Happy Christmas To Me

I got back home today to find this parcel awaiting me - one of my Christmas presents to myself: Isn't it beautiful? It's from Spankinggood.co.uk. I've been looking for a looped strap since I had one used on me by Jessica's He Who Must Be Obeyed at a club. I'm a big fan of straps anyway, generally, and looped ones seem to deliver a wonderful thuddiness while being quite easy for the top to wield. I can't wait to have someone use it on me!

How To “Cure” A Fantasy

I've always found prison-type fantasies somewhat hot. Workhouse girls, being trapped, unable to escape, at someone's mercy, powerless. Even the cold shower thing, though I protest that I can't think of anything more horrible, holds a certain appeal as something to be tried, at least once.

The last few days, however, have cured me of any notion of prison fantasies being hot. For those who have not already seen me whinging on Twitter or on here, the South East of England, where I live, has been suffering from the worst snow that we've seen... well, probably in at least 20 years. Not only is it the worst snow, but during the last 20 years, money that used to be allocated to things like gritting and snow plows is now allocated to other things. Of course, most of the time we have one or two days of snow which melts very quickly, so this is fine. It's not fine though, when we have 15 cm of snow, live in a town that is basically built on both sides of a very steep hill, and the town has no grit. Even the main roads through the town are not being properly treated, let alone the mile of hilly side roads you have to negotiate from my house to GET to the main roads. So, for six days, I've been pretty much unable to go in my car anywhere. Which in itself is not a problem. I have legs, I can walk. Well, I have legs, but for reasons far too complicated to explain, all my hiking boots and shoes with grip were not at my house over this period. They were 2 miles away. Uphill. On icy roads and pavements. So in order to walk anywhere safely without doing myself some sort of major damage, I would have needed to first walk to get my boots. So, effectively, I was trapped.

This in itself was somewhat frustrating, but I could cope. I mean, how long does snow last round here? No more than two days... (The answer to that question is, in fact, one week, and counting!)
The situation was compounded, though, on the evening of the second day of the snow when I noticed a damp patch in the house. Investigations revealed a leak in the pipes that led to my bathroom, so the tank that fed them had to be drained by a kind plumber who had walked to my house. Leaving me with just the cold kitchen tap. So I soon learnt what life was like when you were having to fill toilet cisterns from the tap to flush (believe me, you flush a lot less!) and washing in an inch of lukewarm water in the bath, having boiled the kettle six times. It is, to be honest, not that much fun. Obviously there are a lot worse things that can happen in life, but being trapped in your house with just the one cold tap makes you pretty quickly stop thinking prison or workhouse fantasies would be in any way hot!
I'm sure once these memories have faded I'll be back dreaming of workhouse thrashings and cold showers again, but just for now, no thanks!

The Round Robin Letter

Inspired by Scarlett, who obviously hates them even more than I do. Her take is much better than mine, though.


Dear, dear friends who I can't be arsed to actually visit or talk to on the phone any more, but who I'm sure are nevertheless desperately awaiting this letter to find out how wonderful my life is,

I would make some personalised comment to each and every one of you enquiring how 2009 has treated you, but quite frankly this letter is about me and not you, and I don't care that much, so I won't bother.

I've had a wonderful year, but am especially proud of some particular achievements. I have survived another whole year at work without murdering any of her colleagues, even when faced with severe provocation. But talking about work is unnecessarily boring, a lesson that a couple of you on this list could do with learning. No, Robert, I have zero desire to learn about the intricacies of your data processing job. When you tell me about it, it makes me want to hang myself. Michael – the same thing goes for sandwich making. Tales about fillings can only take you so far.

I've had many lovely holidays, and while I may not have learnt to scuba dive in the Maldives, hiked through the Andes, or studied indigenous peoples in the Amazon, I still had a jolly good time in Spain, Italy and Prague. Boring, in comparison, I know, but we can't all be over-achieving showoffs...

Of course, the real news this year is how far I've come in my kinky journey. Yes, I know some of you would really rather not know the gory details of this, but if I have to suffer your tales of you incessantly chattering, badly behaved and utterly spoilt offspring, and their mediocre accomplishments that you talk up as though they had won a Nobel Prize instead of passed a Year 1 spelling test, then you have to put up with some (let's face it, FAR LESS) unpleasant information from myself in return.

So, the year got off to a gentle start, forging new friendships. It soon kicked up pace though, with a wealth of firsts: first time being spanked in front of someone else, first (and second and third) school role play days, first kinky party, first visit to a fetish club, first birthday spanking, first visit to a foreign fetish club, first fiction blog writing, first spanking orgy hosted, first regency role play weekend, the list of firsts goes on. I've been spanked, caned, strapped, cropped, paddled, tawsed, flogged. All in all, rather a fun year. I suspect, in fact, far more fun that any of you boring lot have had.

If I'm really lucky, I will have shocked some of you so much that you won't bother writing to me or sending me any of your boring missives... If I'm really lucky.
Wishing you a smug-filled 2010,

Eliane

Tied

Here is my Christmas present to you all. A story, in part inspired by a conversation with someone. It is not in slightest bit Christmassy, for which I make no apologies. It's hard enough to write porn without trying to throw in Christmas. Maybe next year...

So, with no further ado, Ladies and Gentlemen...

"Tied"


She could feel her heart beating against the wood of the table, the adrenalin pumping through her veins. The culmination of the thoughts she'd had since he'd sent her an email that morning.
“The day that you've waited for, longed for and worried about has arrived. You will arrive at the following address at 6pm. When I let you in the door, you will undress, and go and stand in the corner of the room with your hands on your head.”

And that, apart from the address, was that. He was right. They had talked about this for ages. Cuddled up on the sofa after intense play sessions, she had admitted to him how she wanted to submit totally. Give up control. Be surprised. Now that day had come. She sort of wished he hadn't sent her the email so early on in the day. They were due to be meeting up anyway, could he not have waited until later to spring this surprise on her? She stared sightlessly at her screen, wondering, speculating. What were his plans? What was he going to do to her? Was it worth emailing him back to try and find out? She laughed at that thought. He would already be enjoying picturing her spending the day at her desk squirming and wondering. It would give him true satisfaction if she broke down and started asking details. She wasn't going to give him that pleasure!

It proved to be a long work day, especially when her colleagues had to keep calling her name to pull her back to reality in meetings, and then giving her strange looks, wondering why she was so lost in thought. Eventually, though, it was time to go. She got in the car, set the Sat Nav, and headed for the address he had given her. A house, up a side street, in the next town over from where she worked. It must be one he'd hired, or borrowed from a friend. She paused in front of the door, nervousness and excitement mingling into a heady mix. She knew she wanted this, had asked for it, but at the same time the ignorance in which he had left her about the evening's events was, well, frightening. She swallowed and knocked.

He opened the door, but did not speak – merely pointed her through a door, which, it turned out, led into a room that was fairly devoid of furniture, save for a sofa at one side, and a table in the middle. Remembering what he had said in the email, she, somewhat reluctantly, took off her clothes and put them in a neat pile, and then went and stood in the corner opposite from the door, hands on her head.

She had no idea how long it was that she was standing there until his voice whispered in her ear.

“Spread your legs. Further. Mmm, excited by this are you?”

She nodded.

“I hope you've not been in this state all day. I hope you've been concentrating on your work, and not on what was going to happen this evening? Mmm, I suspect you haven't been. Very well, follow me.”

He led her over to the table.

“Lie over it.”

She obeyed, and from behind the sofa, he produced rope, and proceeded to spread her legs and bind them to the two rear table legs, and the do the same with her arms at the front. She blushed as he was binding her. She knew that he could see anything that he wanted to. She was totally exposed, and now totally immobile, tied to the table. She rested her cheek on the cool of the wood, and tried to calm her breathing as she felt her heart beating.

She could feel his gaze on her, even though he wasn't in her sight line. And then she heard the noise. That unmistakable swish of a cane.

“I thought we'd conduct a little experiment. We both know you protest about how much you hate the cane, but we also both know just how turned on you get by it. Let's be crude: just how wet. So, I'm going to cane you, and see whether you get wetter the more you are caned, or whether there's some point at which that stops. Interesting experiment, don't you agree?”

She moaned slightly, the only sound that she could reasonably make.

“Very well. You will count the strokes, in your own time. And obviously, you may safeword if you need to.”

She drew in breath, wishing for the ordeal to be over, but hoping on the other had it would never start. Start it did though, and twelve evenly paced strokes cut into her backside. Some were harder than others, and made her gasp and wiggle, but all were just about bearable.
She could hear he had put the cane down, and then all of a sudden could feel his fingers inside her, teasing and probing.

“Hmm. Well, if anything you're even wetter than you were. My theory is proving right so far. I wonder if caning you harder will make a difference?”

As he had been talking, his finger had been gently teasing her clitoris, bringing her closer and closer to orgasm, until, just when she was close, he withdrew, leaving her craving his touch. She did not have long to ponder that thought, though, as within seconds he had picked up the cane and slammed it into her buttocks. She counted through another 12, harder this time. Longer for the count to leave her mouth, breath more ragged when it did. As the twelfth stroke hit, she could feel her body relax, knowing he would give her a rest, at least for a few minutes.

“Susie, you are dripping wet! Any explanation?”

She blushed and buried her face in the table. Her voice came muffled: “No. I don't know why. I'm not enjoying it.”

“Well, all evidence to the contrary, my dear”. Again his fingers probed. She felt the humiliation wash over her, as he took great delight in telling her just how wet she was. She genuinely couldn't understand why, either. She wasn't enjoying the experience on any conscious level. It hurt, and she knew it would probably only get worse. And yet she was turned on, she could feel that herself without him having to point it out.

Once more his hand was withdrawn. “Harder, I think, this time. Let's see if that has any effect.”

She screamed from the first stroke. Each was like a brand of fire. She managed to continue counting, knowing that if she did not, it might make things even worse. She tried desperately to move away from the source of the pain, but she was tied too firmly to the table for it to make any difference. By now tears were rolling down her face. After what seemed like an eternity, they reached 36.

Again his hand reached down. “Unbelievable... the harder I beat you, the more aroused you are...”

At this point she burst into racking sobs. She didn't understand why her body was betraying her like this. She just wanted the pain to stop. She also, though, on some level, wanted to continue, for him. By this point he had brought her to such a place in her head that she wanted to take as much as he wanted to give. His next actions reinforced that. He walked to the head of the table, bent down to her level, dried her tears and cleaned her face. He gently pushed the hair back out of her face, and touched her chin so that she was looking him in the eyes.

“I know this hurts, and I'm so proud of you for what you've taken so far. I'd like to give you twelve more. Can you deal with that?”

Unable to do more than hiccough, she looked him back in the eyes and nodded. He kissed her gently on the forehead.

“Good girl”.

He moved away from her, round towards her rear. She braced herself. The next stroke was gentle, in comparison, but on her already bruised bottom it still felt like fire. They continued to be gentle, but that didn't stop her tears from flowing. As she reached 46, he paused.
“These next two are going to be as hard as a I can make them, and they are going to be here.”

He rubbed the cane along the crease between her buttocks and her thighs. She gulped, resisting the urge to plead with him for mercy.

He gave the strokes without pause, and her screams as they hit home were almost animal like, her sobbing becoming overwhelming. And then it was over. He was untying her, holding her to him as she stood on shaking legs, crying into his chest. When the sobs had subsided and he had brushed the tears away, his hand drifted downwards. She clenched her legs together, unwilling for him to feel what she knew was there.

“Spread them” he growled in her ear.

She complied, and he looked at her and shook is head.

“And after all that, you're still soaking wet...! Truly unbelievable....”

She giggled and buried her face in his chest once more, wondering to herself how something that was so painful at the time could bring her so much pleasure.

Christmas Knickers

I am going to follow European tradition, and wish you all everything that you want for Christmas, whether that be a wonderful time with family, or a peaceful time without them! For those of you for whom this is a "first" Christmas of the wrong sort, hang on in there. It's hard, I know, but believe me that it does get a little easier as time passes.

In the spirit of gift giving, I'm giving you all a present tomorrow - a story. Completely unrelated to Christmas, but you can't have everything!

As an early Christmas present, I thought I'd share some of my more recent purchases:

CHRISTMAS KNICKERS!

One for the naughty girl.....

Who then changes her mind!

I didn't have any mistletoe, but luckily, I don't seem to need any:

Happy Christmas, everyone!

Caned In The Homeware Aisle

I seem to be showing my exhibitionist streak in my dreams. I dreamt last night that I was being caned. In Asda of all places. The homeware section, if you're interested. In fact the bedding and towelling aisle. I was a little worried about the fact that there were other shoppers around, but it seems in my dream this was not the first time I'd been caned in Asda. What was slightly more mortifying was that the person doing the caning was, at fairly frequent intervals, checking how aroused I was. In front of all the other shoppers... The funny thing was, though, that the other shoppers were paying little or no attention to the semi naked girl being caned in the middle of the bedding aisle. Maybe if it had been the produce aisle they would have been more interested?
The thing was, I really wasn't all that concerned either. Yes, I was in the middle of a supermarket. Yes, I was totally without clothes from the waist down, bent over and presumably presenting something of a sight to all the other people, and being a little mortified at being told how much I was obviously turned in, but apart from that it seemed like a normal, everyday occurrence. I hope my inner exhibitionist doesn't decide it wants to follow through on something like this in real life. For one, I'm not sure the hearts of the pensioners in my local Asda would stand it!

Ack!

I truly hate this snow. I was supposed to be having a play date tonight, and I needed it. I need the pain, I need the release, I need to submit. I've been having dark, un-Christmassy fantasies about canings, punishment, submission. More than submissions, or maybe less... about being restrained, used by someone at their leisure, flogged, strapped, anything that they want. I need that.
And it was on course to be happening as well. Until the stupid snow came. This winter wonderland in which I'm living doesn't allow for going anywhere. Even for real need, like lack of water. We have hills, we have snow, we have ice, we have no grit. So a little thing like spanking will most definitely not be happening! Which is a shame, because I need it.

Read at your own risk - no kink involved.

It's funny what you remember and what you don't. Some things from those days, seven years ago, still play in my head like they were yesterday. The actual moment, when it came, will never leave me, nor the pain and the guilty relief that came with it. I remember some of the time leading up to it. The Christmas celebration on the 18th, a day or so before he started slipping away. Sitting in the room next door, trying to get on with some work, knowing he was there, slowly being lost in a haze of morphine. I don't remember where I slept though. A couple of nights my bed was the floor downstairs. Was it all the time? I must have been there for at least a week - where was I sleeping that whole time? Did I come home at all, or was I there the whole time? Was I really working?
The strangest little details remain - excitement that "The Kids From Fame" was showing on a TV channel at 6 in the morning. The fact that we gave him dried fruits as a Christmas present. The duvet cover that was on the duvet I used. The darkness that seemed all pervading.

That darkness can still bringing it all flooding back now. Waking at 7:00am and it still not being light. That half light on these few days will still send me back there instantly. To nights of restless sleep, and the feeling that we would be caught in a twilight world on the brink of death, forever. And it will always, always bring back the guilt. The willing him to let go, to stop suffering, to die.
I wished my own father would die. And then I felt relieved when he did. That will always live with me. In some ways, seven years ago can seem like a lifetime. But in the depths of winter, on the longest day of the year, it seems like yesterday, and my sorrow is as fresh as it ever was.

There's Something About Canes

If you asked me what my top five implements were, canes wouldn't feature. In fact, I'd probably be able to do a top ten without featuring them.

And yet, there is nothing in this world that turns me on as much as being caned. I wish I knew why that was. For shear pleasure, I'd rather be on the receiving end of any number of things: straps, floggers, leather paddles, hands. But the thing that most pushes all the buttons in my head and arouses me like no other is the cane. As I said in a post a couple of weeks ago, just the thought of being caned is arousing. Even when I hate the pain I'm still aroused. And to be frank, I have no idea why. Why does this particular implement have such power over my psyche?

I wonder whether it is in part to do with my nationality. The cane is often perceived as a peculiarly English implement. While this isn't strictly true, its use was common in other countries as well, it was a staple of English school stories. And of course, English school stories were a staple of my fantasies as I was growing up. So maybe this is the root of my feelings about canes - years of reading stories where a caning was the ultimate sanction, to be feared, and the ultimate symbol of submission to someone else's will? Maybe if I had grown up in another culture, where a different implement took the place of canes, would that be the one that now had that power over my fantasies and desires?

Perverting The Furniture

My house move is occupying my thoughts far more than it probably should, given that it could all still fall through, though of course I really, really hope that it doesn't!

Regardless of the fact that I *shouldn't* be thinking about things that are not done and dusted as if they were certainties, this is exactly what I am doing. This is particularly true in regard to furniture.
As I've mentioned before, I moving into a bigger place. This means things like more furniture. And a new bed. I want a bed that has slats at both the head and the foot. You know what I mean, an iron and a wooden bed frame. Partly for aesthetic purposes, mostly because they are damn useful for tying a girl to. My current bed frame (which I've had for more years than I care to remember, since I was 17, I think - when I left home it came with me!) was bought, thinking back on it, with that thought at the back of my head, even though my kink was totally suppressed at that time.
So that's the bed. That one's fairly easy to get away with. I need to get other furniture I can pervert though. Library steps - we've already talked about them. They will be useful, for reaching my high shelves, of course. (What did you think, you perves?)
I've also been wondering about Blanket Boxes - large trunk like boxes for storing linen. I could get away with one of those, couldn't I? And the are also quite useful for girls to be draped across.

Of course, what I really want is a *proper* spanking bench. You know what I mean - one that you kneel on one bit and lay your body over the rest. I really, really want one. I even know where I might get one from, but the main problem is, how on earth do I explain that one away to the vanillas who come visiting?

So this is where you come in: I either need 1) A good way to explain away a massive spanking bench or 2) lots more suggestions for nice furniture I can buy and pervert. Thank you muchly.

Restraint

No, not mine. We all know I don't have any, especially when it comes to knickers. (For the record, I'm wearing ones with Animal from the Muppets on them today.)

No, the type of restraint I'm talking about is during spanking. I've mentioned ,probably a few times, that I've not played much with bondage/restraint during spanking, but that I would like to try it more (apart from my whole fear of things being too tight round my wrists...) I find the idea of being restrained during a spanking very hot, though also somewhat scary. The times I have been restrained have been purely for erotic spanking, not for anything harder.
Despite (or perhaps because of) my limited experience the idea of being tied down for a "proper" thrashing (caning/birching/whatever) is a fascinating one.
I have been wondering of late though, which idea is more hot. Is it the idea of being tied down and "forced" to take a punishment the more arousing, or is it in fact the idea of "willingly" submitting to the same punishment? Choosing to bend over, choosing to present oneself correctly, choosing to stay in position? I would have previously probably said that restraint is the hotter idea, but having discovered the joys of actually being submissive once in a while, I'm not sure that that's not now the hotter thought?

So what about you? To restrain or not to restrain - that is the question...

Furniture Fail

So, following on from my last post, I was inspired to actually go and look on line for library steps. This is not an item of furniture I currently posses, but I do think, given my love of books, it's something I can easily get away with as a vanilla piece of furniture with it having a delightful kinky use as well. For this inspiration, I would like to thank particular dear friends.

The thing is, though, library steps are expensive. Often over £100, which, when one is buying a new house, seems a little excessive for a piece of furniture bought pretty much for the purpose of spanking. So imagine my excitement, when , looking on a price comparison site, I saw a set for £15!

It took me a while to spot the slight issue, though:

http://www.thewonhamcollection.co.uk/shop/product.asp?ProdID=3407

Yes, that's right. They are doll's house library steps. So if I want to spank my Barbies, great, but for actual humans? Not so good. Darn.

Kinky Housewarming

In the New Year, I will, if everything goes to plan (cue immense amounts of me touching wood!) be moving to a new house! (And now cue excited squeals and jumping up and down.)
It's bigger than my current place, three bedrooms and an extra room downstairs. When I let myself, which is not that often as I'm scared of it all falling apart, I get terribly overexcited.

Of course one thing about moving to a nice big house is that there's lots more room to do kinky stuff. In my head I'm trying to plan out which room will the the "room of kink". Will it be the third bedroom (aka Study, for the vanilla visitors). Will it be the spare downstairs room? Could I get away with calling it a Library and putting a desk and library steps in there to bed girls over? Ooo, the possibilities are endless.

Naturally there will be a kinky housewarming party, as well as the vanilla one. Which will be an opportunity for me to have more of my friends round than I've ever had before for lots of kinky fun. Possibly without the dancing in the underwear bit this time.

The kinky housewarming party might take some time to organise, though, and in the meantime I will have to decide the question of who gives me my first spanking in my new house. This of course will be a momentous occasion, and a precursor for many, many spankings to come (I hope!) so it had better darn well be a good one. Maybe I should audition the candidates? Ask for a short resume, or maybe run some sort of bid process? Or, better still, maybe I should ask all my toppy friends to help, and christen every room of the house with a spanking. Without getting silly (and including the landing and downstairs loo), I believe that would make nine spankings. Obviously people could theme according to where they were in the house. I'm sure who ever got the kitchen would want to use a wooden spoon. And the bath brush in the bathroom, no doubt. So maybe the tops could also bid for their preferred room?

You know what, this started out as a deeply silly idea, but I'm starting to quite like it... I hereby open the floor to invitations. Any top who would like to take part in the bidding process, please state preferred room and implement. Eliane can be found c/o New(ish) To Spanking ;-)

Graham's Meme

1. Tell us your Kinsey rating! (That is, where you fall, approximately, on the spectrum of sexuality, with zero being "only attracted to members of the opposite sex" and six being "only attracted to members of the same sex." Follow the link for the full breakdown.):
Zille and Graham are much more interesting at 3. A year or so ago, I would have been 0. Now I'd say I'm a 1. Who knows where I will get to in time?!

2. Spanking / BDSM "type" that suits you best (switch, top, masochist, grand-master-wizard, etc.):
Bottom. Boring, I know...

3. Favourite blog / site of the moment (kinky/spanking-themed):
Totally can't choose - I love them all, so I'm going to copy Graham, and wave at Indy's Not So Submissive, a great new blog if you haven't yet encountered it.

4. Favorite non-kinky blog / site of the moment:
West End Whingers. Great theatre reviews of loads and loads of shows in London (and as I'm a total theatre whore, it's like a fix for when I can't get up to see a show. Wonder what they'll think when they see hits coming from a spanking blog...!

5. Latest spanking fantasy floating in your head:
Gosh, I don't really know. It probably varies between something similar to what I did the other day and just a really playful session involving lots of fun, laughs and all the implements I really like (belts, floggers, more floggers). My mind has not got a lot of time to be letting itself run wild at the moment, more's the pity!

6. Blogger you'd like to spank / be spanked by:
Scarily, looking at my blog roll, I've actually been spanked by quite a lot of the "potential" people on my blog roll (i.e. those who are tops or switches) is Caroline Grey's Frank an acceptable choice, even if it slightly pushes the boundaries of "blogger"?

7. Age when you lost your (consensual, adult) spanking virginity — if this has yet to happen, give us a prediction or goal!
31. Pathetic I know!

8. Favourite literary reference (excluding spanking stories!):
Yes, Graham, that is a hard one! OK, well, I think it would probably have to be any spanking references in the Chalet School books. No spanking happened at the school, but there were a fair few references to spankings that happened outside school.

9. Strangest limit:
Wrists. I have a wrist phobia. Put handcuffs on me at your peril.

10. Some Random Vanilla Trivia, in the grand tradition of memehood... Like, "what are you listening to right now," or "what's your favorite fruit," or anything similarly banal.
Listening to "the tumble drier drying my sheets". Least favourite fruit. Strawberries because they give me asthma attacks.

The Definition Of A Top

I have come up with a new definition for a (male) top. It seems to fit most of the tops I know:

Top = Bad man with flawed logic

Of course, I say that with affection, but let's face it, it's true. "Because it's Tuesday", "Because I feel like it", "Because you picked the raisins out of the trail mix", "Because the apple tree needs pruning". None of these are sensible reasons for a spanking and I'm sure there are a myriad of others you can think of, from your own encounters with those bad men and their flawed logic!

I discovered the other day though, that they have another flaw. They can't count. I have pictorial evidence.

Now everyone knows how the numbering on a dice (yes, I know it should be die. It sounds silly. So spank me.) goes: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.

This one? 1, 2, 4, 6, 8, 12... Yeah. That's how you count on a dice. Not.

For those who are wondering, the labels on dice number two (aka The Evil One) are: Cane, Tawse, Paddle, Hand, Brush, Crop.

I've only played with them once so far, and luckily rolled a two (though he wasn't looking, and believe me, I would have changed it if it had been more than that!) and paddle. I was quite tempted to try and change that one as well, but he was looking by that point!

In all seriousness though, thank you to the providers of the dice, I'm sure they will provide hours of fun. I do wish you knew how to count, though ;-)

Inconveniant Sexuality

Another great post by Graham has inspired me again.

I love my sexuality, I really do. Discovering, or rather admitting that I was kinky was like a lightbulb moment for me. Suddenly it all made sense. Sex made sense, sexuality made sense, being a woman made sense. So I would never, for one minute, be without that. It's just that sometimes, as Graham says, it can be a little inconvenient.

I love anticipation. Especially, much to my disgust, of a caning. And the anticipation is both a mental distraction and a physical one. It is very easy for someone to heighten that physical reaction with the odd well worded text. Even something as short as "12" has been known to send me both off into a dream world of distraction and inattention (not good at work), and worse still, having to rush off to somewhere, shall we say, a little more private. This makes me look like someone who has a rather unfortunate illness. And of course it has been known to happen when out with vanilla friends as well. You are there trying to behave and be straight laced, and well behaved, and all you can think about it delicious threats being leveled at you. Which makes it hard to concentrate on conversation that can seem mundane in comparison, even if it is not in reality.

So yes, in response to Graham's question, there are times when I do wish I could turn off my sexuality, just for a couple of hours. It would make the job of getting on with life and responsibility much more straightforward!

A Response To A Comment

In my post on asking for what you need, Indy made the following comment:

"It's a little ironic that you commented on EJ's post today about not being able to let go into power exchange more or less just as you describe this. To me, they're very very similar arenas, both of which fascinate me no end, and neither of which I've yet tried. I suspect my innate stubbornness would kick in, but maybe not. I suppose time will tell, and if it doesn't, that might also be telling me something!"

This made me ponder two topics. The first is Indy's comment that Emma Jane's description of power exchange and my account of my need for, and submission to, a really hard caning describe something very similar. I had said on Emma Jane's blog that I don't feel I am able to play power exchange scenes as I'm reluctant to give up that level of control. I suppose Indy is right though, what I did that night was a power exchange scene, though I still felt I had some control, as I was able to regulate the pace of the strokes by slowing down my count, or even standing up. I think some of the scenes that EJ plays involve her giving up almost total control. As she says herself, "In such cases I surrender all control and yield to their will". That would be a step or ten too far for me.

I do recognise, though, that my description of my scene the other night would seem very intense and very submissive to a lot of people, and indeed it was. Which leads me to the second part of Indy's comment, that she is not sure she could experience a scene like either EJ or I described, as her inner stubbornness would kick in. Well, as she said, she might well surprise herself. When you make a conscious decision to submit to something, it suddenly becomes really quite easy to continue through with that act of submission. This of course doesn't mean that as soon as that act of submission has finished I remain being submissive. Ha, no siree. A little illustration:

After those 22 strokes, we were sitting, talking. I marvelled at the fact that he had not given into the temptation to make the 22 a nice "round" 24. He then replied that I was in such a submissive mood, he knew that if he told me to, I would bend back over and accept two more. And that was it, all submissiveness was gone, and stubborn old me was back. I glared at him, and he did not push the question further, sensible gentleman. My point is though, that I choose to be submissive in the moment, but it is just the choice of the moment. After that it's gone, and I'm back. But sometimes actively making that choice, and letting go of that inner stubbornness brings amazing rewards.

Exhibitionism

My inner exhibitionist and I have a funny relationship In some scenarios, I am the shyest person around. I am often beaten over the head at work (metaphorically) as I'm not that fond of racing around blowing my own trumpet (metaphor, people, metaphor!) which is the acknowledged way of progressing in my organisation. I am told that I will never be truly successful unless I can start doing this more, but I am just too shy, and it pains me to do it.

On the other hand, in the right situation, I am a total exhibitionist. In groups that I feel comfortable with, I will be singing, dancing around, and generally showing off. I will be loud, sometimes obnoxious, sometimes the life and soul of the party.

One thing I have never been though, is an exhibitionist about my looks. Mostly because I'm not (by any stretch of the imagination) what one would consider classically beautiful or attractive. But this post isn't about me putting myself down. It's about how I seem to be discovering a strange delight in flaunting my bum to the world. Graham wrote a post a couple of weeks ago about posting photos (or not) of ones denuded rear. She said that "exhibitionism.... (was) a little questionable on the motivation front". And she's totally right, it is.

That doesn't seem to be stopping me, however. At first I limited my "naked bum" outing to Fetlife, which is a login only site, and cannot be accessed by anyone without a login. Of course, there's nothing stopping anyone getting a login, but there is some element of security. Then, in late September, I posted a semi-bum shot on Twitpic/Twitter for Mad For Plaid day. Today, I went further, and posted a picture of my bottom, complete with cane stripes from last night on Twitpic. And I'm going to go even further, and post it here, because, well, I thought, why the hell not? Who knows how long it will stay up? It might come down pretty soon if I freak out, but there's not exactly much there to identify me unless you are intimately acquainted with my knicker collection, in which case I probably don't care about you seeing my caned rear shots any.

So here we go. With no small amount of fanfare, my bum:

Sometimes You Need To Ask

Sometimes you need to ask for what you need. I've tried so hard not to let it all get to me this week. It's just small things, really, if I'm trying to be objective. Some personal stress, a lot of work stress, including having to work damn hard at the same time as my company was basically kicking me in the proverbials twice in as many days. But at the end of the day, none of it is major, I have friends going through much worse things in their lives.
So I've been trying to cope and smile, and put on a brave face, cover up the exhaustion. I was sort of succeeding, until this morning. I needed to leave the house at 7:30, to get in to prepare for the last day of the big meeting I was running. I woke up at 7:45. Those were some very unhappy thoughts passing through my head, when I saw the apparently switched off alarm clock. I felt so, so guilty the whole way to work. Things just kept going wrong the whole day. Most of it was not my fault, or related to my lateness, but that didn't help.

I texted a friend, basically asking for a beating for being so late. And, thank goodness, we were both free that evening. 18 strokes was decreed. (By me.) So that made my meeting even more difficult to concentrate on.
The day went by. In a haze of stress on the one hand and anticipation on the other. Eventually, it was time to go home. An hour and a half later, the fateful time had arrived.

Without very much pause at all, my trousers and knickers were off. I was told that I would be getting 18. They would be hard, and I deserved them. That I was to keep as still as I possibly could, and if I moved, I might get extras. Then he made me bend over the arm of the sofa. He kicked my legs wider and wider, until there was nothing hidden from him. He told me to lower my head, arch my back, stick my bottom out further. I took the first six without moving my feet at all. He was being kind, leaving long pauses between the strokes, letting me count in my own time, so that I had control of the pain. He knows I can't take them fast. Even so, they were hard, and hard to take. My feet were truly rooted to the floor. They could have been trees. I was determined not to move them, or my legs, in any way. To show that I could submit to this, no, that I WANTED to submit to this.
Hugs. Three more. Being told that we were halfway through, and that the next nine would be much harder, to try and make some sort of lasting impression on me. Surviving the next three without moving my feet as well.
More hugs. Being told the last six would be the hardest. That I could move as much as I wanted. But that I had better not dare swear again like I just had done on the eleventh stroke.
I think it was stroke thirteen that truly broke me. The dam broke, and the stress and worry of the past few weeks came flooding out, along with the guilt about this morning. Tears, sobs, not attractive.
Five more, after each one being reminded to present properly, but mostly staying in place. More or less. Being told I was getting one more. Taking it.
Yet more hugs, hugs being the only thing getting me through this. The dam truly breaking, sobbing in his arms. Somehow being bent over for three more (who knows why, because he felt like it, I suppose!)

So, 22. Hard. The welts are a sight to behold. But I needed it, I truly needed it. I don't think I've ever needed a punishment more. Not because of the "crime", per-se, though partly because of that, but to break through that wall and let out all the crap. And I'm lucky I had someone who I trust enough to be able to do that for me. Sometimes you just need to ask...

Introducing...

Ladies and Gentlemen,
I was not going to post this morning. Partly because posting this morning means writing this morning. Which means being late for work again. Ah well.

However, something momentous has occurred in the blogosphere, which necessitates ad-hoc posting. Anybody who reads blogs regularly must be aware of Indy. Indy is one of the world's best commenters, and there have often been cries, wherever Kinky Bloggers gather, of:
"Oooo, I love Indy's comments!"
"I'd so like to meet Indy!"
"I wish Indy would start a blog!"

In the spirit of Advent, Christmas, and the season of gift giving, she has given a gift to us:

Not So Submissive

Which is a much more appropriate title than the actual URL, which you are all free to have a little giggle over when you see it.

So head over there, show some love, and enjoy! I know I will.

Rebellion

Warning: Drivel ahead. I thought about not posting this, but sometimes drivel is usefel for me on a personal level, so please bear with me. You have been warned!

Stoicism did not used to be major character trait of mine, when it came to spanking. I was quite happy to say "owowowow" A LOT, especially if it had any effect on how hard someone was spanking me. Something has happened in recent months, though. I have a new found rebellious streak. This is most apparent when I'm role playing, though does sometimes come out at other times.
It has become quite pronounced when I am in character, though. During the Winterbrook scene we played, there was a moment when I had lied and Sir George made me say "I am a naughty little liar". As I stood there, desperate not to say the words I was being told to say, it felt like hours passed. In reality it was only probably two minutes, but the urge to just refuse to say those words and say something very rude instead, even though I knew what the consequences would be, was nearly overwhelming.

It was even more pronounced when I was playing with Sir Abel, as Lady Francesca. I was absolutely determined that I was not going to show these men that what they were doing was hurting me. I was not going to flinch, I was not going to move, I was going to keep any pain out of my voice, and keep the insolent tone in it, and if they were going to get any sort of reaction from me, they were damn well going to have to force it out of me. Luckily for me, the real life counterparts of both Sir George and Sir Abel are sensible gentlemen and didn't try to beat this insolence or rebellion out of me. Which is a good thing, as, with the mood I was in both times, I probably would have taken much more than I was fundamentally happy to take, just because in my head I was determined that no punishment would have an effect.

It's a funny head space to be in. Now that I am starting to recognise it more, it could be a great dynamic to really play around with, especially with those people who I do trust to be able to push me as far as I need to go, but not over the top. I talked a few months ago about wanting to explore scenes with characters who weren't contrite, or sorry but who were rebels. The way my play has evolved over the past month or so has not been a conscious manifestation of this desire, but it has been a manifestation nevertheless, and it's fun to play around with.

The thing is though, I'm greedy. I want something more. I'm pretty rebellious in real life too, and I get more so as I get older. On the surface of course I'm not. I am a "grown up" with my own house, a responsible (ish) job, who does community service and lives within (most of) the norms of society. So I'm not a rebel in that sense, but in the way I behave with people and in groups, I can be quite rebellious, bratty, prodding. I can be overcompetitive (though not at sport, where I know I will lose so I don't bother trying!) and this can exhibit itself even in a small battle of wills. I am, even if it sounds boastful, a clever and smart person. I always have a comeback, I can't keep my mouth shut, I find it hard to give in a lot of the time. And the reason I'm greedy is that while I love all the role play I do, I want something more, in real life. I want someone who, just once in a while, will best me in these arguments. Who will, literally, upend me and put a lid on the comebacks, and the brattiness and the rebellion, and the not being able to back down. Who will tell me that the banter has gone that one step too far. Who will call me on it. Not all the time - that would just be oppressing my natural ebullience and that's no good for me. But once in a while. Not making any sense, am I? Thought not. Oh well.

The Ultimate Spanko Painting?

A trip to London today to see a friend ended up in the National Portrait Gallery, in an attempt to escape from the rain (and boy, was it raining today: I'm still slightly damp two hours later).
Now, I have been to some of the big art galleries in the world – the Prado, the Louvre, the Musée D'Orsay, the Met in New York... but I have never made it to several of the major London galleries, despite only living 40 miles down the road. I know, I know, someone should be spanked.
Anyway, this was my first visit to the National Portrait Gallery. Some of it was great. The Tudors and Stewarts galleries were best taken with a hefty dose of irreverence, the photographic exhibition was fantastic, but it was wandering into the early 20th Century gallery that I came across the ultimate Spanko painting.

Amazing, isn't it? Now I know I'm a pervert and all that but seriously – she's standing in the corner hands on head, bottom suspiciously red. That's what the painter intended that we see, right?

The Spanko Map

Well, I was bored, and, inspired by a conversation with a friend, I created this:



View The Spanko Map in a larger map

It's a Spanko Map of the UK - complete with potential places of interest for spankos... though, let's be honest, any old cookshop with wooden spoons can be interesting for spankos!

If you can think of anywhere, in or out of the UK, let me know and I'll add it. Or I might add some more, next time I'm bored.

Obsession

My "research" over the past 18 months into the wonderful world of kink has occasionally focussed on one particular area of study - the relationship between how one is feeling and how, well, "horny" one is! A sensible assumption would be that the better one feels, the more in need of spanking one is, and for the most part this is the case. I find, however, that there is one particular exception to this rule, which has surprised me several times.
The time that I feel at my most obsessed with spanking, the most in need of being dealt with is when I'm a little bit ill. Not ill enough to be asleep all day, but not ill enough to really be doing a huge amount either. This has happened two or three times, and I'm invariably utterly desperate for a spanking. So desperate I could explode. I obsess, I spend time on line, I crave. But of course the real irony is that if someone turned up and offered me this spanking I so desperately crave, I wouldn't actually, in the reality of the "here and now", want said spanking. Because I don't really feel well enough.
Is it just me that gets like this? Stupid mind. Stupid body.

November 2009 - (Oh What A Night)!

Well, the whole weekend, actually... apologies to the Four Seasons for the title inspiration, by the way.

If you'd like to read Lady Francesca's diary of the event, look below. As for my thoughts - well, it's hard to express really. A whole 48 hours of role play? Some of the best food I've ever tasted? Regency finery? Dancing? Spanking? Saying indeed and efficacious far too much? Going from being a little scared of the servants to ringing the bell and demanding drinks with the best of them? Spending a weekend in the company of dear, dear friends, (though there were some absent who we wish could have joined us)? The fun we had in the "chaperonee" bedroom dressing and doing our hair? Having champions to protect our honour? Settling once and for all that we women are indeed the fairer and superior sex? Knowing that with some people I will forever more be able to say certain "trigger" phrases and have a bunch of ladies swoon in unison?

Can any of these recollections, which probably mean little out of context, sum up even for me the fabulousness of this past weekend? No, I don't think they can.

Suffice to say, that I would like to extend my utmost gratitude to my fellow guests for their company; to the servants for putting up with our constant demands for water (and stronger things), and for their tireless labours in the kitchen; to Chef for those amazing feasts; and last, but oh so definitely not least, to my host and hostess, Lord Fawcett and Mrs Derby, for being two of the most amazing people I know. You rock my Regency world, guys!

From The Diary Of Lady Francesca Aubrey

My carriage has finally brought me safely back home to Papa's country house. I am a little weary, but I must commit my thoughts about the weekend I have passed to my diary whilst they are still fresh.

Lord Fawcett's House Party was indeed an exhilarating experience. Mrs Derby, our chaperone, met us all after dressing on Friday night to ensure that we would do credit to her. I believe I met with her approval, and she commented very kindly on my good posture. With my dear cousin, Lady Grace, and my new friend, the Honourable Miss Dorothea Latimer, I entered the drawing room. I was delighted to be reacquainted with certain guest who I had previously met at Lord Fawcett's house in Town. I was also introduced to some new friends. My escort for dinner was Viscount Fitzwarren, a gentleman new to my acquaintance. Over a delicious meal of soused herring, hare soup and stuffed quail, the table enjoyed scintillating and witty conversation, which continued long into the evening.

As part of the weekend's entertainment, Lord Fawcett had decided to furnish each lady with a champion to protect her honour and settle any gambling debts she accrued. The champions for the ladies were decided by luck of the draw, and between you and I, my dear diary, I was a little distressed that the name drawn for my champion was a gentleman by the name of Sir Abel Cadogan, a guest about whom I heard heard not a little from my dear cousin Grace. Sir Abel is the newly appointed Chief Punishment Officer to His Majesty, a post which seems to involve overseeing the flogging of young women offenders as an alternative to gaol, a practice of which I do not approve. In addition to these duties, he has very recently been engaged by my uncle as some sort of disciplinarian to my dear cousin, who is much distressed by this development. I was to appreciate why as the weekend progressed.

The Saturday dawned bright but cold. After Kitty, the housemaid brought the morning drinks, we dressed and breakfasted. After we had breakfasted we practised some new dances for Sunday's ball, though as I was feeling a little unwell, I reposed on the sofa during some of the rehearsal. After the practice had finished, the ladies sat in the drawing room and took part in our usual feminine pursuits of embroidering and letter writing, though some took up the challenge of a game of croquet, while the remaining gentlemen gambled.

Until lunch, the day had proved most delightful, but after lunch, I was much disquieted to be taken aside by Sir Abel, who had a matter to discuss with me it seemed. He had been unimpressed with my comportment at dinner and during lunch, and, as he believed he had already wrought some changes in cousin Grace's behaviour with his techniques, he proposed to use those self-same techniques on me. I was not at all taken with this notion. I do not approve of the corporal punishment of young ladies of breeding. It is all very well and good to discipline the servants, but young ladies should be treated with all the respect and affection due to them. However, it appeared Sir Abel was not of the same opinion. He led me to his chamber, where he proceeded to subject me to the most trying ordeal. He had with him a variety of implements sent to him from abroad for testing before use in his punishment centres. He ordered me bend over the day bed and raise my dress, a most shameful position for a young lady of my station. He proceeded to beat me with all manner of things - a flogger, a martinet, a spoon made of coconut wood, a strap, a crop, a cane. I was determined, though, not to give him the satisfaction of having his theory (that discipline is most efficacious at correcting behaviour) proved right. I steeled myself to take his unkind ministrations with as much stoicism as possible, and I believe I was successful in this endeavour, though when he whipped my hands I was a little distressed. I believe my determination angered him, for he then made me remove my dress altogether, such a terrible notion for a lady such as myself, and whipped my back as he would some offender in his centre. It was most mortifying, though I did not express that sentiment to my tormentor.

Eventually, my ordeal was over and I was allowed to retire to dress for dinner. Unfortunately, the trials of the afternoon had upset my equilibrium a little, and I may have imbibed rather more champagne than was wise at the reception before dinner. To add to my unfortunate predicament, the ladies were being partnered for dinner by their champions, my champion, of course, being the architect of my disgrace and distress earlier in day. The champagne had made me silly, it must be said, and on reflection my behaviour at dinner, which involved the throwing of bread at my cousin, was inappropriate. This was not reason enough, though, for Sir Abel to drag me up from the table and spank me in front of the whole room. I was indeed embarrassed. Most upsetting however, was that I barely partook of Chef's most wonderfully prepared dinner. I believe I may be more circumspect in my drinking of pre-prandial champagne in future.

Sunday was a quieter day, though we had the delights of the ball to enjoy. I danced with Lord Dorchester, which was delightful, but unfortunately I did not manage to renew my acquaintance with Lord Plymouth, with whom I had practiced the dancing the day before. It was such a joy to see the beautiful sight of the guests gliding across the ballroom in their finery, participating in the latest dances, including, most racily, two waltzes, a new dance from the Continent!

I was most sad this morning when my carriage arrived to bring me home. The company at Lord Fawcett's country seat had indeed been of the highest calibre, and I hope I may be invited to the next House Party he holds, in order to experience such delights again.

Off to 1809

Lady Francesca is nearly ready to depart for Lord Fawcett's house party. She has packed everything. That is, she hopes she's packed everything. In an unfortunate turn of events, her lady's maid ran off with the boot boy two days ago (they were last seen absconding over the kitchen garden wall), so Lady Francesca has had to pack for herself. She nearly forgot shoes, which would have proved a little embarrassing. She has 15 pairs of underthings packed and hopes this will be sufficient. Her carriage is prepared, the horses fed and watered, she is ready for departure once she has breakfasted.

So, how will Lady Francesca fare at the house party? How will she take to those guests she has not yet met? Including Lady Cecily, about whom there are some disturbing rumours. Will she keep out of trouble? Will she please Mrs Derby, her chaperone? And, most pressing of all, will her cousin Lady Grace manage to behave, and not drag Lady Francesca into trouble?

Stay tuned to find out!

100,000?

Emma Jane blogged yesterday about receiving 100,000 hits to her blog. This post caused a couple of us to wonder what her reward should be? Maybe 100,000 spanks? But how many tops would you need to inflict 100,000 spanks?
Let's see if we can do some maths....

First of all, an assumption. Let's assume we are talking about hand spanks. I don't know for sure, but I imagine 200 hand spanks in one go is plenty for a top to dish out. It could get a little wearing on their hands otherwise.

So 100,000 / 200 = 500 tops. Wow. That's a LOT of tops.

Um, OK, change in tactic. Maybe we allow the tops implements, and then they can deliver, say, 500 strokes before tiredness sets in. This would mean 200 tops. Slightly better.

That's still an awful lot of tops, though. And, to be fair to EmmaJane, 100,000 strokes of anything, hand or implement, is an awful lot to take. Maybe we should all join in to help her out.

Oh the dilemmas... so what should be the ideal scenario:

EJ and 500 tops giving hand spankings?
EJ and 200 tops giving implement spankings?
EJ and friends sharing the spanks an d the tops between them?
Eliane shutting up and stopping stirring?

I imagine I know what EJ would prefer!

My Name Is Eliane

And I'm a Knicker Addict.

You may have already come to that conclusion. Chatting to Rebecca on line last night, and numbering the pairs I'd bought over the past few days, arriving at sixteen, I realised that I do have a problem.

I also have an excuse though, or at least an explanation. I would like to tell you HOW I became a knicker addict. The start of this explanation will actually be about shoes. My attitude to shoes explains a lot about me.

I have big feet. I've always had big feet. I have, as my mother points out, the bones of my father's side of the family. Um, not the *actual* bones, you understand, but the tendency to have a large frame, big hands, big feet. One cousin takes a UK size 14 shoe. That's a 15 in US and a 49 in EU... so yeah, my size 8/9s are really fairly sensible in comparison. (That's a 10.5/11 US and 43 EU). They are wide as well though. The upshot of all this, is that growing up, I was never able to have "pretty" shoes. When all the other girls had pretty party shoes, they never did any that were long enough/wide enough to fit me.
When I hit my early twenties, and shops cottoned on to the fact that women's feet were not all size 5, I got a bit carried away. You have to remember, I'd never had pretty shoes before. Ever. So suddenly having all this choice meant that I was free to buy all sorts of pretty shoes I wanted. Well, it would be more precise to take out the "sorts of". I just bought ALL the pretty shoes!
Eventually, as the years passed, I realised that I didn't actually have to buy every nice pair of shoes I saw that fitted me. That chances are, next time I needed a pair, there would still be lots of pretty ones for sale. But this famine to feast situation explains a lot about me.

Knickers, of course, were not quite the same situation. I didn't have some major lack of pretty knickers as a child. I just learnt about knickers the way that us girls learn about lots of things. From my mother. And the only knickers that ever used to hang on our washing line were white, beige or black cotton. With the (very) occasional more racy black silky or cream silky pair. So I grew up thinking that nice girls have black or white cotton knickers for use most of the time. I mean, I had a few slightly more racy pairs, but nice girls don't have racy knickers.

And then 18 months ago, I basically fell in love with my bottom. Which sounds a little narcissistic, so it would be more accurate to say that I fell in love with what my bottom stands for. Loved objects need to be respected, and dressed in appropriate wear. So I started buying cute knickers. Lacy ones. Silky ones. Frilly ones. Slogan ones. All the pretty knickers in existence, to make up for lost time. I just kept ON buying. And buying. And buying. Until I reached the point that even I realised that purchasing 16 pairs of knickers in one weekend is excessive.

So yes, My name is Eliane, and I'm a knicker addict. I'm not quite sure where I go from here, but I'm sure I once read that admitting you have a problem is the first step on the road to recovery.

Trapped In The Primark Knicker Department

I've always avoided Primark up till now. For those of you in the US, Primark is a clothing retailer in Europe with a reputation for selling clothing at stupidly cheap prices. I tend to avoid going there because the shop floor generally looks as though someone has vomited the stock all over it.
However, today, in the quest for some last few bits and pieces for Lord Fawcett's House Party next weekend, I ended up in my local branch today. And somehow worked my way back to the knicker department. Which did indeed look as though someone had vomited knickers all over the place. But my, what knickers...! I'm a fan of specific types of knickers in particular. Ruffled ones I love, and slogan ones, with slogans on the bum.
In an unfortunate turn of events, I somehow got trapped in the knicker section, and the staff would not let me leave until I'd made some purchases.* Which is how, in a quest for hair clips, I actually walked out of the store with: black ruffle knickers with pink spots. Pink ruffle knickers, dark pink ruffle knickers with a tartan front, blue and white stripey ruffle knickers, knickers with two cartoon cows on the bum, and, best of all, three pairs of knickers with slogans on the bum: Show Off, Cheeky and Bad Girl. All for the grand total of £10.80. Or £1.35 a pair...
Oh my. I'm in knicker heaven. So I'm going to go off and sit and look at my new purchases now. And wonder quite where I'm going to put them.

*This particular piece of the story may be an exaggeration/excuse on my part, rather than, well, the truth!

What's So Important About The Truth, Anyway?

During my role play with my fellow Winterbrook writers last weekend, Sir George told Lucy that she seemed to have a “somewhat fluid relationship with the truth.” Now in all fairness, I think this probably is true of our Miss Middleton. Untruths fly rather easily out of her mouth, albeit unsuccessfully. (“What did you just write?” “Nothing” “Then what's that word on the piece of paper?!” “Um...”)
Untruths also seem to out of Jemima's mouth, in a fairly similar way. She will quite happily barefacedly (is that a word?) deny her actions, even when the evidence of said actions is there for everyone to see.
This is all fine. After all, both Lucy and Jemima are role play characters, they are not real people, they are not me. I don't have a “somewhat fluid relationship with the truth”.

Or so I thought. On Sunday, I was at the delightful Jessica's house. I happened to be sitting in front of their “implement drawer”, which should probably actually be christened “drawer of pain”. Some lovely young lady or other, I forget who, was getting dealt with, when Jessica's HWMBO asked one of us to pass some evil tool of doom from the drawer. At which point I put my foot in front of the drawer and blocked anybody's access to it. All well and good, but when questioned, I immediately denied any ill intent, and claimed that I was merely resting my foot on the table. Which leads me to believe that maybe this ability to lie without a second thought is not just confined to my characters... eek!

At this point I'd like to point out that I'm generally a very truthful person. For anything “real life”, I always tell the truth. It's just in these spanking type situations, my bottom seems to take control of my mouth. There seems to be a direct link from said bottom to said mouth that bypasses my brain when there is any possibility of a spanking. Being kind to myself, I will call it a self preservation instinct. My bottom does everything in its power to avoid a spanking without realising that it might (is always?) be making the situation worse. Needless to say, I did receive a spanking for blocking the drawer and then lying about it. Stupid bottom. So yes, if anyone witness me telling a lie to avoid a spanking, please feel free to beat the tendency out of me! Because at the end of the day, the truth is quite important.

Weekend Vignettes

It was, as predicted, a rather out of hand weekend. Bigger posts will be coming but for now, here are some vignettes, to give you a flavour.

Quote of the weekend, from EmmaJane, sitting in my car waiting at the station for a friend, after our Winterbrook play date:
“You know, my bum is still radiating heat from that caning.”
“Um, EJ, you do know that you've got the heated seat on, don't you?!”

The party I hosted on Saturday is somewhat of a blur, to be honest. This may be to do with the fact that someone spiked my glass with Champagne. I do remember that my beautiful Italian wooden spoon died a horrible death on EmmaJane's bum. I did get to experience it though, earlier in the evening, when said guilty rear's owner used it on me, as a fitting punishment for spending too much money on holiday. She gave me 14 strokes as it cost 14 euro. (Well, sort of cost 14 euro), so yes, I got to feel it. She very naughtily broke it later on though. She would claim that Jessica was the one who did the breaking, as she was the spanker. I, of course, know better.

I know I got spanked. I think I remember being pulled over someone's lap. No idea why, and only a vague idea who... I also do remember somebody spanking me as I was on the bed, and rolling away quite a lot because it hurt. Again, no real recollection who it was that was doing the spanking! If anyone wants to enlighten me, I'd be awfully grateful.

I had another little spanking mishap myself, at my party. Someone was bent over on the sofa (don't ask who, this is not me being discreet, I can't remember for the life of me), and I decided that I was going to have have another attempt at becoming a spanker. So, I pulled back my hand, ready to let rip. And smacked it RIGHT into someone's foot. It hurt. A lot. This time I really am giving up trying.

An Out Of Hand Weekend

I have a rather insane weekend, this weekend. Four different events, only one of them vanilla, various people staying over, catering for large numbers (large for me, 'kay? I'm no Nigella Lawson!) Where I have to be and when I have to be there is planned somewhat like a military operation. As I write this, I'm making it all sound like it's some sort of hassle, which it's not at all. Apart from a certain amount of logistical stress, I've been excited about it for weeks. The desserts are prepared (and people even vaguely contemplating weight loss will be warned off the tray bake which probably has any sane person's daily calorie intake in one slice), the house is clean, the fizz to get the advance part drunk before the other guests arrive is chilling. As is the rest of the alcohol. The house is clean, the beds are made, the maximum amount of space possible has been created in my lounge. But one question remains:

What state will my bottom be in by the end of the weekend?

It sounds like an obvious question: three kinky events = one sore bottom. But, this could go one of two ways. I will definitely get a sore bum at one event, a play date with my fellow Winterbrook authors, but what about the other two parties? Well, who knows at my own - after all I will be trying to be the perfect (drunk!) hostess, and people may not want to spank the hostess. Spanking the hostess surely brings a risk that she will deny you access to food and drink?! Or possibly NOT spanking the hostess brings that risk.
As for the other event, well, I tend to be on my best behaviour in big groups, partly through my innate shyness (don't all laugh at once, I AM shy, I just hide it well!), and partly through my innate goodness (I *said* stop laughing!) This means the likelihood of whacking is low.

So, as I said, an out of hand weekend. I will certainly have a sore head by Monday. I imagine exhaustion is on the cards as well. But will I have a sore bum? Well, you'll just have to stay tuned to find out!

Sorry, Couldn't Resist...

Headline in the Telegraph Education section today:

No paddling on school trips, children told

It is, very prosaically, about paddling (in the water!) on school trips being banned because of health and safety legislation. But of course my mind leapt to somewhat different scenarios as I read the title...

And yes, I was reading the Telegraph. So spank me.

His Brat

I'd been teasing him over text all day, calling him senile when he said he'd had to go back home to get his wallet, mocking him when his text came through badly spelt, generally being a cheeky sod. So it was no surprise when I got a text during the afternoon saying "Heather, you are in trouble young lady. You've been asking for it all day and you're going to get it when I get my hands on you this evening."
It still sent a thrill through me though. I'm something of a brat by nature, and I love just pushing and pushing until I cross that line. Until I get that response that reigns me in, makes my stomach plummet in a wonderful way, and my mind fills with thoughts of what's in store for me. Yum.

I heard his key in the door as I was cooking the pasta. My stomach did another little flip. Would I even be allowed to finish making dinner, I wondered, a little smile playing on my lips. His arms snaking round my waist a minute later gave me the answer.
"Turn it off", he growled in my ear. I protested that the pasta would be ruined if I did, but his response was to give me a hearty smack and then reach over and turn off the gas himself.
"You're going to find out why you shouldn't spend all day teasing me quite so much, you little brat". The words sounded harsh, but I could hear the smile in his voice.
He spun me round to face him, and looked me in the eyes. "Are you going to be a good girl while I spank you?" I blew a raspberry at him. All he needed to know really.
He ordered me into the corner in the living room, with my hands on my head. I behaved for a couple of minutes, but I soon got bored. As I stood there, I extended the middle finger of my right hand, and gave him the finger. I wasn't sure whether he was watching me or not, but soon found out, when he grabbed that arm, and pulled me over to the sofa. He sat down and stood me in front of him, looking up at me while he unbuttoned my jeans.
“So, brat, you think being cheeky to me all day is a good use of your time at work? Or at all respectful?”
I giggled, as he took my arm and pulled me over his lap. There was no pause before he started spanking away with his hand. Some of my friends think that hand spankings are wimpy. They've obviously never experienced Tom's hand, which should probably be a registered weapon. And he wasn't holding back either. Again and again his hand rained into my bum cheeks, building up the burn. I struggled and kicked. After a few minutes, it could have been five, it could have been twenty, he made me stand up, jeans pooled round my ankles, as he took off his belt. He nodded at the sofa. I knew what to do, but ignored him.
“Heather...” The warning was quiet, but a warning even so. Not being entirely stupid, I bent over and put my had on the seat of the sofa. There was a whistle through the air and my breath was snatched away as the belt hit home. There's something about the weight of Tom's belt as it falls into me that I find sublime. It hurts, sure, but for some reason it's the one implement that will have me really offering up my bottom for more and more and more. It's irresistible.
He stopped eventually, and pushed my knickers down and pushed both them and my jeans off my feet. Then he took my arm and pulled me back over his lap. He slapped his hand right across my cheeks.
“Spread your legs.”
I demurred. A girl has to put a show of resistance, doesn't she? He slapped my thighs, higher and higher, sharper and sharper till I gave in. Like I really was going to resist for long... I relaxed as his hand started to caress, dropping lower and dipping into my cleft, which had been soaking wet for quite a while. I lay happily with my head resting on the sofa, giving in to his touch... delicious. If this was what the outcome of being his brat was, I wasn't about to stop any time soon.