Monday, 28 December 2009
Sunday, 27 December 2009
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!
Saturday, 26 December 2009
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,
Friday, 25 December 2009
So, with no further ado, Ladies and Gentlemen...
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?”
“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.
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.
Thursday, 24 December 2009
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:
One for the naughty girl.....
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
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!
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
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.
Monday, 21 December 2009
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.
Sunday, 20 December 2009
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?
Saturday, 19 December 2009
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.
Thursday, 17 December 2009
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...
Monday, 14 December 2009
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:
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.
Sunday, 13 December 2009
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 ;-)
Friday, 11 December 2009
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.
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
Monday, 7 December 2009
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!
Sunday, 6 December 2009
"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.
Saturday, 5 December 2009
Friday, 4 December 2009
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...
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
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.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
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.