All I Want For Christmas...

I know some of you may not believe me, but underneath all my cheekiness, I'm really a good girl. Deep down. Of course, I do stupid things occasionally, I think horrible thoughts about people, rage when the car in front of me is doing 30mph in a 60mph zone, skive when I should be working. So no, I'm not perfect, but I am generally a good girl.

So what I want for Christmas right now, more than anything else at this precise second, to be honest, is a lovely, long good girl spanking. You know the sort... starting off resting comfortably on a bed or sofa, over someones lap. A nice, slow, long warm up, starting off gently, gradually building up. With a hand only, obviously. Just to make it clear, wooden things should never, ever be involved in warm ups. Especially not good girl ones.

Then maybe moving to the arm of the sofa or the end of the bed. Somewhere where I'm comfortable. And toys can come out now, but only the ones I like. My doubled over strap. My thuddy flogger. Maybe when I'm really warmed up and relaxing into the pain, a slightly stingy belt. Or maybe that flogger could move onto my back, as I float off into a dreamy haze.

Of course, this is a good girl spanking, so there won't be any toys that I don't like. No wooden things. No tawses. Certainly no canes. Just deliciously yummy good girl spanking goodness.
Mmm... ah well, it's nice to dream :-)

So, before I drift off into a reverie of having the perfect spanking, I will take this opportunity to wish you all a very happy Christmas, and I hope you all get everything you deserve. After all, if we all get what we deserve, I'll certainly get that lovely spanking!

Happy Christmas!

Spankable

I have been told on more than one occasion that I am very spankable. It's a compliment that I'm proud of. Though the fact that the sentiment of “I find that I am very much wanting to hit your behind with things that will hurt” is considered a compliment in our neck of the woods probably says something. I'm not quite sure what, though!

Anyway, wandering back towards the point, the fact is that “spankable” is a compliment, and it's one that I'm happy to receive, but it does lead me to ponder the question, what is “spankable”?
Why is someone considered “spankable”... is it beauty? Attractiveness? Is it because of their bottom? Their wit? Because they enjoy it?

I certainly don't think it's just about body type – after all there are some people who seem to find both myself and Emma Jane spankable, and you can't get more different than us, physically. But if not body type, then what? Maybe with me it's just that I'm so darn cheeky? But then there's other people I know who are considered just as spankable, but are not in the slightest bit cheeky.

Maybe it's as simple an answer is that it varies for everyone, and there's no “right” answer? What do you think – what, to you, makes someone spankable?

My Mouth

My mouth gets me into trouble. A lot. I think a lot of people who meet me at parties probably think I'm that horrible thing, a brat, constantly teasing and annoying people to get attention, to get a spanking. In general, nothing could be further from the truth.

Last night I was at a party, where I had a lovely time, but I wasn't particularly in the mood for play, and would have been perfectly content if I hadn't been spanked all night. I knew that for various reasons it was likely that my pain tolerance would be pretty low, yet another reason why sitting in a corner chatting would have been fine.

I have a problem though, in that I genuinely can't stop being cheeky. There are certain people who, for want of a better word, provoke me, and in conversations with them, I just can't resist the opportunity to deliver a snappy comeback of some sort. Sometimes even as the words are coming out of my mouth I know it's going to land me in trouble, quite often trouble I don't even really want.
The worst thing is that, not only do I seem to have a problem keeping my mouth shut in the first place, I also seem to have major issues with the concept of learning from my mistakes.

As a perfect example, someone took it into their head to beat me and a lovely friend for talking with our mouths full. After he'd finished, I was asked if I had anything to say. Being quite ready to have the spanking over and done with, an appropriate response was forming in my head, but before it had chance to make it to my vocal chords, something else had taken over and said “Yeah. Can I have my bread back now?!” Even as the words were coming out of my mouth I was trying to bite them back. I'm sure you can all guess what happened next. And that was about the third time something similar had happened in one evening. At one point I was seriously considering just not talking for the rest of the night, which seemed to be the only way to keep myself out of trouble.

So next time you see a girl at a party constantly opening her mouth, saying cheeky things and getting into trouble, spare her a thought. It may well be that she really isn't doing it to brat her way into a spanking. It may well be that she just can't help it.

Watching

I'm not a huge voyeur. Well, that's not entirely true. I can watch spankings that are fairly tame. I can even watch most implements being used, again especially if it's not too hard, and enjoy it, albeit in a somewhat clinical way. I can't watch canings, or other severe punishments, and it's even worse when it's my friends being punished. As several who have seen me watch other people being caned can attest, I'm generally looking for a pillow to bury my face in. In the absence of a pillow, any handy shoulder will do.

Watching isn't quite such an issue when I'm being whacked, but I will generally make sure that if I can see any shadows of arms falling, I close my eyes. It would, however, be disingenuous of me to say that there are never occasions when I don't have the "opportunity" to watch what is going on. Bottoms are not the only places that can be spanked. There's hands, and um, other places.

I think I've only been whacked on my hands once, maybe twice. It hurts. A lot. I tried very hard not to watch. I've also been spanked in other places a few times. I also try very hard not to watch. Looking directly into the eyes of someone who is setting out to cause you pain in your most vulnerable places is a very hard thing to do. Eye contact like that is embarrassing. It's intense. Given any sort of choice, I will hide my hide my head in pillows, cushions, my hands, whatever is around.

But being forced to watch, to keep your hands by your sides, to maintain eye contact as the stroke falls, and you cry out in pain. That's excruciating. And embarrassing. And incredibly hot.

The Doorbell

Half my implements are under one sofa.
Half are under the other.
My knickers are under the second sofa.
My heart is still racing.
Oh, and I can't sit down.

The last bit probably would have happened anyway, but the other four wouldn't have done.

There are few things more likely to induce panic than the doorbell ringing when you are standing in the middle of the living room with your dress round your middle, no knickers, a set of extremely painful cane stripes on your bottom, with your implements and underwear spread across the room.

"Is it my mother? Is it a friend? Will they go away if I just ignore them? Will they think I'm not in? Will the car in the drive and the lights on give it away? Oh sh*t, oh sh*t, oh sh*t, there's really incriminating stuff all over the floor.., Help!"

90 seconds later, everything, including my knickers, and been kicked under the sofas, and I ventured towards the door, head full of reasons to explain away the strange man sitting on my sofa.

Turns out it was someone coming to read my meters. Panicking unnecessary. Luckily, they won't want to read the meters again for a while, as I have no desire to have a repeat of that feeling any time soon!

It Gets Into Your Head

I promise Jemima will get to have her say soon, but I just wanted to interrupt for a minute to recount something which I think shows just how much extended role play can get into your head.

On the last day of Finishing School, we were in the middle of the afternoon, taking afternoon tea in the music room, when the three of us who were supposed to be flying home that night got called out, and told that due to the snowy conditions, and known road closures, we would be leaving in 30 minutes, rather than the 2h30 minutes that had originally been the plan. This meant that we had to drop out of role immediately to go and pack.

Thus it was Eliane and not Jemima who rushed back into the music room to pick something up. In my head I had pretty much straight away dropped out of character to enable myself to deal with the practicalities of quick packing, and the worry of the drive to the airport (though in the capable hands of Zille's heroic husband, I didn't need to worry at all).

So it was practical, sensible me going into that room, in a rush, not dizzy, silly Jemima. But as I ran through the room over to a table to pick something up, it felt so terribly, terribly wrong. Running through rooms in Mrs Darling's Academy? In front of the guests? I know it sounds silly, but it really did feel as though I was committing some major and severe offence. It really is amazing how in the course of less than 48 hours, I had started inhabiting my role and the situation so fully that something that wouldn't make me even pause for a second normally felt so alien and naughty.

Of course, this didn't stop me coming back downstairs, out of my uniform, ready to head off, in a Little Miss Bad Tshirt, and Little Miss Bossy knickers, which I proceeded to show to everyone! What can I say? Jemima made me do it.

Eliane At Finishing School

Sometimes I wonder how I manage to lead such a wonderfully charmed life. I have already had several mind blowing play experiences: Lowewood days that I have giggled my way through like a giddy school girl; the dramatic, but beautifully elegant contrast that was the Regency House Party; delightful weekends away and parties with friends; trips abroad to meet like minded people. All of this in the space of just under three years since I first came out, and in reality more like 18 months.

And now I have yet another amazing experience to mull over. A weekend finishing school, led by the esteemed Miss Darling and the wonderfully formidable Miss Hammond-Grant. I think I've probably developed a wee crush on these two lovely ladies, who alternated between scaring poor Jemima silly(ish) and taking every situation in their stride with a twinkle in their eyes.

Jemima will of course be having her say about Finishing School, but in the meantime, Eliane would like to say a thank you from the heart to Lucy and Amy for the most wonderful education a lady could have! I had a fantastic time, got the opportunity to meet several people that I've wanted to renew my acquaintance with, several that I've seen far too little of lately, and several that I was privileged to meet for the very first time.

Jemima may have been the one who was being finished (off?) but I took away some very useful lessons:

• To always count the steps before going down them (courtesy of a little incident in the kitchen on the first night)
• That I am, in fact, also allergic to raspberries as well as strawberries.
• That Mac make up is a wonderful thing.
• That mojitos are also wonderful. Especially now I know how to make them.
• That there are, surprisingly, people out there who are even more adept at keeping on digging
• when they find themselves in a hole than me. Which is impressive.

So, to the Tutors, the bachelors, and my fellow young ladies, you were all wonderful.

Thank you.

Jemima Writes To A Friend

Dear Emily,
You won't bloody well believe what my grandmother's gone and done now. You know I said I was going to visit you next during next weekend's exeat? Well that's all out the window now. She's sending me off to some finishing school. She says that “while Miss Marwood and Miss Cavendish, my etiquette teachers at Lowewood have done a wonderful job with raw material, she thinks I need to spend a period of time purely focussed on the business of being a young lady without any academic hindrances.” I mean seriously, what planet it she from??
So yeah, instead of getting to spend the weekend with you having fun, I'm being shipped off to the middle of nowhere to be “finished off”. Too bloody right it'll finish me off. Not only is it a finishing school, but it's one that uses “traditional discipline”, yes, just like Lowewood. You don't do what they want, they whack you... lovely, eh? And you can guarantee I'll get my share of whackings, just like Lowewood. It's not like I try to misbehave even, it just happens!
And do you know what the worst thing is? I have to pretend to be thrilled by this “wonderful opportunity.” This place, can't even remember it's name, is apparently THE finishing school, and I'm very lucky to have been accepted, as everyone wants to go there. So I have to pretend to be all happy and write polite notes saying how wonderful it is that I'm going. Ugh.
I suppose it could be worse. My friend Caoilfhionn is going as well. I've told you about her, right? She's great fun, even she can be a bit good at times. Anyway, at least I'll know someone, and hopefully we can have some fun among all the “ladylike” stuff.
I hope you have a bloody great weekend, and if I survive, I'll write to you and tell you all about it!
Luv ya loads,
Jem
xx

The Show That Ate My Life

Kink has been a little absent from my life over the last month. This is because I'm in what I now know as The Show That Ate My Life. We were rehearsing three nights a week before I went on holiday, since I came back we've been rehearsing four or five nights a week. That, plus working pretty much equals no life. No life equals no kink. The show is also the reason why Lady Francesca did not visit Fawcett Hall this year, and why Eliane will not be going to the Shamrock Spanking Society party in Ireland. So yeah, this show has eaten my life, both vanilla and kinky.

Despite being trapped in my kink free desert, there is one little fantasy that keeps rearing its head. I would LOVE to go on stage with a fresh set of cane stripes. The idea of going to the theatre having just been caned, welts throbbing on my bottom, is very hot. We share communal dressing rooms, and there will be 10 or so ladies in there. It's rather exciting to think that I could be there with my several costume changes, having to hide the stripes from people. Of course, I don't actually have the time to get the nice fresh stripes, but it doesn't stop it being a nice thought to keep myself going over the next couple of weeks.

Drop

A conversation the other day led me to ponder the nature of "drop". It's sort of an accepted part of what we do, but it's not often something we talk about, or at least that I remember having many conversations about.
As I've talked about before, I always used to think that I couldn't "get" drop, as I didn't seem to get those endorphin highs that some people have, and drop was all about the come down from the endorphin high.

Over time I've realised that whether or not I experience an endorphin high (and that question is still open to debate) I most certainly do experience drop after playing. For me it's very much an emotional reaction, and can vary from feeling a bit down the day after I've played, to full blown emotional meltdown, tears, depression, the works. It's generally linked to the intensity of a scene - the more intense something is, the worse the drop, and things like weekend role plays or weekends away with friends have the biggest effect. I become very emotionally vulnerable when it's over, and I'm "coming down" from all my fun. And I may well stay like that for a good couple of days. Being able to distract myself with other things will sometimes help, though not always. In a Harry Potter dementor sort of a way chocolate helps. Talking through experiences with friends who shared them also helps, but isn't always possible. Sometimes I just need to go with it and wallow.

For me, nasty though it is, drop is the price I pay for the fun I have, and it's a price that I'm willing to pay. At least for now. Who knows, I may decide in the future that I can't cope with the aftermath anymore.

I'm interested to hear what other people think about drop, (and I fully acknowledge that it's not just a phenomenon that affects bottoms, tops get drop too). Do you suffer from drop? Is it an acceptable price to pay? How much is too much? Does experiencing drop afterwards take away from the enjoyment of playing in the first place? What do you do to combat the drop? Feel free to share your thoughts.

What I Did On My Holidays

Well, to be honest, I didn't do much at all. I read lots and swam lots, and slept lots. And that's about it. One day I did do something, which was to go to La Granja, a country estate in the hills, which still has the large Hacienda style house open to the public, and dressed in a turn of the century (as in 19th/20th!) style.

It's nice to know that even abroad, there were proper measures in places for keeping the young ladies of the house is order:

The carpet beaters hanging ready for the maids who have done the ironing wrong.

The wooden spoons displayed on the wall to remind the kitchen girls to keep their minds on the job.

And any suggestions as to what this is on the bed, would be welcome!

Loving The Lurkers

As it's Love Our Lurkers Day V, the tradition started by Bonnie where we invite people who may lurk in the background to come out of the blog closet and say hi.

Given that my poor blog is sorely neglected at the moment, I probably haven't got any lurkers, or indeed readers left, but if you are out there, and fancy saying hi (and you can say just that if you want!) I'd love to hear from you.

You never know what you can start from saying hi. I have my wonderful group of friends today because I said hi on a blog.

So if you do happen to have dropped by, give me a wave. You never know, it might even give me the kick up the pants I need to write another post!

Eliane

Sunshine

It's not like I'm updating enough at the moment for my absence to make the slightest difference to anything, but I thought that I'd take a few minutes to gloat about the fact that I will not be posting for the next week as I'll be of doing precisely nothing in the sun for a week.
Well, that's not entirely true. I'm taking a pile of books and plan to swim lots and read lots, but apart from that I won't be doing much. No phone, no internet access, no twitter, no facebook, certainly no work. Bliss.

I also realised today that I haven't had a full week off in a year - even Florida was only six days, and one of those was spent travelling. (And wonderful though Florida and FMS were, they couldn't be described as relaxing.)

So hopefully I'll be back in a week's time, relaxed, no longer full of cold and crap, ready to face my incredibly busy last part of the year, and with a notebook full of kinky stories to write up. That's the plan at any rate.

Stubborn To The Point Of Stupid

As you may have noticed from some of my recent posts, I've been in a bit of a strange mood when playing recently. Even my biggest fans will concede that I have something of a stubborn streak. In my defence there are very many situation where I'm not in the slightest bit stubborn, and will happily concede to other people in the interests of peace and harmony all round. That's something I learnt growing up with a younger sibling.

To be honest, I don't think I've historically been particularly stubborn when being spanked - I can't cope well enough with the pain to be stubborn – I have to give in once it reaches a certain level.
That seems to have changed recently though, and I have been finding myself in a worryingly stubborn state of mind while playing. On the one hand it is exhilarating to be in a place where I'm just mentally going “f*** you, there's no way I'm giving in to you.” but on the other hand, my judgement as to what I can (and should) take seems to be somewhat impaired.

The last couple of times I've played, first when I was beaten to tears over a marshmallow , and then when I played a scene where I was a reformatory girl with an attitude problem , I have some doubts that I would have safeworded. Well, I'm sure I would have eventually, but probably well past the point of safety, and of what I actually wanted to take. In short, I was being stubborn to the point of being stupid. I was very fortunate enough that I was playing with two sensible and sane tops who were responsible enough to stop the scene at the point where it should have stopped, rather than waiting for me to do so at some unspecified point in the future when I have beaten well past my normal tolerance level.

I'm grateful to both of them for that, especially as in one case the person in question then had to endure my extended gloat about having “won”. The thing is, though, that I shouldn't have to rely on other people to be my safety net. Responsible play is the not just up to the top to ensure. It's up to both parties. I was lucky that they can judge me well enough to call time. If I play with people who are not able to judge me well enough and I still persist in this ridiculous stubbornness, I may well end up with more than I bargained for.

The only problem is that I don't know how to get out of this stubborn mind set... maybe the fact that I'm unlikely to be playing much (if at all) over the next couple of months due to various vanilla things happening, might just snap me out of it. Let's hope so for my bum's sake!

To P-Star and Pickle

I probably wibble on far too much about how lucky I am, but I'm about to again, so feel free to skip on to another post.

I had some friends to stay last night. They are dear and close friends, and the occasion was a celebration of us having known each other for ten years. It was even sweeter as the opportunities to get together like that nowadays are fewer than they were.

We had a great evening reminiscing, trying to list out all the trips that we've been on together over the years (which took a while, there's been a few!), looked through old photographs, decided that we all looked a lot younger ten years ago, and generally had a really nice time.

What made it really wonderful though is that the evening progressed, the talk became more frank, and we started talking about what was going on in certain specific aspects of our lives. Now both these friends know about my kink. One of them was the first person I came out to, and asked advice from, as she's kinky herself, the other I told about six months later, when I was really starting to meet people and actually play. They have both been endlessly supportive, and more than that, interested in the new interests in my life. I think we pushed it to a new level last night though – I ended up both showing them various photos of my marked bottom, and then showing them spanking porn on my PC!

Many of you would probably think that should friends photos of your cane marks is stepping over the line rather, and of course it would have been if forced them to look, but in the end it was pretty much the other way round, they forced me to show them! But even though I'm not going to make a habit of showing those sorts of photos to them, it's great to know that I can, that they aren't offended, or disturbed, and that we can have the conversations about anything, be it a trip to Spain seven years ago, or my play date the week before. For me it means our friendship will only get deeper as the years go on, as there's not need for any of us to keep secrets from each other.

As you can see, I am very lucky to have friends like those, who know both my past and my present. Pickle and Pornstar, you rock :-D

An Unreformed Reformatory Girl

I got sent to see the governor today. No bloody surprise really. I suppose the only surprise is that it took them that long. They say I'm lippy, and don't show respect, and don't act contritely. Well, what do they expect?! They show no bloody respect to me, so why the hell should I show them any back? As for contrition – well I did what I did because people were bloody stupid. If you're going to leave your car doors unlocked and your windows open, don't expect me not to take the opportunity. And don't expect me to feel sorry about it either. Idiots.

So they finally got fed up today. I suppose they'd done pretty well. I mean, I'd been there for two weeks before they got that mad with me. I was lounging outside his office door when he turned up. I don't think he was that impressed. Started going on about bad attitude and standing up straight, and blah, blah, blah. I switched off halfway through. He was also blathering on about how “in the old days” (I mean, what is he, 80?!) I would have been birched on arrival and that would have made me behave and seriously, shut up already, mate, you're boring me!

I got ordered into his office, and he lectured me some more about how I'm going to leave it more contrite and better behaved, then he made me take off my skirt, bend over and he tied my legs down. He started in on me with a slipper. He was probably lecturing me, but I was filtering it out. Why listen to crap when you don't have to? I mean, yeah, it hurt, and I probably showed it did as well, but just because something hurts, it doesn't mean I'm going to change. He put down the stupid slipper and got out some massive strap that he called the reformatory strap. Then he asked me how many I'd been given last time I'd been thrashed by the guards. Well, if the doddery old fool can't be bothered to look in the record books, I certainly can't be bothered to tell him the right answer. He's one of those sadistic bastards that would go “Well, last time you got X, so I'm going to double it.”

I think I judged it about right. There was no way I was going to tell him the truth, which was 24. I thought about going for 6, but reckoned that would be shooting a bit low and he'd just beat me for lying. So instead I chose 12 and that he seemed to believe it. So he gave me 12 with this massive strap. Actually he gave me more, because I moved. Whatever. Of course I bloody moved. It f****** hurt. Idiot.

Apparently I wasn't showing any contrition so he swapped to some “XH” tawse, whatever that is. Of course I wasn't showing any contrition. Do you really think that thrashing me is going to get me to show any?! I tell you what, 12 with that tawse was bloody horrible as well, but I don't give in that easily. I'm not some mealy mouthed mouse like some of the girls, practically offering to lick the dirt of the guards feet. Sod off.

He reckoned he still wasn't getting through to me, which is fair enough, because he wasn't, so he moved onto the cane. I was jumping up every other stroke this time, he was laying it on thick, but I could still barely bring myself to be civil. I got 18 in total. I can still feel the stripes as I write this now. As I was bent over, he told me that he didn't think I looked so big and clever from where he was standing. That's all he knows. All my mates think I'm really brave for standing up to the bastards in charge, and for not crying when he was beating me. I'm a real heroine to them, and I love it.

He finished off by lecturing me (again!) and telling me that if my attitude and behaviour didn't improve then the next step would be for him to tie me down in front of the whole reformatory, and give me fifty strokes of the birch. Then “all the girls who admire me now would see how feeble I really was when I was crying my way through a punishment.” Yeah. Whatever. He doesn't understand us at all. You'd think after working here for so bloody long he might, but no. If I ended up being birched in front of all the girls, I'd dine out on that for months, no matter how badly I took it. Well, not exactly dine, give how rotten the refectory food is, but you know what I mean. So yeah, bring it on, Mr Governor man. I'm a leader here after two weeks. There's no way you're bringing me down.

Under The Weather

I've been feeling distinctly under the weather this past few days, having come down very suddenly with a stinker of a cold during Monday night. I was very sensible on Tuesday and Wednesday and spent both days either sleeping or resting. The trouble was, by today, I was bored of being ill. So I drove into work to get my laptop.
I only managed two hours in the office before I was so shattered I had to come home again, but when I got back I worked all afternoon until about 6pm, and then decided I really should go to rehearsal as I'd missed all this week's. Unfortunately I only got ten minutes down the road (it's a 25 minute journey) before I had to give up and turn back as my eyes were watering so badly with tiredness that I couldn't actually see the road.
This is my trouble - my stubborn mentality will mean that I just push myself to keep going when I really should rest. So what I really needed this week was someone who would make me go upstairs at 8pm, put on my pajamas, follow me up, turn me over their knee, give me a firm spanking* and put me to bed.
Of course it doubtless would fail in real life as I'm a contrary madam and would probably smack whoever tried. It's a nice little dream, though.

* Firm bedtime spankings do NOT include hairbrushes. There's a law somewhere which confirms this.

Eliane vs the Marshmallow

I'm stubborn, and I'm over competitive in many situations. These are two things I already know about myself, as do most people who've met me. But sometimes my level of stubbornness impresses even me.

The conversation started of something like this.
Him: “Do you want a marshmallow?” (Throwing the bag towards me)
Me: (As the marshmallows fall on the sofa) “No, you've tainted them!”
Him: “I bet I can get you to eat one.”
Me: “Oh, I bet you can't”.

And the minute those words were out of my mouth, I knew that was it. I knew that there was no way on this earth that I would be eating that damn marshmallow. Thus began an almighty battle of wills. He bent me over, put the stupid sweet in front of me, and started spanking me. I genuinely can't remember everything he used. There was the the flogger, the strap, the leather fly swat, two leather paddles, my thin wooden paddle, probably minimum 50 with the wooden spoon. I was unremittingly cheeky, for example when I wouldn't stay in position:

“Put your legs down”.
Thump.
“And now put your top down”.
“I'm not a bloody convertible!"

I paid for that one...

But the longer we went on, the more convinced I became that there was no earthly way I was eating the fluffy white confection by my nose. This was because it was no longer a marshmallow. It was the symbol of all the crap at work, all the stress of rehearsals, all the idiocy over losing a crucial vehicle document. It was all of those, and as I stared it in the face as it sat there in front of me, I knew that there was no way that all that shit was getting the better of me. Eating it would have been the ultimate sign of defeat. I wasn't going to give into him, and I wasn't going to give into the stress.

And I stayed firm. Even when he got the cane out I stayed firm. I'm not sure how many strokes there were in total. It may have been 24. It was certainly 21. It was probably the closest I've ever come to being desperate for more of the cane. I willed each stroke to fall, proof that I was strong. I probably started crying after about six, but despite several opportunities, I still didn't eat the marshmallow. I welcomed the tears, and I welcomed the release of some of the tension I've been carrying around, but most of all I welcomed the fact that I could cry but still be strong, still not give in to him, to the marshmallow, to the idiots at work, to the insane schedule...
And in the end, the inevitable occurred.
He gave in.
I won.

I bet not many people can say they've been caned to tears over a marshmallow...

Reassessing The Situation

I'm a wimp. This has been my stance, and my view of myself pretty much since my first months of being out. There are several reasons that this view arose. I think it's partly a defence mechanism. If I state upfront that I'm a wimp, people will go easier on me. I think some of it comes from having watched videos in the early days and thinking that the girls on film were taking more, and taking it much better than I could. Some of it comes from me feeling that I wasn't living up to people's expectations of me, whether this was actually the case or not.
Then I started playing more with other people, and even though I swore blind that I didn't "do competitive bottoming" (and I didn't in the sense that I didn't look down on other people for what they could or couldn't take), I certainly did compare myself to others who played harder than me, or who I believed played harder than me, and found myself wanting.

Then came a period of being very ambivalent about wanting to play. When I came back after this, I obviously had a much lower pain tolerance than previously. Repeat the cycle another six months later, and by this point my perception of myself as a wimp was well and truly fixed in my mind as the absolute truth.

Except people have been telling me that I should maybe review that perception. Or rather they've been telling me to get a grip, because I'm really not a wimp. And when I look at the evidence, they may have a point. Saturday night is a case in point. I was playing with some friends, and had watched several people being caned while I alternated between actually looking and hiding behind a pillow. Then apparently it was my turn... After having voiced my dislike of canes, and preference for all things leather, the kind gentleman proceeded to use various paddles and straps. There was one strap in particular that I happily could have kept going all evening with, or at least at the strength it was being used. Unfortunately, I then heard a swish through the air.
"That's not a cane he's got, is it", I asked the others. Gleefully they all replied that it was. I thought about getting up. After all, I'm a wimp, and I really can't cope with canes. I decided to try one stroke though, and see what happened. I could always stand up if it hurt too much.
The stroke fell. It was OK. I decided to stay down. The next one was OK as well. As were the next two. Five and six were pretty ouchy, but just about bearable. I stood up, quite pleased with myself for not having made much of a fuss. (After all, I have been known to actually dance round the room between strokes...)
I was really surprised when Emma Jane, who had been spotting, told me that she had actually told the person delivering the strokes to up the strength each time, because of how I was taking them, and that by the end they certainly weren't particularly light...

So maybe I'm not a wimp. I took six fairly hard cane strokes, in front of other people, making a minimum of fuss. That's not the behaviour of a wimp, is it? It's actually quite hard to get my head round that. It's been so long that I've thought of myself in this way that to change that idea is something that's going to take time. Also, as long as I play with people who can, and like to play so much harder than I can/do, there will always be a lingering feeling of inadequacy. I recognise how stupid this is. People don't view me as inadequate. They (it seems) view me as someone who plays well, within their own comfort zone. Just because my comfort zone differs to other people does not make my play any less valid, and the only person who really ever thinks that it is is me. Even if my own comfort zone differs depending on time of month/emotional state/recent play, it *still* shouldn't matter to me. I shouldn't compete with others, I shouldn't compete with myself.

It's time to reassess the situation, to stop branding myself a wimp at every opportunity, to recognise that I can actually take a half decent whacking, but that even if I couldn't it wouldn't actually matter. So anyone who hears me call myself a wimp, feel free to call me on it!

In Search Of Lost Memory

People often threaten me. Well, by people, I mean tops. Normal people rarely threaten me, and I'd probably be a bit more concerned. As it is, tops' threats rarely bother me. Because, let's be honest, most of them don't exactly seem to be wonderfully blessed in the memory department. Or at least in the "remembering offences/cheek/random misbehaviour" area. If I had a pound for every time a top had threatened me with some horrible retribution and then forgotten about it five minutes later, I'd be quite a rich woman by now. Of course if I'd had a cane stroke for every time, I'd be quite a sore woman!

As is my way, I was wondering, and I thought I would enquire more generally. Is it just the tops I know who are less than formidable in this area? Or is it tops in general? So feel free to answer the following poll. You can answer it if you are a top as well. As long as you do it honestly, because we'll be watching.

Tops' Powers of Recall

How good is your top's memory? Memory like an elephant, never forgets a thing, dammit Their memory's OK. They generally remember to carry out threats Memory? I'm surprised they remember their name/to get out of bed in the morning/put on underwear. Current Results

Mean Boys

My mother always told me about mean boys when I was growing up. You know, the ones that a girl should avoid because they were, well, mean. Of course, I never was one to follow my mother's advice, and over the past couple of years, I've learnt lots more about mean boys, and how they operate.

Mean boys are the ones that come to your house and accuse you of kidnapping their possessions, when in fact they are just forgetful.

Mean boys are the ones that spank you for no reason, and then spank you harder when you're cheeky.

They are the ones who make you stand in the corner with the knickers round your knees and your hands on your head, and then claim that they saw you rubbing your poor, sore bottom when they were out of the room, and spank you some more.

You can recognise mean boys, as they are the ones that “borrow” your implement bag and then use things like wooden spoons and straps on you. (Note to self, burn all wooden spoons.)

A mean boy may well make you wear a pirate hat while spanking you, because they are just that mean.

A mean boy puts ice on your bottom and says they are doing it to make sting better.

Mean boys use nasty wooden hairbrushes. And not on their heads. Nasty wooden hairbrushes that will be dead nasty wooden hairbrushes if I get my way.

Mean boys use phrases like "Because I said so" far too often.

Mean boys cane.

Don't tell anyone, but I quite like mean boys....

Needy

I need to be dominated. I need to be bent over, to be caned, to be made to stay in position. To take the strokes, slowly but surely. To know that there will be no turning back, no matter how much I whinge and whine, but that it will be done in such a way that I will make it through. I need to release.
I really, really, need to be caned "properly".

That is all.

Oh Not Again!

Someone please explain to me why I feel the need to buy things like this...

Because I really have no idea!

What Do You Get...

...when you take 30 kinksters, some alcohol and two birthdays?
Well, you get:

1. A girl jumping out of a cake (who thought that a wish expressed on twitter three weeks before would be made true?)
2. A totally unjustified spanking, to remove me from the room while the “cake” was set up.
3. A multiple flogging from my darling GNO girls.
4. The most perverted scene I could ever imagine where at least ten people were all stood in my bedroom taking it in turns to give me a birthday spanking while singing “Happy Birthday” in a dirge like manner. I mean, really, people!
5. A fabulous barbecue, thanks to all the kind chefs.
6. The chance to watch a dear friend get her share of birthday spankings. (Well, actually, her comeuppance!)
7. A caning and a belting.
8. The chance to meet the London Tanner.
9. The amusement of watching someone try to put up a tent in the pitch black and yet refuse any offers of a torch.
10. The indignity of losing at cheesecake Jenga, mostly because the Meanest Man On The Internet cheated!
11. The chance to flog real life people, and oh my goodness did I enjoy it.
12. The joy of coming down the next morning to find that the cleaning fairies had started work. They do exist!
13. Some more lovely spankings the next morning, from those I'd forgotten to collect my birthday spanking from the night before.
14. At least two threats of retribution to be served up at a later date for cheek. Anyone who knows me will know how unfair and unjust this is!

To be serious for a minute, I want to thank each and every one of my guests for their presence yesterday. You made the party, and I hope you all enjoyed yourselves as much as I did. You all rock!

Frisking The Guests

I'm having a party on Saturday. A kinky party. There are quite a few people coming. Up to 28, to be precise. That's quite a lot of kinky people.
Having a houseful of kinky people would be a lovely event, but for one small problem. This party is a birthday party. Well, it's actually a joint birthday party, but the other person is denying that it's her birthday. We all know what happens at kinky birthday parties, don't we? People get birthday spankings. Fine if it's one or two people delivering them. Fifteen or so? Not so fine.
So, friends, I have a plan to save my butt. This plan has two parts:
Part one: Hide all my toys that I don't like, leaving only those which I do like available for use.
But wait, you say, what about the people coming? Surely they will bring their own implements?
Well, here is where part two comes into play. Part two involves frisking all guests on arrival. Frisking them for implements, you understand. If I discover any implement that I think will be detrimental to my health, I will remove it, and/or make the bearer sign a legal document swearing that they won't use it on me.
Clever, right?
My one problem? What to do about Abel's right hand... Personally I don't think it should be allowed on the premises, but as I'd quite like the rest of him to be in attendance I don't suppose I have a whole amount a choice.
I'll let you know how my plan goes, shall I?

Switches

If you go down to the woods today....

You're likely to find two pervy girls wandering around debating the merits of switches.
One of us (not me) has a fascination about getting sent out to the woods to find a switch. Well, OK, maybe I find that quite a hot fantasy as well. So when we found ourselves in the woods, we decided that it really would be an opportune time to do some research.

Research into switches seems to involve lots of walking around looking at the floor, trying to spot sticks that might prove "fit for purpose". It's amazing how many aren't, actually. Too thin, too thick. Too long, too short. There were a whole load that never even made it off the ground and into our hands for further research.

The ones that did though, were of a particular type. About two feet long. Thinnish. Picked up, swished up and down through the air. Noises studied, brittleness assessed. Merits debated. Many discarded at this point.

A few make it through to the next cut though. Then we start trying them out, on our hands, once or twice on each others bottoms. Some broke, so they were discarded. One was doing fine until I caught it on an overhanging branch on my back swing, so that one was gone as well.

We ended up with three switches, but the additional research with them still didn't prove very conclusive. Switches always sounds like a very painful implement when you read about them, but as I tried one out on Irelynn, she didn't seem to be particularly impressed. To be fair, my technique isn't great, and when I was repeatedly hitting the same spot, it elicited an ouch, but none of the switches we picked seem to emulate in any way those mythical implements we'd heard of.

So what is it that make a good switch? Does it need to fresher, cut straight from the branch? Thicker? Thinner? I've brought three home with me that I'll maybe soak in the bath and see what that does to them. But what do you know about switches? Any advice you can give us?

The Tyre Tread

As Sam drove along she lamented the fact that it was starting to get dark again earlier. It was 7pm on a Sunday, and the roads were quiet as she drove through the gathering dusk, heading for the petrol station on the retail park. She turned a corner and drove over a speed bump in the road, and heard the sickening thump of a tyre blowing out. Luckily, she was close to a supermarket car park, and pulled in, under a light. Of course, it was empty as the store was closed, but at least she was off the road. She got out the car and looked at the offending tyre. Definitely flat. And worse than that, as she looked more closely, the tread on the tyre was worn to practically nothing.
She thought about her options. Greg was working tonight, worst luck. Well, there was nothing for it. She would just have to call the RAC and keep her fingers crossed.

Twenty minutes later, the RAC van pulled into the car park and her already sunken heart hit the bottom of her boots. Greg was at the wheel. Just her luck. Of all the patrolmen they had in his segment, it had to be him. He couldn't have been caught on another job? No, of course not. At least if she'd got someone else, they might not have known Greg, and the news might not have got back to him. She unlocked the door and got out with a wan smile. Greg leapt out and gathered her up in his arms.

"Sweetie, are you OK? As soon as I realised it was you, I swapped jobs with that new guy Tom, and headed out here. The report said you had a flat?"

Sam nodded her agreement mutely.

"Right, well let's get your spare on and then you can get on your way. Are you staying at mine tonight?"

"Um, no" said Sam, desperate to avoid the inevitable consequences if she stayed at her boyfriend's flat tonight. "I've got to get up really early for work, and you're on a late, so I'll just go home to mine."

Greg looked a little disappointed as he headed round to the other side of the car to change the wheel. Sam kept out of the way as he started work. As he jacked up the car, his face became grimmer and grimmer. He called her over.

"Sam, what the hell is this? Your tyre tread isn't just worn, it's gone! You've got no grip at all. You're lucky you haven't crashed. I'm always telling you to check them. Do you just ignore me?"

"I keep meaning to check, but I just forget..." was her lame response.

"You can't just forget! This is serious. Ignoring the fact that your forgetfulness left you stranded in a deserted car park at night, if that tyre had gone on the motorway you might have been killed. I'm going to make sure you never forget to check them again."

Sam hung her head. She knew that she was in the wrong. She watched as Greg opened to back of the van to throw his tools in, waiting to hear him tell her to go to his house, and so was startled when he turned, and grabbed her by the wrist to pull her into the van.

"Greg! Stop it! You're not spanking me here - we're outside."

"We'll be in the van. That's not outside. But if you don't get in I'll bend you over the bonnet of your car and deal with you right there."

Sam knew that he meant what he said, and so followed him into the van. It was big enough to stand up in. He pulled the door closed, and turned to her.

"Get your skirt and knickers off and hold onto that bar"

Barely had Sam done what she was told when Greg's hand landed with a sharp crack. She swallowed a yelp. Greg and never spanked her that hard before. The swats carried on at that level for what felt like hours, but in reality was probably only a couple of minutes. Greg ordered her to stand up and stand facing him with her hands on her head. He then gave her the most serious lecture she'd ever had. It was obvious that he was seriously unhappy with her carelessness in letting her tyre get to such a state of disrepair. He told her about the people he'd seen who'd put themselves in serious danger like that, and as his voice cracked as he told her how he couldn't cope with loosing her, the tears started rolling down her face. He took her chin between his fingers, and looked in her eyes.

"I'm going to make sure you never forget to check those tyres again. Turn back round, and brace yourself. If you stand up, I'll start again."

Sam gulped, but turn round and grabbed onto the rail. She resolved to take whatever was coming as well as she possibly could, because she knew he was right. She'd seen how worn her tyres were, and she'd heard plenty of times before his warnings over accidents that he'd seen.

As expected, she heard the sound of his belt slipping out of its loops. Normally this was the sort of noise that would make her melt, but not this time. She braced herself, fear coursing through her, as the leather whistled down and slammed into her cheeks. It was worse than she could have imagined. How could something that she usually loved so much hurt like this? Again and again the belt hit home, and each time Sam felt a little bit worse about what she'd done, or not done, really. After six strokes, she started crying, after 10 her bottom hurt so much that she gave into wracking sobs that left her shaking. Nevertheless, she held onto the bar, and Greg brought the belt down three more times, still at full strength. Then he paused.

"Two more, Sam, and I want you to take these as well as the rest. Then we'll be done."

Once, twice, that now-hated belt hit home. And then it was over. She collapsed in a heap on the floor, weeping, but he pulled her up into his arms and held her tightly as she sobbed into his shoulder. He rearranged some of the blankets he kept in the van, and pulled her down onto them, cuddling her until the sobs had subsided and she was calmer. He pushed the hair out of her eyes.

"You know I didn't want to do that?" Sam nodded, and mumbled an apology into his chest.
"I'd much rather use that belt on you for more enjoyable purposes. I know how much you usually love it".

Again, she nodded, head still buried in his chest, which meant that the little smile that played on her lips was hidden from him. Even though she never wanted to experience a punishment like that again, there was still one part of her that seemed to have enjoyed it on some level. No need to tell
Greg that though. Doubtless he would find out for himself, eventually.

Control

“Does it kill
Does it burn
Is it painful to learn
That it's me that has all the control.”

Lyrics from Maroon Five's “Harder To Breathe”.

I used to listen to this song loads when it was first released without really listening to the lyrics much, but it appeared on my ipod the other day, and I had to replay it a couple of times to check I'd heard correctly.

Control. It's a funny thing. Anyone who knows me will know that I can be a bit of a control freak. I like to know what's happening, I like things to go my way, I like to be the one defining the situation, the outcomes, the parameters. In my daily life one of the most upsetting things that can happen to me is to feel like I'm not in control.

The thing is, control is exhausting. I have got better, as I've got older, I've learnt to let go a little, but when you've run your own life, paid your own mortgage, made all your decisions about everything from what can of soup to buy to what house to buy, for eleven years, you are pretty used to being in control, and to having to make every single decision and organising every single thing. Letting go, even though you know how tiring it is not to let go, is tough.

This is one of the reasons spanking and CP appeals to me so much – having someone deliberately take that control away from me, and take over, even if it only control over what is happening to my bottom, is a bit of a revelation. Not having a say in the matter is freeing, while at the same time being utterly scary. “Is it painful to learn that it's me that has all the control?” Oh yes, both mentally and physically.

Of course, at the end of the day, if you are playing as a bottom in a safe, sane, and of course consensual manner, you actually still do have all the control. You can stop the scene. It can all be over in seconds. On the other hand, if you're doing it properly, the illusion that the control has been taken from you will be very real indeed. And very hot indeed.

Birthday Post (Do not read if allergic to schmaltz!)

It's my birthday! Well, it's 17 minutes into my birthday and I've just got back from a night at the theatre. When I go to bed and wake up again it will be properly my birthday!
This is in effect my third birthday as a kinkster. The first time, I was barely “out”, and certainly wasn't going to be getting any spankings, though co-incidentally (and I had to check to make sure I'd remembered correctly!) it was the day that a small if ultimately very significant event happened in my kinky life: Abel sent me a mail in reply to a comment I'd made on the Spanking Writers blog. While it was lovely to receive at the time, I didn't realise what a huge impact that mail would have on my life.
Indirectly, it was the cause of my first ever birthday spanking, one year later. Or possibly birthday spanking(s), five I believe in total, at a spanking club. Of course, as we were there as Lowewood girls, it was actually Jemima receiving the birthday spankings, not me, so the total number of strokes was considerably lower than it otherwise would have been (thank goodness!)
This year, like the first kinky year, will be lacking in birthday spankings. Not that I'm complaining, I have plenty of other fun things to keep me occupied over the next couple of weeks, but they are all of the very vanilla variety. In a way though, that makes me feel even more blessed. Yes, I might not be getting a birthday spanking tomorrow, but I get to spend time with family, and then next weekend time with many friends, some of whom know my secret, none of whom have rejected me for it. Since I came out more into this strange and wonderful world of ours, I haven't always been the best friend in the world to my friends “from before”, but the fact that they are still so lovely to me, despite this, makes me feel like the luckiest (if most undeserving!) girl in the world.
Of course, to add to these friends, I have a whole other set of amazing kinky friends who I also feel incredibly blessed to have, and who have enriched my life no end over the past couple of years.
Sorry, this is probably a terribly nauseating post – I'll stop with the nice soon, and you can all go and find a sick bucket, but as it's my birthday, you'll have to indulge me for a couple more sentences.
There's a line in the Sound of Music, in the song called “Something Good”, which goes something like “for somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good.” And that's what I feel, because while I may not be getting a birthday spanking today, the fact that I have such lovely people around me means that I'm one hell of a lucky girl.

An Update (Or Not)

Dear Reader/Random Passer-by/Russian Spy *

Many apologies that this blog/totally truthful account of life/secret private diary has not been updated recently.

This is because I have been busy watching the world cup/fraternising with the enemy/being spanked repeatedly/overdosing on chocolate.

In the event that you care that this blog/account/diary has not been updated recently, please rest assured that it will be updated as soon as I have pruned the roses/oiled my canes/rescued a stray sheep/investigated a secret spy ring/stalked George Clooney. Unless of course, I get bored/a cold/whisked off to sunnier climes/arrested.

We thank you for your continued loyalty/monetary donations/silence.

The Writer.

* Please delete as appropriate.

Running In The Family?

I've had various conversations over the past few weeks where people have talked about either the suspicions they've had that family members are kinky, or the absolute proof that they have of that fact. This is always a difficult question for me. On the one hand, I have to deny absolutely that there is any genetic element in my kink. Obviously there's not. That's just a very squicky idea, let's move on please, and fast.

Of course, on the other hand, I've heard enough anecdotal evidence to suggest that even if there is not a genetic element to kinkiness for me, there certainly seems to be for other people.

So, without further ado, a little poll. Also feel free to add comments if you have any thoughts on this subject.

Runs In The Family

Are you aware that anyone in your family is kinky? Yes, I'm sure that someone in my family is kinky. I have my suspicions that someone is. Lalala, I'm not listening - stop talking about kink in relation to my family! Current Results

Learning To Cane - Or Not?

A friend tried to teach me to cane last night. My lack of topping skill is a well known joke among my friends, as is the disparity between my ability to "talk the talk" and my total inability to do anything more than that! To be fair, people do generally seem to think that I will eventually get the topping bug, and they are probably right. At the moment though, even if I intellectually want to top people, I find it quite hard because, well, I don't like to hurt them!

First of all, I just worry about hurting them with the spanking, despite the fact that I know that on some level they will be enjoying it. I also worry about hurting them in a way I don't intend to, e.g. with improper technique. For this reason I often will ask people for tips about technique.

Therefore, when a friend offered to give me a caning lesson, I of course accepted. Well you would, wouldn't you? Everything was set up - an "easy to handle" cane, furniture moved out of the way, cushions positioned over the sofa. So there I stand, cane in hand, having had some basics demonstrated, start to try and hit the cushions, and basically have a wee bit of a meltdown.
I suddenly found myself on the verge of tears. I was stressed, I was upset, and wasn't truly sure why. I certainly thought I was being pretty bloody silly. After all, I was caning a cushion. There's not a huge amount to get upset about doing that. It became obvious fairly quickly that this disquiet that I was feeling was not about to magically disappear, so we hugged, and chatted about why I had reacted like I had. In my normal style, I was inclined to be hard on myself, calling myself an idiot, and generally being cross that I'd been so silly. My friend was lovely and reassured me that I was not an idiot, and we talked about what might have been behind my reaction. I don't know to be sure, but I think that it may well relate to the way I view the cane.

As I've posted before, the cane is my nemesis. It's an implement that I fear like no other, and that I don't ever think I would truly be able to "love". On the other hand, it also has a psychological power over me like nothing else. It's possible that my little "meltdown" was related to the fact that it was caning we were trying. After all, the act of using something that has such a psychological hold over me, even if I'm merely using it on cushions, is a powerful thing. Logically, it's maybe not surprising that the thought of inflicting something that I hold in such awe on another person (the ultimate end goal, even if not in that lesson!) was an upsetting one.

I think I'm going to lay off the canes for now. I might aim for something I love first, before moving onto something that I've got a less straightforward relationship with.

Blogiversary

Amazingly, another has passed. I've now been blogging for two whole years, which is quite impressive, for me at any rate.

It has to be said that my poor blog has been a little neglected the past few months. Witnessed by the fact that in year one, I posted 216 posts, in year two, 172. And since January, I've only posted 54 times. Ah well. Poor blog!

By sheer coincidence, I'm celebrating in quite a special way. As we speak, Casey Morgan is on her way from the airport to stay with me for a couple of days. Yay!

Trying to figure out how much I had posted this year and last, I ended up reading through quite a lot of old posts, and had some nice surprises. Things that I'd forgotten about, thoughts I'd had, scenes I'd played. When I have time I'm going to go back and see if I can pick out a couple of particular favourites, but for now, I'm going to ask you: Is there any post in particular that you've really liked over the past couple of years? (And if no one answers, I'll take that as a sign!)

Lighthearted?

Reading Emma Jane's post from the weekend, many thoughts and feelings struck me. I'll admit that a certain amount of awe was one of the thoughts. Emma Jane plays much more deeply than I ever could. She surrenders herself to a role, a situation, to the pain, in a way that I don't even think I could begin to reproduce. I've never witnessed her going into her deepest moments, but even reading about it scares me a little bit. I'm not sure I could actually see my friend in that state, even if on an intellectual level I know that this is what she wants, and trust the people that she is playing with. The few times we have played scenes together (that were much less intense than this), the hardest part was watching her reactions, hearing her pain and knowing I was a cause of it. I genuinely don't think I would cope with being a witness to or cause of something worse.

There was another feeling that I had though, and that was jealousy. Obviously not jealousy of that level of intense pain, or even intense role play, but jealousy of something being that "real". It made me realise that the last time I played in situations that really got to my head, where I was forced to submit, was back in January/February time, and I'm starting to miss that. It's not that I haven't been spanked (and strapped, and caned, and birched!) in the meantime. I have. I've also roleplayed, and it's all been fun, but I think that even though some of the people I've played with in these last few months are the sort of people I've played deeper, more intense (my level of intense!) scenes with before, the sort of play that has been happening since the new year has mostly been fun, lighthearted, not really headspacey.
Which is good, as that's what I really needed. As I'm sure you've all realised from my blog the past six months or so have been stressful for me. I've not always felt up to playing at all, and had a good two month (if not more) period where the whole idea was a bit of a turn off. So I would not have been ready in these last few months to play at any level more than "lighthearted". The fact that I'm starting to crave that sort of play where I'm made to submit makes me think that I am now ready again for that.
Which is a bit of a bugger, really, as I'm about to get (if it's actually possible!) even busier. So finding time for "real" play, as opposed to fun, lighthearted play, will get even more difficult.
I suspect there is no solution to this. I need someone on tap, ready at a moment's notice, able to fit into my schedule when I want to play. Which is a little unrealistic ;-) The only viable solution for this would be to actually go through with getting that man in the shed. You know, the one who's going to do my gardening and insect removal. I'll make sure he's a damn good top as well, and ready to spank me at a moment's notice.
That'll work, right?

Playing In Public

Haron wrote a post a couple of weeks ago about public play, i.e. being spanked in a room where others are not playing, but just socialising. She asked what people's feelings were towards this sort of public play – Embarrassed? Indifferent? She said that she sometimes feels as though she's imposing on people in scenarios like this.

It made me start thinking about that scenario in particular, and public play in general. Eighteen months or so, the idea of public play would have completely freaked me out. I had only ever been spanked in private, me and the person doing the spanking. If anyone had suggested that I widen that group of people who could see my bottom, I probably would have sprinted several miles in the opposite direction. I also wasn't that comfortable with the idea of seeing other people being spanked.

In March, that “one-on-one-only” mentality changed when I was spanked by two people at once, but it wasn't until the early summer of 2009 that I actually started going to events where a) I would see other people getting spanked and b) other people would see me getting spanked. Having always been somewhat on the shy, retiring side, especially when it comes to my body, I was very surprised to find that I actually wasn't that bothered about people being able to see me getting spanked. That has persisted to this day. If I'm with a group of people who will not be surprised to see a girl being spanked in the corner, then I really don't have a problem with being that girl. I generally also don't feel as though I'm imposing on anyone or forcing them to watch my spanking. The times when I'm in a group situation where a spanking might happen, that exact possibility is pretty much taken for granted. It surprises no one, and I would imagine if anyone felt truly uncomfortable with watching, they would either remove themselves from the situation or would not have attended the event in the first place.

I do find it strange though, how I could have gone from being so shy, to being basically pretty much indifferent to being upended in public! Well, that's a little disingenuous; I do still get a little mortified, but not really enough for it to stop me misbehaving ;-) More interesting though are the things that I still do find embarrassing. Don't ever threaten me with a public spanking, public as in outside, where non-kinky people might see. I'd probably hurt you in some unspecified way before fleeing. That one is a hard limit for me.

The other thing that I still can find incredibly embarrassing is undressing when I'm just playing one on one with someone. Even partially undressing, just taking off my knickers, in the right circumstances, with the right language, can make me more embarrassed than being spanked in a group ever could. Strange, isn't it?

Jemima's Plea For More Knickers

Dear Grandmother and Grandfather,

How are you both? Another term is passing swiftly at Lowewood. The weather continues to be fine, which means we can enjoy the beautiful school gardens at break times. Of course we have to be careful that we don't step on Mr Fingerham's carefully tended beds, but apart from that we can enjoy the clement weather.

I am sure you will both be delighted to hear that my grades are continuing to improve. Mr Shaftebotham was delighted with my rousing speech in English the other day. We had been studying the use of rhetorical devices, and I employed many to wonderful effect when arguing for the abolition of restrictions on our internet access. I think he was very pleased with my good showing.

We have also started learning Chinese, and I am finding it very interesting, though I feel the teaching methods of Dr Billeslaan are somewhat unusual. He insists when we are learning to write the Chinese characters that caning us in an appropriate manner (e.g. one rule is “horizontal strokes before vertical ones”) will help us remember. I really fail to understand his logic, myself.

Grandmother, I'm afraid you will need to send me more knickers. Miss Marwood keeps confiscating them and giving them to Mr Fingerham to burn. The latest pair you sent me were the correct shade of blue, but you may not have seen the “Supergirl” logo on the rear. Unfortunately Miss Marwood did, in detention. She had already made us take our skirts off, and when she saw my knickers, she was very cross, as they had been the cause of much hilarity during uniform inspection that morning, but she had not seen what we were laughing at. So she made me remove my knickers as well, and would not give them back. I was quite naked from the waste down, it was awfully embarrassing. Despite her undue (she paddled AND caned us!) for really quite a minor issue (it was only a little party that we had in the dorm with the local boys football team!) I still quite like Miss Marwood. She seems quite fair.

Well, letter writing time is at an end, so I will bid you goodbye for this week, and send you both my fondest regards. Please also give my love to Mummy if you hear from her, and also if you do, please remind her that it is six weeks since she last wrote to me.
Oh, and please send new knickers!
Your loving granddaughter,
Jemima
x

Whoops...

To the person who stumbled across my blog using the search term "interesting sixth form Assembly", I really am very sorry indeed. Though it has to be said that I'm also giggling quite a lot. It's true that the Assembly in question was very interesting, but possibly not quite what the person had in mind.

Remember folks: the internet is a dangerous place. And porn can often be found on there. Don't say I didn't warn you.

On the subject of school, Jemima was there again last night, and hopefully there will be a post coming about her exploits soon, "soon" depending on how appealing Pimms and Lemonade in the sun is tonight.

A Tale Of Two Floggings

I love floggings. Love them. With big, heavy, thuddy floggers. So imagine my delight when we were hanging out in Indy's room on Sunday afternoon to find that she had bought a lovely thuddy flogger with her. We played a little bit, and she used it on me. Abel, Haron and Cath were in the next room, and I came out and made some remark about how I didn't think it was possible for anyone to ever make me go "ow" with a thuddy flogger. This, of course, was a challenge that Abel couldn't turn down. On the bed, with a pillow under me, he set out to prove that he could in fact make a thuddy flogger hurt. Six strokes later, I was more than convinced. I do somewhat object to his methods, though. I obviously couldn't see, but I have it on good authority that both feet left the floor as he jumped up to try and get as much weight behind the flogger as possible. Which, frankly, seems like cheating to me.

Sunday evening saw an entirely different flogging though. One guy at the party, P, is a very experienced flogger. He works double handed, with two floggers. Two thuddy floggers. To say that I was in heaven would have been something of an understatement. I'm not quite sure how long P was flogging me for, but I reckon it was probably at least twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of bliss... I don't think I've ever been as relaxed and zoned out as I was after that twenty minutes. So much so that I then fell asleep in the corner of the bigger room of the suite we were all in. A suite with probably at least 15 people in there. I sat spaced out/sleeping in that corner for a looong time. All through Catherine being tied down to a spanking bench and beaten very, very hard... I might have missed most of the action, but I saw the bruises afterwards so I know how hard it was! Normally if someone is being spanked in my vicinity I'm cringing in the corner, "ouching" as every stroke is being taken, barely able to look, but unable to drag my eyes away. So the fact that I could sit there and let the most incredible thrashing (at least from the last bits that I did see) all but wash over me, speaks volumes. I was still spaced out when I went back to my room at one in the morning.
So I've decided, sod massages, sod expensive days at the spa, sod a nice relaxing bottle of wine. The next time I'm *truly* in need of some relaxation I'm going to get me someone who's handy with a flogger or two. (Though possibly not Abel ;-) Sorry, Abel!)

FMS Part 1

I'm not sure I will be able to do a particularly coherent write up of the Florida Moonshine Party, and to be honest, any of my attempts will probably pale into comparison with those of Indy's, but I will try to at least give some impressions.

We arrived early Friday afternoon. I had driven the English contingent down to Tampa. They were on the most part well behaved. This may have been something to do with my threats to throw Abel to the alligators if he uttered a word out of turn on the drive. Or it may just have been because he was being nice!

As soon as we'd checked in, I called up to Indy's room, with not a small amount of trepidation. After all, here was a woman I'd been getting to know on line, chatting to practically every day since before Christmas. Would she live up to expectations? Of course she would! We headed up to her room, as she was going to come to the grocery store with us. I think the thing that struck me most within the first five minutes was just how, well, *Indy* she was... (Yeah, I know, big shock, she was like herself!)

She didn't take us to the best named store in the South, Pubix, oops, sorry, Publix, but to another one that was better. I did very well at not running around like a kid in a candy store and buying up the whole place, but rather only getting (mostly) what I had come for. Abel bought what he'd come for, plus a wooden spoon, proving once again that he shouldn't be allowed out, supervised or unsupervised.

That evening was the vendor fair. Unfortunately I wasn't feeling amazing, which was probably due to the fact that I'd only had a Casear salad for lunch, and it hadn't had any meat or fish, so was basically lettuce leaves and croutons. By 8pm I was wishing I'd eaten something a bit more substantial. Anyway, before Indy kindly took me and Catherine to get *actual* food, I browsed all the lovely implements at the fair and ended up buying this beautiful leather paddle from Leather Thorn Paddles:

Unfortunately, that was me pretty much done for Friday. When we came back to the hotel after dinner, I retired to bed at the embarrassingly early time of 10:30 pm.

Luckily, I was more on form on Saturday, and after breakfast and a walk along the beach, complete with my parasol, because I'm that English, it was time for the FMS Academy. Having decided to rebel by not wearing a black skirt, but a plaid one, wearing a T-shirt instead of a school shirt, and refusing to wear socks, I was actually genuinely upset to find out that the one pair of plain black knickers I'd bought, for school, had a ruddy great big whole in. I put on my next soberest pair, teal coloured, and earned myself 2 strokes of the ruler on the hand. Which was probably light going, given in how many ways I was violating the dress code. I also only came 6th from top in class; I forgot myself a few times and actually tried. I think Rad and Abel did a great job of teaching us as well, or at least not noticing too much that I was sucking on a lollipop.

That afternoon saw me being spanked with Indy, Catherine and a new friend. I, of course, was the wimpy butt of the group, and spent most of the time taking half as much as everyone else and ouching twice as much. After having watched everyone else taking the razor strop and saying that there was no way on earth I would be trying that, it seemed to amuse them all when I decided I'd try it once. And then again. And again... six times in the end!

The order of various events is now escaping me, but I think we may have reached Saturday evening, so I might pause here, and continue in the new post.

A Plea For Understanding

Ladies and Gentlemen, I want to bring to your attention a distressing problem that someone you know may suffer from. A problem that blights the lives of its victims, who should be given sympathy and understanding. This terrible affliction causes agony, mental anguish and pain for those poor souls, and its name is this: Cheekiness.

People who suffer from Cheekiness are often unfairly penalised because of the misunderstanding surrounding this illness. But what the public at large often fail to grasp is that Cheekiness is not, as often assumed, a choice, or something that the sufferer can control. Rather it is a compulsion. When the urge to be cheeky threatens to strike, there is nothing the afflicted person can do to stop the inevitable utterances, even in the most unfortunate situations. To punish or discriminate against them in any way for this behaviour is wrong. They know not what they do.

Take this scenario: A poor young woman, over someone's knee, being spanked. Would any sane, healthy person choose that time to comment disparagingly on some quality in their spanker? For instance their singing voice? Of course not! This is the act of someone who cannot help themselves.

Punishing these poor people harder is merely counterproductive and unhelpful. Instead, compassion and understanding should be shown. So the next time you encounter a cheeky remark, maybe from someone over you lap commenting on your inability to count, think to yourself:

"Do I want to discriminate against the afflicted?"

You know the right answer, my friends.