I want so much to make it right for him. I know I’ve been a disaster lately. “Coffee’s cooking,” I say, hoping he catches the hint after my post-wake-up breakdown. I don’t want to go back to the images of disaster in my hometown . I want to play.

“Did you make it the way I like, young lady?” he asks.

“Of course, Sir,” I respond, falling into character, hoping I’m not lying.

“Not too strong, not too light?” he asks.

“Yes, Sir. Just the way you like it, Sir. I think I‘ve made it just right.”

He nods and pats his thigh. “That’s the way I’m going to spank you now. Not too strong, not too light. I’m going to spank you just right.”

I step towards him and straddle his thigh. This spreads my legs, leaving my bottom and thighs open to his administrations while my upper body rests on the bed, secure and stable. He sets his hand on my hip. “That’s my girl,” he whispers, and I realize he’s whispering to himself. I’ve been so caught up in my own worries, I hadn’t realized he needs this just as much as I do. “Please spank me, Sir,” I say. “I’m yours.”

The first smack is startling, if only because it’s early morning and my flesh has barely had time to wake up. He smacks the other cheek and I squeal. “Quietly,” he reminds me, because it’s Saturday and we haven’t heard the upstairs neighbors’ dog bounding about their apartment. If the dog isn’t up, they’re probably not up yet either.

“Don’t spank me so hard, then,” I reply, testing how much sauciness he feels like taking from me.

“Don’t make me spank you harder,” he says. Not much sauciness, I realize. This is to be intense, but connected. No characters after all. Just us.

A steady flurry of strokes comes next, bouncing from cheek to cheek, each one stinging but I maintain control of my voice. I don’t count, but after about twenty smacks he lets off and rubs my bottom while I breathe out a sigh of “Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch.”

“Good girl,” he says, still letting his hand circle my backside. “You’re doing so well. Are you ready for twice as many?”

“I think so.” I reposition myself, letting his knee fully rest between my legs so that he can feel the warmth of my body reacting to the spanking. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but you can pull my panties down. If you want. Sir.”

He yanks my panties to my thighs. “I was going to do that anyway,” he says. I look back over my shoulder and he looks towards me, both of us smiling. “Ready?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for my response.

He spanks me hard, but not too hard. Enough to draw a gasp out of me with each slap, but not enough to make me howl or squirm away. I don’t think about anything outside of the moment. I focus on the heat of his body close to me, the sting of each slap, the warmth spreading through my own body and the moisture growing between my thighs. If he keeps this up, I’m going to slide off his knee. I wiggle forward, trying to prevent the inevitable.

The spanking stops and he once again rubs my bottom in soft, circular strokes. I sigh beneath the touches. I want him, but I know it isn't time yet. After he rubs me for a few moments, he reaches under the blanket and pulls out a square leather paddle. He’d hidden it beneath the covers while I went to make coffee. “What else is under there?” I ask.

“Ssshhh,” he tells me. “I’ve got you.”

The phrase wilts me. It’s what we say to each other when the other is having a hard time, or not feeling well, or even completely falling apart. These past few months, I’ve been completely falling apart. “Tell me again?” I beg.

“I’ve got you,” he tells me, holding the leather paddle against my pink bottom. I nod.

As the leather paddle falls upon my warmed backside, I realize that instead of leaning away from it, I am thrusting back towards it, meeting it mid-stroke. He realizes it as well, and increases the speed and strength. Soon my body is rocking over his thigh as I would his cock, but the spanking overtakes me as no sex could. My face feels flushed; I am dizzy. I reach forward, grabbing blanket into my palms, clutching the fabric like reins and riding the pain.

“More,” I say, and he knows what I want. He slides his leg out from under me, pushing me up onto my knees on the bed. He grabs a pillow and shoves it under my hips. He slides the senior cane out from under the blanket.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his hand traveling over the warmest parts of my bottom, now throbbing with heat, pink and tender, but nowhere near where I need to be. I nod. “Don’t forget. This is for you. I’ve got you,” he tells me again. I know it’s not just for me, but instead I say the words he wants to hear:

“Cane me, Sir. Please, please, cane me.”

The cane is our everything. It’s our way to sex, to redemption, to escape. The cane is the physical representation of the electricity between us when everything is right. It’s the reconnection when we’ve disconnected and need to find each other again. More than anything else, I trust him with the cane. More than anything else, it’s the implement he uses when he needs to tell me he loves me.

This morning, it’s the way to show each other how much we need one another. I give myself to him. He trusts his strokes to me.

Six strokes, then another twelve. Another six of the best after that. This particular morning, it was not the strokes that were important. It was that he gave them to me, and that I took them. Willingly. Wontonly. And afterwards, my thighs parted and dripping, it was that he took me as if I were the only woman on earth. Perhaps, in that moment, I was.

When we finish, I am exhausted but exhilarated.. He asks me to lie still, and he takes photographs. In between shots, he strokes my stripes. He makes me feel beautiful. The world, in this moment, is not so terrifying after all. I am strong.

I am not afraid.

A Game of Bottoms, er, Thrones

The Game of Thrones bottom that subsequently did us in last night.

I hadn't meant to be away for an entire literal moon, but even as I write, the full Pink Moon is on the rise, coming to a peak in about six hours. There were some ultimately uneventful health issues, followed by family in town, neither of which speaks to spanking, or an erotic writing frame of mind. I am sorry for the disappearance.

We watched part of the first episode of Game of Thrones last night. We are never going to get through this show if everyone keeps taking their clothes off, which, apparently, they do. I fell asleep with Mr. W's head on my bottom, stroking my thighs after bringing me to orgasm at least three times. I lost count. There was much threat of the events to come tonight, when we would both be more awake, as this all happened rather late at night.

Tonight is the Pink Moon, the first true full moon of spring. The "pink" regards the pink and violet phlox covering the ground at this time of year, not the color of the moon itself. But, I have a feeling that tonight the pink and violet of the phlox may be mirrored in my bottom. I hope to have a story to tell you soon.

(The story I mentioned on Bonnie's recent brunch is still too fresh and I haven't been able to finish it, but I plan to finish and post it this weekend. It's a more intimate OTK spanking, happening after the conclusion of the events in Boston last week. The bombing occurred right by the hotel where my high school prom was held, and where I used to spend at least a few hours every weekend during my college years.)

Another Game of Thrones Episode 1 bottom that contributed to our later giving up of watching Game of Thrones for more intimate activities.

Chaste Moon

The "chaste" version of Saturday's caning/moon

Last night was the first full moon of spring, the Chaste Moon, by one of its names. It's the last moon before the season truly flowers. The first buds are on the trees, the leaves uncurling slowly, but the spring is still shy, she hasn't reached the wild wantonness that comes with May, when my part of the world, the Grey Northwest, finally bursts into a brief time of technicolor splendor.

The bit of bottom you see above is from Saturday. Mr. W took the photo after the caning, when I'd climbed up onto the bed on my hands and knees for a different bit of play. "Stay right there," he'd said, and I suddenly heard his phone clicking away in camera mode. "I just want you to see what I'm looking at," he said hungrily, placing the screen in my view before driving into me. I was very proud, and very pleasured.

We played again on Sunday, deepening the marks at my request. I've been into pushing myself lately, and I am fortunate that Mr. W will take me as far as I want to go within reason, but keeps his head on straight so I can lose myself and he can let me feel lost, but still safe. We had a fire going in the fireplace and I was standing, leaning against a full floor to ceiling column in our living room. With each stroke I'd arch back, lifting my hands towards the ceiling, the sky. When I'd place them back on the column, it was the signal I was ready for the next stroke. By the end, I finally had the marks I've been craving, those deep red lines but with no broken skin. Just sexy and perfect. The signs that I had taken it, loved it, survived it and wanted more.

On Monday, he did some online shopping, and we have new toys showing up today and tomorrow. We had to make an agreement that we wouldn't play this week so that the canvas will be fresh for the weekend. This agreement is why the Chaste Moon is a fitting theme for Mr. W and I right now, because it's been difficult to keep our hands off each other. With the renewal of this blog, our fetish and the sexier side of our marriage were renewed as well. The problem is, spanking and sex are so intertwined for us that it's hard to have one without the other. So, chastity it is.

When I looked up the names of Wednesday's full moon (it's also the Worm Moon, the Crow Moon, the Sap Moon, and a few others), I realized writing about the Chaste Moon was perfect. I'm so much in a state of renewal and coming into my full being, but I know I'm not there yet. I am awaiting the weekend, and past that, I am waiting for more spanking experiences, more time to write, and hopefully figuring out how I can make those two things into at least a side career, or even a whole new one. I want to work on publishing some of my stories, and I have so many more to tell. But I also want to have naked pictures of my spanked bottom taken and posted here. So for now, while I figure it all out, here's to a full Chaste Moon, half an Abby Moon, plus many more stories and a new camera on the way. The phone camera just doesn't catch all the lovely stripey detail.

The "chaste" version of Sunday's caning - my most favorite marks ever, and one of the more blissful in-the-moment scenes I can remember. I just wanted more.

Target Practice

We’re getting ready to run out to Target and the grocery store. We’re both still wearing our Saturday morning clothes, a mix of pajamas and attire suitable for walking the dog. We agree we can be ready to leave the house in ten minutes.

He’s already finished changing by the time I run into the bedroom. The dog ate a hole in my jeans and I‘m not much for slacks, so my only option is tights and a skirt. He watches me as I whip my tee shirt over my head. I take off my socks, and then I unintentionally surprise him by taking my panties off as well. I just like to start with a fresh outfit from the first layer. I’m not trying to be sexy.

I start towards the hamper, panties and socks clutched in my hand. He heads me off. He tosses one of the dog’s toy out of the bedroom. She chases it. He closes the door, then pushes me face-forward against it. I brace myself by leaning against the door frame, left hand palm to the door, right hand full of panties and socks but pressed to the door as best I can manage.

He grabs the flogger from the nightstand drawer, but doesn’t use it for long. Moments later, he has a cane in his hand. “You have a hundred strokes coming to you this weekend,” he reminds me. “We can start now.”

Six strokes in, the grip of my hand gives up. My panties and socks fall to the floor. He picks up the panties and stuffs them into my mouth. I can smell the sex we had the night before. I press my forehead to the door. He continues with the cane.

Every few strokes he touches my bottom, lulling me into a sense of safety. It’s not a ruse. I am safe under his hand, under his cane. He is in tune with me, playing my bottom like his favorite instrument, one he’s played for years. He knows the meaning of each moan, sigh, and quick bend of my knees. He knows me.

At twenty-four strokes, he stops. I open my mouth and let the panties fall out. “I need to write about this,” I say. “I’m not sure that everyone knows it can be so easy. So much fun.”

He kisses me in full. “Let’s look for hooks,” he says. “I can see your hands bound together, attached to a hook that goes over the door.”

“As long as I can put my clothes on it when I’m not bound to it, I’m in,” I say.

He nods. “Of course,” he says. He swats my bottom. “Now put your clothes on. Let’s go shopping.”

Talk Dirty to Me

 I had to scroll through many images of women tied to trees and spanked to find this one. Worth the hunt!

I hadn’t wanted to go to Seattle, and had been annoyingly vocal about it. I was even tired of hearing myself whine about having to be out of the house and in a car for too long, even though I didn’t have to drive. The reason for going was good. Mr. W’s brother and his wife were in Seattle for three days for the brother’s work, but they had a few hours free before they had to go back home to Arizona on Sunday. Portland is three hours away from Seattle but obviously much farther away from Arizona, so if we wanted to see them - which we did - this was the time. We’d agreed to drive up, leaving our house at 6am to meet them around 9am for breakfast. Then we’d have a bit of time to poke around the city together before we took them to the airport. The problem was that I’ve been a homebody recently - well, always, but even more-so since 2013 arrived with a vengeance - and I just didn’t want to leave the house. I’m ashamed to say that I kept hoping the trip would be canceled.

When we crossed the Oregon-Washington border at 6:30, it was clear that trip was not going to be canceled. “I’m anxious,” I told Mr. W as we headed ever farther north. We passed a state patrolman.

“Well, you’ll need to work on staying calm, and help keep me calm as well. Did you see that state trooper? In Washington, if they pull you over, they spank the passenger.”

I started giggling and my tension finally started to ease. “If we get caught, what do you think he’ll spank me with? Hand? Belt?”

“Car antenna,” said Mr. W, referencing a line from an Eddie Murphy stand-up performance from the 80's.

I shook my head. “Ugh! No thank you! I don’t understand spanking with non-natural materials. Those plastic paddles you see sometimes? Or rubber.” I shudder to make my point. “Yuck.”

“I’ve seen some rubber paddles lately that are interesting,” said Mr. W. “I’ve been spending some time browsing for toys for your bottom. But no, I don’t like plastic either.”

My memory flashed to a spanking film I’d seen years ago where a model is late for her shoot and is spanked with a little floppy rubber paddle that turns her bright pink so quickly that it always made me wonder what one would do to my bottom, which takes so long to color or mark these days that it requires spankings multiple days in a row to get the desired effect. I blushed. “I’m curious about rubber,” I admitted.

Then we were on to other implements. We talked about some floggers he’d shown me a few weeks back, and a three-tailed tawse he’d been admiring. Before the trip began, I’d been worried about becoming uncomfortable during the long drive, but I hadn’t expected the discomfort to be the result of a conversation that was making me want to touch myself.

As we discussed the various ways Mr. W wanted to spank me, I began to squirm. I had on sheer black tights and a black knee-length skirt that had started to ride up as we drove. I started to lightly stroke the tops of my thighs, only to stop and pull my skirt back down, just to have it ride up all over. Mr. W noticed. “Go ahead. Touch yourself,” he encouraged.

“I don’t want to be a distraction to you,” I said. “If I distract you too much, the patrolman will come spank me.”

“You’ve distracted me already,” he said, his voice rough and deeper than his normal conversational tone. He was aroused as I was. “It’s not the police you have to worry about.”

The sun had been trying to rise, but it had given up. We were driving through a wooded area and it had begun to rain. There was nothing but road and trees, and with only gray sky above, the world was in black and white. I could see access roads winding up into the forest hills on the right side of the road. “I wish we had time to take one of those roads, to drive up to some secluded area, so you could spank me. I want you so much,” I confessed.

“I’d love to take you into the woods, raise your skirt and pull down your tights and panties, and turn you bright red.”

I sighed. “My bottom would be the only color in the black and white world.” I thought back to our talk of getting pulled over. “Would you use your belt on me?”

He swallowed. “Of course. But it’s raining, your bottom would be wet. The leather would smack and stick to you, sliding over you slowly, my strokes stinging that much more.”

I let my hand slide up my thigh to touch myself over my tights. We passed a big-rig truck; I removed my hand from my skirt, wondering if the driver had seen. “I want that so much,” I whispered.

We were on a tight schedule and I didn’t have a change of clothes with me. I couldn’t show up looking wet, beaten, and disheveled for a nice breakfast with his family. We didn’t take the side road, we didn’t expose my backside to the elements and wet leather, but we did talk about spanking for the rest of the drive. It was a three hour trip, and over two-thirds of it was spanking talk. We talked about spanking films, spanking me, this blog, toys we wanted, and so much more. We even imagined what the “Farm Boy Drive In,” might be after we saw a sign with no further explanation. We decided it was where farm boys could drive in and select their favorite bottoms from a row of farm girls. In my imagination, there were farmer’s daughters with red-checked blouses and tiny denim shorts,  strong farm-hand girls, their hair red and curly, their arms and legs strong but delicate, as well as a few Swiss Miss-style milk-maids, for good measure.  (I Googled it and it turns out it’s a family-style restaurant, not an open-air spanking farm. Darn.)

The long conversation has resulted in a very busy week for us. On the one hand, it has kept me from writing. On the other, I have plenty of fodder now. We’ve both been in spanking heat all week. We’ve had mornings where I’ve gone to kiss Mr. W good bye and suddenly he’s slapping at my bottom, telling me to just wait until I get home. We’ve had evenings where we meant to take a break, but the break, after we’ve tried to just have dinner and watch TV, consisted of the strap and the flogger, followed by… well, these are the other posts I need to try to write today, and over the next few days.

I am happily marked, ready for my Sunday spanking, and hoping I have time to write the rest of it down before I have even more to tell you about.

Up next...

Well, my bottom is up next on this blog, of course. Just a little note to say I'm sorry it's been nearly a week since my last post. The next one up is about a fantasy Mr. W and I shared on our recent drive to our Seattle, involving taking a little side trip along one of the forest roads, plus his belt.

I am in need of both a new camera and time, so I'm trying to find just the right image to go with the post, plus time to write it. I have the fantasy clearly in my head, but haven't had a chance to write it yet. If I don't manage it tonight, I will make time in the evening tomorrow. I'm still hoping that someday I will just manage to write spanking stories for my portion of our living, but until my co-worker chooses to work more than 50% of her assigned hours, it's hard to make time! If anyone needs a spanking it's her, but since I have such a wonderful (and patient) man to give it to me, I guess I'll take it all in her place.

More soon.

xo,
Abby