The Headmaster's Study

Eliane was nervous. She hadn't had to visit Headmaster Higgins study before, but she'd heard tales of the girls who had. On reflection, going along with EmmaJane's idea to go to the college disco in town dressed in their school uniform had probably not been the brightest decision in the world. The idea had seemed even worse when Mr Jackson, their young history teacher, spotted them in the disco, drunk and dancing with abandon in the middle of the dance stage.
And so retribution fell the next day, as they were summoned to the study. Standing outside waiting, they were tormented by two of the other pupils who were passing, and so the first thing heard by the headmaster was the voice of EmmaJane remonstrating with the other girls. This earned her a hand tawsing before anything else happened. Eliane screwed her eyes tight shut and winced as she heard the tawse slam into her friend's hands four times.
Then the head turned to them both, and began a stern lecture on their stupid behaviour. He pointed out that the school worked very hard to keep up a good reputation, that breaking bounds was bad enough, but to behave in such a manner in their school uniform was appalling. That EmmaJane should know better as she had been in trouble before. Eliane could take in very little of this lecture. Standing in the head's study, knowing she would at the very least receive a strapping, she could barely even raise her eyes to meet those of the formidable man standing in front of her.
Then the lecturing stopped, and he pulled a chair into the middle of the room. He took a seat, and Eliane wondered what he was doing. She was horrified to realise that he was going to spank her over his knee like a little girl. She was 17 and in the sixth form, not some little first year. This was mortifying. She had enough good sense not to protest though, and went over his knee. The smacks that rained down from the very start were like fire, each one stinging unbearably. All thoughts flew out of her head as she just prayed for the pain and the embarrassment to be over. Eventually she was told to get up, and was set to stand facing the wall, holding her skirt up, while EmmaJane received the same treatment. The sound of the smacks on EmmaJane's bottom was so loud that her ears were ringing.
Eventually they stopped. Eliane held onto a small hope that this might be the full extent of the punishment, but that silly notion was soon corrected when she was called over and instructed to bend over the desk. "Twelve".
The three tailed tawse slammed into her bottom twelve times, and Eliane focussed entirely on counting correctly and not moving too much. When all twelve had been dolled out she was instructed to stand and adjust her clothes. But instead of the instruction to get back and face the wall, she was ordered to stand at the side of the desk, and watch what happened to girls who appeared for a second time in the Headmaster's study.
When EmmaJane was in position, the Head informed her that he would tawse her until he felt she was sorry, and then she could start to count out the strokes. With each slap of the tawse into her friend's bottom, Eliane felt more and more upset. She tried to watch, but ended up flinching and closing her eyes as every stroke fell. She could see EmmaJane writhing and trying so hard to stay still. She desperately wanted to hold the hand that was so near to her, bring some comfort, but she did not dare move for fear of how much more retribution she would bring on their heads. Eliane had no idea of how many strokes fell before the Head informed the prone girl that she would count 18 more. The pain could be heard more and more in her friend's voice as the strokes rained down, and tears welled up in Eliane's eyes as she witnessed the punishment. Every fibre in her body was telling to interrupt, grab the strap, scream at the Head to stop hurting her friend, but her sense of self preservation prevented her. Finally, the last 18 strokes had been dealt, and the girls were standing next to each other once more. They managed to squeeze hands briefly as a last admonishment to never find themselves in such a position again was issued, and then the torment was over.

Taking A Compliment

Strange though it sounds, one of the biggest things I've learnt through spanking is how to take a compliment graciously. Well, almost graciously. I'm getting there at any rate.
Now I've always had a fairly major self image problem. Even in the days when I was, if not skinny, as I was never skinny, (too many of my father's "hearty, big boned" genes in the mix), but slimmer than I am now, I was always one of the largest in my year or group of friends. Especially when you start to hit puberty at 11 and grow into your adult body, and friends are two years behind you, it's very, very easy to get a complex about what you look like.
And, being very honest with myself, I should have a complex. I am too fat, I do need to lose weight, but I like yummy food a bit too much, and am never very good at the "not eating it" part. So ah well.
For the majority of my life, I assumed that because I did not subscribe to society norms in terms of body shape, it was impossible for anyone to find me attractive, and if they were paying me a compliment, they must be lying. (I never said I was sane, OK?)
As I've moved through adulthood, I have improved somewhat, but it's only the last couple of years that I've actually started to believe that people might be telling the truth. And of course we all know what I've started doing in the last couple of years...
Now I know that I'm not everybody's cup of tea, and that's not a problem, as a lot of people aren't my cup of tea either, but I've slowly started to realise that rather than being no one's cup of tea, I actually am some people's cup of tea. And also that "attractiveness" is not just about conventional beauty, there's other things involved in the mix. (I always knew this with regard to other people, but didn't think the same standards applied to me...)
So nowadays, if someone says I look cute in a skirt, or hot in a dress, or that my bum is gorgeous, 50% of the time, I smile graciously and say thank you. Of course, the other 50% of the time I think they are insane, blind, in need of help, or all three, but even so, it's a BIG improvement. Who knows, in another 2 years, I might be up to 75% graciousness. Yet another advancement that kink can take credit for.

Feedback Slut

So, I've always said before that I write this blog for me, and I don't really mind if people comment or not. And that still pretty much stands. Obviously it's nice if someone comments, and I love hearing from you all, but when it's my thoughts, about me, my main aim is just to get them down. Feedback is an added extra bonus. I've realised though that fiction is another thing altogether. I'm, somewhat to my shock, a TOTAL feedback slut. I think years of being told I couldn't write at school left me with something of a complex, and now, when I put something out there, my soul cries "like me, like me, validate me, like my writing" in a way it never does just for my normal ramblings. Starting to write for Winterbrook Hall has made this rather worse. You see, comments get mailed to us as soon as they appear on the site. So I'm sitting there going "My post went up three minutes ago, why hasn't anyone commented, they all must hate it!" and then go and have a mini nervous breakdown. If it's any consolation, I *hate* this newfound side of myself, as needy is not a word I'm generally cognisant of, but there we go. So, if you want to keep me from having a mini nervous breakdown, and therefore being unable to write anything at all, fiction or otherwise, you'll have to go comment on Winterbrook Hall. And, as you don't know which characters I write, and I'm not about to tell you, you'd better go and comment on all of them. Ha, see what I did there?! Of course, I could just have the email comments to my account turned off. That might work as well. I like the first plan better though.

Silly Big Grins

Written on Thursday evening:
I have a siily big grin, on my face, and it's not going away any time soon. I'm still bouncing off the walls, on a total high after this evening's caning, which happened probably getting on for four hours ago now. I don't think I've ever had a high last quite this long. Not that I'm complaining you understand...!
13 strokes, cold caning. It was 12 but I got one for moving. With three on the same place on my sit spot (evil git!). I managed to stay down for most of them, though in all fairness he was only giving me two or three at a time with big pauses until number 9, when he gave me the remaining 5 in fairly quick succession. And they were pretty hard. B+, he tells me. With A as the hardest possible. More of an "I'm going to have my eye on you, young lady" type of strength, rather than "You're for it" strength.
The mojo seems to be well and truly back. I'm never going to be a really hard player, able to take tens or even hundreds of strokes, but 13 "B+" cane strokes leaving me wanting to bounce off the walls rather than cry is pretty damn good for me. I've got wonderful welts, which I suspect I will have for a good couple of days. I LOVE having welts, sick perv that I am. That's a large portion of my enjoyment, having that soreness that lasts a good couple of days. Yummy. So yes, once again being able to play hard enough to actually LEAVE marks, is a huge deal for me.
I'm off to grin a bit more!

Answers 2

The follow on from Answers 1.
EmmaJane asked: "Ok, here's one, what are your thoughts on bondage play and being restrained?"
Gah, I'm having to think about my answers again, not fair! OK, bondage for the sake of bondage does very little for me. Just being tied up "for no reason" leaves me pretty much cold. However, I do like the thought of being restrained during spanking, and have been restrained before now, though generally for erotic spankings rather than in a role play. I would be more wary about being restrained during a role play, even though I find the idea very hot. Erotic spanking by its very nature tends to be less severe. A punishment in a role play would probably be harder, and I worry about being tied up, and less, well, in control... (I'm still working on that giving up control thing). Don't get me wrong, I have all sorts of fantasies that involve being restrained, tied down to whipping benches or tables, birched or caned or strapped, but whether I would be able to act out the "restrained" piece of these fantasies in real life is debatable. Also, my wrist phobia means that anything round my wrists has to be tied fairly loose (i.e. loose enough to come off, and in fact be more symbolic than actual restraint.) Yes, I have a wrist phobia. Yes, I know it's weird. Yes, if you know someone in real life with a wrist phobia who is female and mid thirties it's probably me. So come and tell me you read my blog, OK?
Alyx asked: "Do you think you've "evolved" to darker themes when playing because you've been doing it for awhile now and have explored the lighter themes enough? Do you think it has anything to do with your personality at all, or is it totally unrelated? Or is it maybe just what happens as people start to want to play "harder"?
Alyx, yes I think you're right that I've "evolved" to darker themes because I've been doing this for a while, but not because I've explored lighter themes enough. I still love playing lighter themes - at the end of the day I'm a wimp! I think darker themes have always been there, but time has allowed me to accept that it's actually OK to have darker fantasies as well as lighter ones. I also think that it is more natural, as you become more experienced and do want to play a bit harder sometimes, that the level of play you want lends itself more to some scenarios than others. Hard play does not always sit well in a light hearted fantasy or role play.
Lastly, is it to do with my personality? I think probably not. I don't have a huge amount of darkness in me, really. I'm quite a sunshiny person. I don't like books or movies which scare me, I prefer summer to winter. The depths and darkness of my soul are really not that deep or dark (shallow as a puddle, me). Which is somewhat of a contradiction, I realise, to what I just said about having darker fantasies. I suppose these darker fantasies are at the extreme limit of my personality. And they are a lot less extreme than for a lot of people. (The wimp thing again!)

Abel asked: You've written recently about wanting less, or less severe spankings. Do you think this is a phase, or where you've ultimately got to having explored various styles of scene?
It had *better* be a phase, is all I can say. At the end of the day, I love having marks, I love having that soreness, and you can only get that from playing fairly hard. And I enjoy playing hard (for me, not in comparison to some!), I don't want to be a wimp. I also love playing lots, and if I lived in perfect world, I would be spanked every day. So yes, it had BETTER be a phase!
Obviously, since the "Questions" post, my desire for all things spanking has started to return, and thank goodness for that. Because I would have been suing, you know. I'm not sure who, but I would be.

Lack Of Concentration

I've written about anticipation before. There is always something nice about the anticipation of a spanking or a caning. For me, especially canings. I have a love/hate relationship with canes. In all fairness, it's mostly hate, but with certain play partners, who know exactly how to push my buttons, it turns into love/hate. Never love, but there is something about the cane that will mentally arouse me like nothing else. But only outside of role play. Ironically, I'm generally better able to *take* a caning as a character, but that power to really turn me on comes when the cane is being directed at me, as myself. Bending over and offering yourself for a cane is, to my mind, one of the most submissive gestures possible. For me the type of pain brought by a cane is verging on the unbearable, getting into possible safewording territory, but there is something about the implement itself that arouses every fibre in my body.
And this is where lack of concentration comes into it. If a cane is going to make an imminent appearance in my future, I can spend hours at work day-dreaming about it. There's the stomach churning when you are told how many strokes, and you try and plead for fewer, or gentler (I ALWAYS plead. Sometimes it even works!). And then my mind wanders off, and I can practically feel myself bending over, naked from the waist down at the very least, legs spread, everything exposed, wet before anything even touches me. I can feel the cane biting in, the shock, the pain, the further arousal. So there (well in fact here!) I am,at work, ridiculously turned on, just by the mere thought of that dreaded implement.
Anticipation is a bloody wonderful thing.

Lady Francesca

I think the time has come to introduce you to Lady Francesca Aubrey, the better behaved cousin of Lady Grace Altamont, who you may already have come across. You may well see more of Lady Francesca in the weeks to come.

Twenty-two year old Lady Francesca Aubrey is the youngest daughter of Lord and Lady Aubrey of Bradenham. For the first seventeen years of her life she lived a sheltered existence at her parents' Buckinghamshire country estate. Being considerably younger than her siblings she was a lonely child, given over to the care of a series of strict nannies and governesses. They were charged with raising a biddable and accomplished young lady, but, in spite of much effort and the application of many a hairbrush, they only succeeded in making Lady Francesca accomplished in those areas that she wanted to be accomplished in, such as singing and French. Through the years, Lady Francesca has perfected her own particular type of insolence, and tends to ignore any instruction she doesn't agree with, regardless of the consequences. Due to a lack of company of her own age, she was rather shy around other people. Her world changed forever at the age of 17, with the arrival of her wild cousin, Lady Grace Altamount, sent from Ireland to be refined after a childhood spent running wild. The cousins immediately recognised in each other a kindred spirit, and became close confidantes within a matter of weeks. Upon Lady Grace's arrival, both girls were sent to London to learn the refinements and social graces expected of young ladies of their standing. They very soon realised that London was full of more delights than they ever could have imagined, and learnt how to evade their governesses and chaperones for several hours at a time. Francesca was reluctant at first, but the more ebullient Grace persuaded her to explore these delights, and she is now as keen as her cousin to make the most of all that London has to offer. Having contrived to meet Mrs Derby in a salon, they are overjoyed to receive an invitation to the party of the year, and even more delighted when Mrs Derby's generous offer to chaperone the girls is accepted by Lady Aubery, who is much taken by Mrs Derby, and her assurance that the house party will be an important step on the girls' path to advantageous marriages.

Contentment

Talking with a friend the other day, she commented on how happy I seemed, and also how settled, and she was right. For years, since I left university really, I have been a long term sufferer of "itchy feet" syndrome. Every year or so I would have a desperate desire to travel, to get away. A couple of times I was able to act on this and take big trips, a couple of times not. In 2007 I was planning to take a sabbatical in '08 or '09 and go on another big trip. I spent a good part of the past 11 years planning various big holidays, possible routes, places I wanted to visit.

Over the past few months, that need to "escape" has abated. Don't get me wrong, I still love travel. I'm off on holiday in a few weeks, I will always be planning my next trip as well, but I don't feel the need for these trips to be 6 or 8 weeks in length. I mean, if I won the lottery, sure, I'd be off like a shot (I think), but for now, there seems to be more important things to do. Spending time with friends. Buying a house. Enjoying my play. I seem to have found a sort of peace in my life. I'm not so much in that state of questing. Some of that is down to age, I think, and wisdom, and the things I have experienced in life. Even though it's several years since my Dad died, the circumstances surrounding that still teach me lessons even today, and as I grow older I can appreciate those lessons more.
What I seem to have reached is a state of contentment, and I think so much of that can be put down to my embracing of my kink. I feel like I no longer have to be searching for a place in the world. I've found it. Being able to do what I do, with the wonderful people I do it with, has brought me an inner peace, a happiness. Contentment.

How Convenient

Lunch at a rather posh hotel the other revealed the following in the gardens. Bench to spank a girl over, whipping post to tie a girl to, very nice young birch tree to harvest switches from. And all in a fairly secluded dell.
And what terrible crime might a girl commit to end up being punished in such a garden? How about stealing herbs from the herb garden. Not that I would know anything about anything like that...

Non Kinky Ranting

Sorry, this is a totally non kinky post. I just need to have a rant. At myself. Yes, I know, someone should spank me for being so hard on myself. See, there, knew it would get kinky even if only for a second.
Anyway, back to the ranting. I've just come back from food shopping. This time I made a list. I don't often make lists, but if I'm making things to a recipe and need to get the right ingredients, I take a list with me. Of course, I forgot that list making when you are dyslexic only has limited value unless you play Santa Claus and check the damn thing again and again. Needless to say, I hadn't copied the ingredients down correctly, so when I got home I realised I'd got double the amount of one ingredient, missed out four others and generally screwed up and need to go shopping again tomorrow. I know this, in the grand scheme of things, is a very little issue, and indeed my dyslexia is mild and things could be much worse, but in a way it's the very nature of its mildness that is so frustrating. It always seems as though it should be something that I should conquer, that it's not a disability, merely an imperfection that I should be able to correct. And as we all know, imperfection is something I struggle with.
OK, rant over.

Test Driving

I had a chance to test drive the new layout of the living room in the middle of last week. My play partner, who had seen both "before" and "after" nearly fainted in shock when he saw how much stuff had gone, and how the furniture was now laid out.
We started of with me on his lap on the sofa. First problem. I have two sofas and two coffee tables. I happen to have put both coffee tables, and the stuff that lives on them, at the ends of each sofa where my feet would be if being spanked by a right handed person. Cue rapid moving of a large plant on the table in question before I knocked it flying kicking my feet.

Once everything was moved, over I went and the spanking started. And finished abrubtly.
"Shit, I didn't turn any music on" I cried.
"You don't really need any on do you?"
"Yes, there's so much less stuff in here, the acoustics have changed and it sounds REALLY loud!"
SMACK
"Actually, it does. You'd better turn some music on".
I still don't think the music covered it that much, but hey, the neighbours must be totally thick not to be suspicious by now.

Now, I'd warned my playmate that I probably wasn't up for much, but after a very long hand spanking, I was still wanting more. So we moved on to the belt, and he gave about 30, which I think were fairly hard strength. Maybe not the hardest he could have given me but hard, nonetheless. One flaw with the new set up though - I no longer have anything to bend over the back of (both sofa backs are inaccessible), and only one arm is, as well, so I ended up bent over with my hands on the seat, which worked OK for the belt, but might not so much for a cane or something. (If I can "rest" my top half on something like a table or piece of furniture, I do better at not moving when being caned.)

So, the belt was finished with and we were chatting, and I said "I've never shown you my free birch, have I? Well, that was silly, wasn't it boys and girls? Ouch, really. He gave me a few, two or three maybe, and I was whimpering pathetically, so he said he'd just give me a couple more. So I stood up after two. Which ended up with a bit of an argument as to what "a couple" meant. I insisted it meant two, he insisted it was not that precise. Unfortunately for me, when I checked in the OED just now, they define a couple as "an indefinite small number". Poo. I hate being wrong. Anyway, I bent back down and took a couple more, but ouch! I was also unimpressed to find bits of birch all over my floor. And I'm STILL finding them several days later.
I was instructed to stay where I was (bent over) as I heard him go and fetch another implement. I sneaked a look and he was holding my pretty pink flogger, so I relaxed, and floated off as he started using it. The thing I truly love about the flogger is that it's just the right sort of pain for me. I *can* just submit, I don't need to fight it, I can just go with it and float away. And nothing else does that for me like a flogger does. It's not even that it has to be particularly light. It can be damn hard, and still have that same effect. So there I was, floating off, until he made me turn round, and well, let's just quietly draw a veil over the proceedings at that point.

As you may be able to tell from the above account, I think it's safe to say that my mojo is most definitnely on its way back. Yay for mojo!

Some Mind Bleach, Please!

In a comment on Graham's blog a couple of months ago, I talked about how kink in relation to my own school was a bit wrong. You can find her post here, but my comment was this:
School is a funny thing. I went to a school with huge amounts of kinky potential, and I often think about writing some stuff around it, but it just seems, well, slightly wrong! Anyone else's school is fine. My own, slightly squicky!
The other night, I had the opportunity to put this theory into practice. I was back in my old school (for real, not just in a dream), and it was worryingly similar to the place I left 15 years ago. Yes, there were a few new buildings, but the majority of things had not changed. The prefects common room, inspiration for the room in "The Blazer" story was still there. The school hall didn't look any different to when I'd last walked out of it all those years ago. Seriously. Even the curtains were the same. The stage in the hall was still there. With a lecturn. There was (the same?!) gym horse in the corner of the room that had been there in my day. The rabbit warren of buildings at the front of the school was there, with the head's study.
As I said in Graham's comments, kinking your own school is just a bit wrong, a bit squicky. So why was it then that I spent all night while I was there thinking about spankings?!
Mind bleach, please!!

Answers 1

As a follow up to my Questions post, here is an Answers post. Funny that.

Bonnie asked "What do you think the future holds for you in terms of spanking?"
That's a good one. I suppose my answer is more in terms of what I *hope* it holds for me. I hope it holds the opportunity to experience much more of everything. Many more spankings for starters. I'm also loving the role play I've done so far, and I definitely would like to do more of that, as it appeals to my inner drama queen. Well, let's be honest, she's not the "inner" really!
I hope that it continues to bring me into contact with more wonderful people, both online and in real life. I'd love to meet some of the great people whose blogs and tweets I have read. I think one of the best things I've got so far out of TTWD is a whole new circle of amazing friends.
I hope that one day I will be able to make it to one of the big American spanking parties like Shadow Lane. Or lots of them, but that might only happen if I win the lottery!
I hope I one day meet "Mr Kinky Right", if he exists... (not being much of a believer in fairy tales, I suspect he might not!)
I suppose lastly, and this is quite a strange one, I hope the future gives me more opportunities to write (fiction). It's something I've really got into over the past few weeks, after having struggled with "being creative" in that way since I was a kid. Schools are very good at stifling kids' creativity, and I can feel mine starting to blossom again, and I'm revelling in that.

Graham was greedy and asked lots ;-) The first is: "Are there any implements/scenes/adventures in spanking you have yet to try, but want to - or would at least consider?"
I think the biggie here for implements is the birch. It both terrifies me and fascinates me. During "The Time Of Wonky Kink" (Tm) over the last couple of months, I would not even have been able to think about it, but now that seems to be abating, the fascination is gradually coming back again. There are all sorts of scenes that I want to try, but one thing that half of me would never agree to, and the other half would love to do is an outdoor spanking. Though it would have to be somewhere really, really secluded. Not just on the roadside like some people ;-)

Graham again: "What are some of your hard limits?"
In terms of spanking I don't have that many hard limits. I'm not awfully keen on hand tawsing, but I will try it if it is relatively gentle. I'm OK with being spanked in most other places. Yes, including *those* places too (blushing!) if the situation or scene warrants it. One thing I don't do is face slapping. Lots of people find it hot, I don't. I also don't do gags or blindfolds. Do I have any implements that are no gos? Probably, after having experienced both of them, Sjamboks and Abel's Tyre Paddle. The Tyre Paddle was responsible for turning my inner bum cheeks BLACK with bruising. Yes. Ouch. I'll pass in future, thanks all the same!

Still Graham (I said she was greedy!) "Also, now that you are no longer new (just Newish!) to spanking, is there anything you wish you could go back and tell your newbie self? Or just any major epiphanies or words of wisdom from your more experienced vantage point?"
Gosh: Don't be scared; Go with the flow; Know what your limits are; Don't be afraid to safeword if you need too; Tops aren't mindreaders, they are going to need a little help once in a while; And if I could catch my newbie self early enough, I would ask her what the hell she was playing at, and tell her to stop bloody well hanging around, get on line immediately and start getting what she'd always wanted.

And now I'm writing this close to midnight, so I really ought to turn in. I will answer the other questions in a subsequent post. Thanks for asking them all. It's always nice to have other people asking thought provoking things.

Annoying Clothes

I'm wearing one of my favourite skirts today. It's lovely. It's also highly impractical, consisting of an opaque underskirt, covered by two full layers and one half layer of net. It's basically like a knee length tutu. (Unfortunately I'm not like a ballerina, grace not being my strong point!)
Now, I've never worn it for a spanking, but I'm very tempted to, mostly on the basis that it is the most inappropriate skirt I could possibly wear, and would probably severely annoy any top who encountered it. Which would amuse me, however briefly.
Of course, I imagine my amusement would be brief, as the easy solution to a skirt that was getting in the way would be to instruct the girl to remove said skirt with alacrity. Those few minutes of annoyance would be worth it though!
I have a couple of other skirts that come fairly high on the annoyance scale, but nothing like that one. Have anyone else got a piece of clothing that would be equally impractical when being spanked?

Responsibility

I sit here, eating my breakfast, getting ready for the day ahead. My mind should be focussed on my job and my tasks for the day, on what I need to accomplish. But it's not. Instead it flits all over the place, obsessed with spanking today in a needy and visceral way. It also wants to write, to capture feelings on paper. I can sense the beginnings of stories, darting about at the corners of my mind, just out of reach. Words and phrases that I know would become something bigger if I let them. If I captured them, and put them down on paper, they would unravel themselves to become more.
In a few minutes I will get up and go to work, and act like the responsible person that I am, but a little part of me will be dying inside, longing to be back curled up on the sofa, letting my thoughts fly free and seeing what becomes of them.
Responsibility sucks.

House Related Thoughts

Thank you all for your questions the other day. What I forgot when I asked them was that not only would I need a decent internet connection, I would also need some time to think about my answers! So in lieu of question answers, for now her are some thoughts that have occurred to me over the past week or so, whilst dealing with house stuff.

My mother, helping me clean, pulls a slipper from down the side of the sofa: "What on earth is this doing here?!" An easy enough question to answer, but not when it's your mother asking!

Rearranging the lounge furniture (again with my mother helping), I realised that her main aims were to arrange it so that there was a lot of space, and people could see the TV, etc. Mine main (unvoiced) concern was "Is this kink friendly". (I.e. are there enough locations for a girl to be bent over and thrashed!) I'm still not sure of the answer. I'll need to test drive. Any volunteers?

I need a new bed. I've had mine for 15 years. It's time for a change. However, I like my current bed. It is a pine bed, and has a head and foot that have vertical pine bars (there must be "proper" words to describe it, but I can't think of them.) It's, um, useful. For stuff. My mother thinks I should get one of those icky beds with storage underneath and a velour headboard. Yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck. Apart from being visually unappealing (to me at any rate!), there are certain practical and functional aspects missing. After all, you can't tie a girl to a velour headboard, can you?! How to explain that to my mother though? Of course, at the end of the day, it's my money, so I'll buy what I damn well like, but it's hard to explain why you are quite so adamantly opposed to something when you can't give the real reason.

That "Grown Up" Thing

Today's ramblings are inspired by EmmaJane's post the other day.
As she said, I'm a "grown up". I have owned my own house since I was 23, with all that entails. I have a responsible job (even if I occasionally spend time writing things like this during it). I have a wide circle of friends, vanilla and kinky. Some of my outside interests involve me being in a responsible position as well. I'm an organiser, and will often be the one organising holidays or trips away. All in all, I am a responsible adult, I run my own life, and most (some) of the time, I do it well. I only want your help when I ask for it, thank you very much.
However, I'm also the sort of person that can let this responsibility get on top of me. I'm fiercely independent. I'm incredibly stubborn. I will wait until one hand is grasping the ledge and I'm about to tumble down into the crevasse before I will ask for help. I can get myself to the stage where I feel like I'm drowning and life is about to overwhelm me, that I'm failing and letting people down, and am a bad person. And that's what I need to change. I need to learn to cut myself some slack, to realise that I'm not perfect, I can't please everyone, and that I'm not a fundamentally bad and evil person if I forget to send a birthday card or an email, and that it's not worth beating myself up for three days over it.

So, as EmmaJane said, I don't want you to help me run my life, thank you very much, that I can do for myself. What might help, though, is having someone point out to me once in a while, that being a little nicer to myself and a little less unforgiving of weakness would not be monumentally inappropriate.
And when I say "Point", well, you know what I mean!

Fantasies

My fantasies have always very much been of good girls who make silly mistakes and get their just desserts. They are fundamentally well behaved, and have maybe only been dealt with, by an authority figure, once or twice. These girls of my fantasies, stories and role plays are mortified by having let themselves down, and often find some sort of catharsis or forgiveness in punishment. Basically, they reflect various facets of me. I am, in most parts of my life, the good girl. If you've been reading this blog for any length of time and haven't picked up on this, then you're just not paying enough attention ;-) This is why the stories of people like Abel and Haron spoke so deeply to me when I first found them five or so years ago. The ones I discovered were often around that very theme – the good girl, justly punished.
Nowadays I find my self wanting to write about and play darker things. I haven't yet done so, but pieces of scenes flit through my head: unjust punishments, where girls are punished for things they *haven't* done, begging for mercy to those who are immune to such pleas. Bad girls who deserve all they have coming to them, in school, or prison, or the workhouse, who are not at all repentant for their crimes. Girls who push the limits to see where it will take them, who aren't afraid of the consequences.
These will be more difficult scenes for me to play or write, as the psychology is so removed from my own somewhat obsessive need to be the good girl, that it's something I'd have a hard time relating too. That's probably one of the things that makes it all the more fascinating for me though: that leap into the darker facets of character and motivation. How would a girl who didn't care react to being punished? Would she just brazen it out? Would it take longer for her to crack? Would she be less likely to give someone the “pleasure of seeing her contrition? I don't know, but I might let my mind wander and find out. (Except maybe not in work time. Maybe.)

Questions

As I don't have a huge amount of inspiration, and very little decent internet access, I thought I would be lazy and just nick ideas from other people. So, thank you Graham and Caroline for your idea:

Is there anything you've always wanted to know about Eliane but never dared to ask? (Probably not!) Anyway, here's your opportunity. Ask me a question in the comments, and when I have a half reliable internet connection again, I'll try and answer it.
For now, it's back to the land of rubbish internet for me.

The Blazer

This is what I do when I'm bored at work. Hope you enjoy...

Rosie tugged her blazer and skirt straight, walked up the narrow staircase in front of her and knocked on the door of the prefects common room at the top. Apparently it was all perfectly normal for new sixth formers to be summoned to the prefects on their first day, but that didn't stop her feeling worried. She had been nervous about changing from her local village comprehensive school to the grammar school in the neighbouring county to do her A Levels, and the nerves weren't abating any now.
The day hadn't exactly been wonderful. It had started off well, as she proudly put on the smart Sixth Form uniform, so different from her previous school, but had rapidly gone down hill. Standing in the hall after assembly, there were only three new sixth formers, adrift among all the other new pupils, mostly 11 year olds who looked shrunken inside blazers bought "with room to grow" and dwarfed by giant back packs. Eventually someone had come and rescued them and taken them off to their tutor groups, and just before lunch she had received the summons to go and see Andrew, the head boy.
Inside the prefects common room was not as daunting as she would have thought. It was a cosy room, up in the rafters of the building, furnished with sofas, a table in the middle, and desks in the corners. There was also a little kitchen area, complete with a radio. Andrew had come and opened the door to her, and offered her a coffee before motioning for her to sit down next to him on one of the sofas.
"So, Rosemary, welcome to St Jude's. It's a tradition that the head boy personally welcomes all new sixth formers, so consider yourself welcomed! Now why don't you tell me a little about yourself?"
So Rosie told him about her decision to transfer to St Jude's for Sixth Form, her hopes of going study Modern Languages at university and working with the UN eventually. In return, Andrew told her what was expected of Sixth Formers in terms of work and behaviour, and how, for any lapse in standards, for behaviour at any rate, it was the job of the head boy to administer punishment. He also explained that this punishment would likely differ from her old school, involving, as it did in more serious cases, corporal punishment. He also pointed out that if she behaved herself, she was very unlikely to end up in a situation where she was being punished. Rosie tried not to look shocked at this talk of caning. Of course she'd read it in the brochure, and it had been talked about as a method of punishment, along with detentions and litter picking, at the open evening, but it still seemed inordinately barbaric to her. She quickly put it from her mind though, as she'd always been a model pupil, and couldn't see this changing anytime soon.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Three weeks later, after school, she found herself at the bottom of the same set of stairs, waiting. The door above her opened, and Kate came down, her face tear stained. Rosie gave her a quick hug as she came level. "He said to wait for five minutes and then go up. I'm sorry..." said Kate.
After five interminable minutes, she smoothed back her ponytail, checked everything was neat, and with a ragged sigh, started to climb the stairs slowly. Her stomach was jumping ridiculously. She hoped she wasn't going to be sick. She paused on the top step to compose herself, and then knocked.
The door opened and Andrew stood there with Hannah, the head of Constable, her house. They both looked at their most severe as they beckoned her into the room. There was a desk positioned in the middle with two chairs on the far side. Hannah motioned to her to stand in front of the desk as they moved round to the other side.
"Well, this isn't a good start, is it? Punished within your first month. I think that's something of a record."
Andrew's voice dripped heavy with sarcasm. Rosie could quite cheerfully have sunk through the floor. She stared down at her feet, afraid to meet his gaze.
"Look at me", he snapped.
"I find it hard to believe what I've been told. You allow Kate Rogers and Lucy Smythson to persuade you to break off from the cross country route, halfway through the run, in total defiance of all the orders you'd been given. And then, to make matters worse, you drink alcohol with them, and arrive back at school half an hour after the last runner in an obvious state of inebriation, just when the teachers were on the verge of sending a search party for you. You are very, very lucky that the head has handed this to us to deal with, rather than expelling you all straight away.
Is that what we can expect from you in future, Rosemary? And after such an exemplary behavioural report from your previous school! We have high expectations here at St Jude's, Rosemary, and we fully expected you would be able to meet and exceed them. Were we wrong?"
Rosie was blinking rapidly trying to hold back the tears. She'd never felt as ashamed as she did at this moment, standing in front of these two people, who, in spite of the age gap or merely a year or so, seemed as intimidating as high court judges at this moment.
"No, you weren't wrong. I'm sorry. It was idiotic of me. I've always hated cross country runs, and it just seemed like a funny thing to do to hide from everyone for a while. And then there didn't seem to be anything wrong with having a little drink. We didn't mean to be so late back and get everyone worried. We just got carried away."
"Well, I think it's time to show you what happens to students who get 'carried away'" replied Andrew. "Hannah is here as a witness to ensure that nothing untoward happens, but I will be the one punishing you. I want you take off your blazer, and your skirt, and bend over this desk, facing Hannah. You are going to get six strokes of the cane."
Rosie just stood and stared. She knew it would come to this. She'd known from the minute she chose to follow Kate and Lucy during the run. The reality didn't quite seem to be sinking in though. Andrew opened up a cupboard and pulled out a thin, long cane with a crook handle. She couldn't take her eyes off it. She'd never seen one before. It looked like nothing special - not the monstrous thing she'd heard the others talking about in the common room. If anything it looked like a walking stick that needed to be given steroids.
Hannah's voice asking her why she was just standing there brought her back to the present. With trembling fingers she removed her blazer and skirt. Then she bent and stretched herself over the table, until she was face to face with Hannah's glare. Unable to look at her, she buried her head into the wood.
She heard Andrew behind her, and felt him pull her knickers up, hard, so that most of her bottom was exposed, but her modesty was intact. Something to be grateful for, she supposed. She heard a swishy noise, and then a crack. For a few seconds she didn't feel anything, and then suddenly, a fierce pain spread across her cheeks. She lept away from the desk.
"What do you think you're doing?" asked Andrew. "Get back over. We expect you to take this punishment with some dignity."
The scorn in his tone made her blush, and she got back into position quickly.
"We have high standards here, Rosemary. We want all our pupils to do well. We won't tolerate stupid, reckless behaviour, and we won't tolerate you bringing the school into disrepute. You may not be proud of being a St Jude's pupil, but we are.”
Bent over the desk, tears started to fall against the wood. She was proud to be a St Jude's girl. Even in just three weeks she had come to love the school with its atmospheric buildings and its traditions. But all thoughts flew out of her head as the next stroke bit into her flesh. She stayed down this time, and the cane fell again. She reached out her hands and clung on to the end of the desk, like a ship trying to anchor itself in stormy waters. Three more times the cane struck home, branding her with a reminder of her foolishness.
At last it was over. She followed Andrew's order to stand and get dressed, managing to keep her tears at bay. However, when she reached for her blazer, she was in for one last shock.
“I don't think so” said Andrew. “Give me your blazer. You can come back for it in a week when you've proved that you deserve to wear the symbol of St Jude's. Until then you can explain to anyone who asks precisely why you aren't wearing it.”
At this last pronouncement, the tears could be staved off no more, and started again in earnest. Her shame was complete. Not only had she been caned within three weeks of starting, but her beloved blazer, the symbol of her new school, with its attendant hopes and dreams, had been taken from her as she was deemed not fit to wear it. Unable to face the intimidating stares of Andrew and Hannah any longer, she turned and fled the room, down the narrow staircase, ignoring the waiting arms of Kate, to the back of the tennis courts where she spent the next half an hour sobbing as if her heart would break.

New Blogs

There are some new blogs on the block that I'd like to point you in the direction of:

Chris and Sparkle have moved their blogs to their own domain, and Sparkle has also changed her name to Serenity.

HH has finally started his own blog. There's only one post on there so far, but if you all head over and are very nice to him, he might write some more.

Rayne, a fellow Harry Potter fan, has a wonderfully titled blog, Mischief Managed

My lovely friend and fellow naughty girl, Scarlett De Winter, has started a blog. Prizes for those who spot the spelling mistakes, she says.

Last of all, I'd like to welcome you to Winterbrook Hall, where it's 1909 and the Hall is being prepared for the arrival of Charlotte and Lucy Middleton, two orphaned girls coming to live with their distant relative, Sir George Radcliffe. How will the girls fare? How will the house staff take to them? What else happens up and below stairs at Winterbrook? Stay tuned to find out.

High Jinx at Lowewood

As I have noted in previous posts, Jemima was feeling in a particularly mischievous mood, in time for going back to start the new school year. And so events on the first day proved this out.
I'd painted my nails the night before in various fetching shades of blue, but claims that I'd shut both sets of fingers in the car door fell on deaf ears and resulted in the loss of house points during uniform inspection in assembly. I was, however, rather glad that I had chosen not to don my "One Tough Cookie" knickers, complete with a large picture of the Cookie Monster on the rear, and had instead opted for navy knickers, albeit frilly ones.
Assembly also contained the worst piece of mischief Jemima has ever been responsible for, but more of that later.
To class, where the first lesson was etiquette, and apparently, "Let the servants do it" was not the right answer to every question posed, much to the confusion of Jemima and Sylvie, who thought it *should* be the answer.
Over the holidays, Jemima had purchased animal noise boxes (that make noises when you turn them over), and several times we managed to open our desks and set them off all simultaneously, simulated a farmyard in the classroom.
We had also been challenged by someone to call each other on our phones in class and answer. My answer of "I'm sorry, I can't talk now, I'm being shouted at", was particularly good, I'm told. As this was in RE, with the ever strict Reverend Jenkins, I'm not quite sure how I got away with that.
The last lesson before lunch was biology, with new teacher Mr Brown, and we had an interesting lesson on plant reproduction, including dissection, though being docked house points for "inappropriate wielding of scalpel" was vastly unfair.
Jemima was dealt with during the day for an incident in the school holidays: bringing the school into disrepute with excessive drunkenness. I was informed that 3 glasses of wine for ladies at dinner is plenty. Pointing out that I'd only had one and a half did not go down well with Miss Cavendish (not helped by my repeatedly calling her "Sir"!)
And so the day continued, via flavoured condoms, water, coins and paper cups and games (where Jemima's grass allergy meant that she ended up being sent back inside) to prize giving and detention.
It was deemed in end of day prize giving that despite our generally good behaviour during that day (seriously, who were they teaching?! Don't think it can have been us!) we would all be caned for our behaviour in assembly that morning.
So, now we come to Jemima's master stroke. In assembly, we sing the school hymn, the name of which I can't quite recall at the moment. Jemima's inspiration was to replace the CD of the hymn in the CD player with a CD of "The Internet is For Porn" from Avenue Q, and have half the school do the female lines, and half shout "for porn", up to the first chorus. All the girls agreed it was a master stroke, and played along. So when the time came for the "hymn", the strains of the replacement rang out and we all managed to get through with straight faces, despite the look of shock reflected on the teachers faces. The Head was not impressed, and called the school anarchist (amazingly, not Jemima) out to the front for questioning, at which point I confessed. We were told that it was obvious we were all in it together, so would all be dealt with in detention. I tried to claim I'd bullied them all into it, but he wasn't buying it.
He then said "Let's try again, shall we?" which was not quite specific enough for Jessica, who, in a stroke of utter, unplanned genius, played The Internet Is For Porn again. We were laughing a bit more this time. He then instructed us to sing without music, so Jessica started us singing "The Internet Is For Porn" AGAIN! By this point, we could barely stand up we were laughing so hard. Mr S was the only keeping even a remotely straight face. Rev J had disappeared behind his hymn sheet, which was shaking suspiciously. And so it was that we left assembly victorious, even though we knew the price would be paid later.
And so detention arrived. I was sent to Reverend Jenkins. In deference to my (Eliane's) recent offness about all things whacking related, Jemima only got 6 strokes. However, the evil so and so pointed out that every single girl in the school was now receiving the cane because of me. Ouch. That one hit home. Afterwards, sitting on the stairs, waiting to get back into the dorm, I could hear sounds of whacking reverberating around the school. And counts. Of more than six. At which point I started to feel really mortified and burst into tears. Jemima had not planned on everyone else getting more than her, when she had been the ring leader. A generous extra six from Miss Cavendish in the dorm, plus hugs all round reassuring that the joke was worth *much* more than 12 strokes, and they would do it all again in an instant, restored Jemima's equilibrium.
So, staff, were we sorry for "The Internet is For Porn"? Ahem, yes. Of course. Terribly sorry. Won't do it again. Snigger.
But as always, thanks should go to Miss Bellend and Mr S for their wonderful hospitality and hosting. They were, as always, stars, and it was a fabulous day.

Why Am I Not Allowed?

If one of my friends had subdrop, I would be there for them, I would hug them and let them cry, and think it was a perfectly natural reaction to a good scene or a good day's play. Other people's emotions don't bother me... well that sounds wrong, but what I mean is, I acknowledge their right to have emotion, to let themselves show it, and to let other people help them get through it.

The same rules don't apply to me though. Yesterday was lovely. We had a fun day of role play, which I'm sure I'll write more about when I'm more in the mood. After dinner, it hit. Suddenly I realised that the day was nearly at an end and it would soon be time to go back to reality, and all the stress and worry that entailed. I suspect I also had some PMT which won't have helped matters. All of a sudden, all I wanted to was cry. But that wasn't allowed. Jemima had cried earlier, and that was fine, that was a character. But Eliane wasn't allowed to cry. So I went upstairs to try and get a grip, and then I came back down and got on with some chores, and just tried to avoid talking to anyone for a few minutes. It all came apart though. I can't even remember what triggered it, probably someone asking if I was OK, but all of a sudden I was on the sofa in tears. Good friends came over and hugged me, and held my hand and told me it was OK, it was subdrop and all perfectly natural, but I knew it wasn't. It's fine for everyone else, but for me showing emotion equals showing weakness, and is not allowed, or at least not in public. Yup, I am in fact *that* screwed up. I feel like an idiot for having cried yesterday. I'm angry with myself. Even though I know my friends recognise the tears for what they were, and don't think I'm silly, idiotic and weak, just as I would never think that of them in the same situation, *I* still think I'm silly, idiotic and weak. I need to get a grip and damn well get on with what I need to do today. I need to stop wallowing, act like an adult.
And so I ask myself the question "Why do I afford everyone else the luxury of being able to be vulnerable, but not myself?" I don't know. Some of it will come down to the fact that I'm something of a perfectionist. Over the years I've learnt to let go of perfection when it comes to a lot of things, as I would just never get anything done. Not in myself though. If I can't be visually perfect (which I most certainly can't!) then I have to be mentally as perfect as much as possible. And showing weakness is not perfection. Everyone else is allowed to be human, just not me.

Being Jemima

It's strange, really. I've always loved acting, but until my first Lowewood day in May, I'd never really done any role play. It looks me a while to come up with a name, but during a conversation in the pub one evening, where various suggestions were being thrown around, Rebecca suggested Jemima Puddle-Duck, and lo, Jemima was born. Minus the puddle duck part, obviously! It was strange. As soon as I had the name, somehow the character was there, fully formed, within my head. I know her history, her strengths, her flaws. The fact that she's not that bothered about trying in lessons, that she can't resist making a come back, that she has that belief that you do when your 16 or 17 that the world should be fair, and get indignant when it's not. She isn't cynical or jaded. She's incredibly cheeky, and hasn't had many limits in her life, so doesn't always know when to draw the line or keep her mouth shut. She can be sulky if things aren't going her way, but she's also more than up for taking part in (or masterminding) any mischief going. She's more competitive in lessons than in games, but even then not particularly so. In short, she very quickly became real to me, somewhat to my surprise.
I think the lead up to this weekend has illustrated this particularly for me. Eliane, as you will have seen from my whinging posts, has not been much into spanking over the last few weeks, and secretly is a bit worried about tomorrow. Jemima on the other hand, is looking forward to tomorrow. It's back to school time, she will get to see friends like Caoilfhionn, Rebecca, Jessica and Sylvie again, plus other friends, and meet the new girls. For weeks she has been planning various bits of mischief to celebrate the beginning of the school year. She knows she's going to get into trouble. In fact, she knows if caught she will own up to her crimes, and pay accordingly, but that doesn't bother her. Why let the thought of a caning get in the way of an excellent plot?
So yes, Jemima is a fully formed person who I've become very fond of. Some aspects of her character are similar to mine, some aren't. She's a separate entity in many ways, even though she looks like me. And she is, dare I say it, rather out of control!

Corsets

Corsets are one of those things that every kinky girl should have, right? Well, I've resisted for the past year. I'm a big girl, with a fair amount in the breast department, and I've always thought that a corset would not be a good look on me.
I've finally given in though, and gone and bought myself one. And a confusing business it is too. There are all sorts of ones out there, and they hugely vary in cost. I've ummed and ahhed over tens of them on line, but in the end I bit the bullet and bought this one



from www.corsets-uk.com. It's pretty cheap and cheerful (£30), but I decided I wasn't about to spend double that on a nicer corset when I wasn't actually sure whether I liked wearing the things. It seems very pretty. I've not tried it on properly yet, as I don't have anyone hanging around to do the lacing, but it seems that it will look OK when it's laced up. The skirt is also incredibly cute.

So there we go. Does ownership of a corset qualify me for proper kinky girl status, or did I have that already?