December 23, 2010

December 13, 2010

Hard Night's Sleep

We've all heard of people doing crazy things while asleep.

In Australia, a middle-aged woman had a quirky habit of, while sleep-walking, having sex with strange men. Doctors cleverly call this condition "Sleep Sex" -- caused by an REM sleep disorder, thus allowing her to actually act out her dreams -- proving that a woman need not be conscious to get laid (sorry fellas).

Another woman, after inexplicably gaining 60 pounds, was finally diagnosed with (brace yourself for another creatively named disorder)..."Sleep Eating". She apparently downed whole packages of Little Debbie snack cakes while blissfully asleep and dreaming of cream-filled chocolate.

Most recently, a young woman in the Midwest slept through a spanking. I can only guess what the doctors might call that. "Sleep Spanking", for the win? Upon waking she was perplexed by the pain that radiated throughout her whole left butt cheek (and only the left), which was later explained by her positioning on her right hip while asleep.

Fortunately her case is not so bad, as she was fully awake for the sex and the eating that followed, leaving her with just one disorder with which to contend.

Not to be outdone by anyone, however, "Sleep Blogging" is next on her list. Stay tuned.

Second photo from Au Fil des Jours.

I. Heart. Bondage

When I wrote the post about D ripping my clothes off of me, I had some inspiration.
I want to share that inspiration with you, but must first give you warning. At The Pink Report, I try to leave as much to the imagination as possible. I pick photos designed to tempt and arouse the mind, and leave the rest to you. You usually won't find the "money shots" here; I don't typically enjoy the ins-and-outs of the more traditional porn. And although D and I dabble in the rougher stuff (I like it), I don't love watching it.
However, months ago he sent me this video and I keep circling back to its hiding spot on my desktop. The full length version, from Sex and Submission, is nearly 40 minutes and quickly escalates to hardcore where this clip leaves us. If you like it, head over to their site and explore the offerings.
It is hot. It is graphic. You've been warned.

I'm not a fan of elaborate jerry-rigging or rope burn, but simple bondage by the man I trust, to have no choice but to follow his lead, is an incredible turn on for me.
And...ahem...did you see the way he ripped her dress and then used it to gag her? I might even break my no gag rule for that display of creativity.
I'm a simple girl, D: tie me up, flog me, rip my dress and buy me a sausage dinner. That's what I call a date.

December 12, 2010

'Orange' you gonna spank me?

Some women create drama to get spankings. Some courageous women just ask. And at least one woman I read about years ago wears orange socks to signal her need for some lap time.
If this policy were in place in your own spanking relationship, imagine opening your top drawer and seeing the neatly stacked orange socks, waiting to be worn. Reach out a hesitant hand and touch the soft cotton. Contemplate it. Close your eyes and picture answering the door, dressed in normal attire except for the conspicuous orange toes peeking out from beneath your jeans.
Imagine his reaction, his pleasure at your bravery. Would he notice right away and make comment? Or would he make you wait, heightening your anticipation for the moment when he would finally grant your silent request? Would he make you stand in the corner while staring at your traitorous, wiggling feet, with you questioning the wisdom to choose those socks on this day?
Imagine kicking your bare legs, your orange feet dancing like exclamation points, while over his lap. He'd, of course, make you wear those socks for the rest of the evening, pulling you into position whenever the mood struck and pointing to your socks as explanation.
"You asked for it," his shrugging shoulders would say. And with a theatrical sigh he'd freshen up your bottom during commercial breaks, half-times and any pause in the conversation.
I rarely need to ask for a spanking, as D is always "armed and ready". However, if we instituted a similar rule, it'd apply to black socks, a color I wear most often.
I wouldn't want to be the crazy, kooky lady who, on a daily basis, wears the inexplicable orange socks with her suits and dresses -- now would I?


In my group of friends, I've always been known as the sexually charged one.
As open as I am within that tight-knit group, I've only hinted at my kinkiness, leaving them with the impression that I'm "dirty" and "uninhibited" in bed.
During a girls' night years ago, I bemoaned my dwindling sex life after my boyfriend moved in. "We're only doing it five times a week," I complained.
Looking back, I understand why they rolled their eyes. I sounded like the nympho Samantha from Sex and the City.

I once told them how I'd made a teen cashier do a price check on KY jelly. (I may have scarred the boy for life, but it was a $2 difference!) That story led to uncomfortable questions and confessions about "butt sex", as they eloquently put it.
When my best friend from college's even more straight-laced sister was relocated for work, she stayed with me for a few months. Accustomed to living alone, I unwittingly left my water-proof vibrator on the edge of the Jacuzzi tub after a particularly bubbly session. She told her sister about it, and after an awkward laugh, my friend became acquainted with the fact that I owned more than one pleasure tool.
Those things I can admit. But I could never direct them to The Pink Report. They don't need to know that much about me.

One night though, I spilled my secret spanking desire to one of my closest friends.
As she described her Halloween costume -- a naughty schoolgirl uniform, complete with regulation panties -- I inwardly rejoiced at the thought of a kindred spirit within my group. Aren't schoolgirl uniforms particular to our kink?
Fueled with Bloody Marys, I blurted, "Do you like to be spanked?"
I instantly knew the answer was no. The look on her face was not one of mortification at a secret revealed, but one of utter confusion.

Instead of abandoning my cause, I bumbled forward.
"'Cuz, you know, the whole thing with 'naughty' schoolgirls...they usually need spankings."
"You mean, during sex?" She asked, still perplexed. "Yeah, I like a few spanks while he's doing me from behind. Do you?"
This, again, would have been a good time to abandon the subject.
"Oh yeah," I said, insistent on revealing myself. "But not just during sex."

Awkward pause.
"I have a video if you'd like to see...," I offered, quickly adding, "I mean, um, not of me. But a video that I like."
You could hear the ticking of my mantel clock while she pretended to consider it, her lips twisting in discomfort.
"Nooo. But I am into asphyxiation," she said, high on her own confession.
Oh my god, I thought. She is way more extreme than I am!

"Okay," I said. "I'll keep your secret if you'll keep mine."
As it turns out, you never really know what your friends, even the best of them, do behind closed doors.
And I rather like it that way.

One Day in April

It is absolutely true that D and I are spankos whose main kink is bare bottomed, spanky play. An aspect I don't write about frequently is our D/s relationship.
Submission, although the actual practice was new to me, felt absolutely right with D since his first spoken command. However, I struggled with desires as an erotic woman with her own high sex drive and as an unshakable feminist. Fully submitting, while natural to who I am, required reprogramming and introspection.
Wisely, D assigned me the task of a daily journal so we could monitor our journey into D/s.
I hadn't reread my journals until today. Below is an entry from our first month together, unedited and, aside from the removal of our names, uncensored. I now feel the same, but my submission has grown deeper than the physical reactions described in this early glimpse of D and I.

April 4, 2010
"During your playtime, your master may have brought you to the brink of orgasm many times, and many a time he let you come. He has been working hard all night to keep increasing your level of arousal and desire, conditioning you with pleasure and pain until they become one and the same thing. He is as aroused as you are, filled with the power you have given him. You are wild for each other and cannot stand it another minute."
-Claudia Varrin, Erotic Surrender
I can definitely tell that you have read this book. Or perhaps your methods of domination are inherent and you need no text to guide you. But I kept recalling how close you would get me, how I would just begin to feel the tightness in my belly, the premonition of waves, and you would scale it back. Was this deliberate? Or just luck?

I think I'm at my most submissive when I'm taken from behind with a sore and blazing ass.
Or maybe it's when I'm on my knees.
Or maybe it's when my hands are behind my head and I am forced not to move and to take what you give.

What I really fantasize about is you allowing me to come over your lap, your hand beating a steady rhythm on my cheeks -- knowing that I am experiencing these pleasures because you wished it, you gave them to me, you allowed me that abandon. That knowledge alone is almost as orgasm-producing as the actual touch of your hands.

Reality Tale

Once upon a time there was a woman. She was a remarkable, strong, fierce woman -- but she didn't know it.
She saw herself as ordinary. She laughed at low-brow humor, was afraid of spiders, and occasionally slammed her car door. She was of average looks and average intelligence and average wealth.
But deep within this pragmatic, capable woman brewed a most unusual desire.

When she closed her eyes at night, her fingers drifted and she imagined a man who cared enough to cast a light into all of her hidden corners. He'd find her specialness that she couldn't see, hold her accountable to her goals, and -- this was the part that made her fingers work most diligently -- discipline her with routine spankings.
She didn't think a man like that existed. And if he did, what did she, with her own lackluster existence, have to offer?

One day, tired of the monotony of her usual schedule and her offering of vanilla-flavored dates, she stepped into the shadowy woods outside her door. She crept cautiously, poised for any danger, prepared to turn back at the first sign of trouble.
With only a few frights along the way, she came to a clearing filled with sparkling, magical candlelight that cast her ordinary features in an extraordinary glow. A breeze lifted her nondescript hair, billowing it around her shoulders in a sea of golden tranquility.

An unknown man emerged slowly from the woods. As he approached from under the blanket of trees, his plain face began to glisten like diamonds in the light, his hair transformed into a crown. Where once there was resignation, she was suddenly filled with a reverence so great that she fell to her knees and wept with discovery and recognition.
She felt his bronzed hand tilt her chin so they were each looking at each other in this magnificent light. After a few moments, he pulled her toward a bench where she stood between his spread thighs. Wordlessly, she laid across his knee. With purpose and growing certainty he began a slow and lulling rhythm against her bottom.
He increased tempo and her ordinary world shook as it relinquished the final hold on its unremarkable axis. She felt herself spiraling outward on a fantastic voyage through space and time, only to land again between the trees, and over his knee.

Once upon a knee there perched a woman. She was a fierce, strong, remarkable woman emboldened enough to show a kindred spirit her darkest corners and wise enough to realize the importance of her dreams.
She was the least ordinary of women. And he was the least ordinary of men.
Together they walked out of the clearing, through the dark forest and into her waiting home -- where she sat tenderly ever after.

Firm Plans

With the luxury of a versatile schedule, it is rare that I know exactly what I'll be doing at any given time.
However, I know with absolute certainty my plans for 5:15 5:14 this evening.

I will be right where D instructed, and not a minute late: naked, with my nose pressed into the southwest corner of the bedroom, awaiting his arrival.

The 11th Hour

The 11th Hour: Used to describe the final moments of a given event or situation where change is still a possibility.
Perhaps...perhaps tonight, for the first time ever, he will relent.
Yes, she's been told to wait for him. Yes, he had that determined tone in his voice, the one he uses to steel himself against her pleas. And yes, he told her to get in position on the bed, her bottom a white flag announcing surrender.
But maybe tonight will be different.

How dare he, anyway? This was her mistake. She does not need a tender, hot bottom added to the growing list of consequences. Just who does he think he is?
She does not need this spanking.
He must know that. He must know that she is truly sorry, so sorry that the words tripped across her tongue and twisted from her lips in a sentence that was not a sentence: verb, noun, regret, verb, regret.

There must be some other solution.
She'll apologize, tearing up in disappointment with herself. She'll promise never, ever to do it again. She'll distract him with her caressing hands, her grateful mouth and her remorseful tears, making him forget his original intent.
He will take her in a flurry of forgiveness and together they will fold.

And then, he is there, his hand settling on the lowest valley of her back and her battle is over. She repeats her apologies, calmer now, resigned.
Her hand curls around his forearm and squeezes it, assuring him that she will not try to bargain even though this is difficult. As planned, she promises that she will not do it again, but her words are not an effort to avoid what will come next.
Their 11th hour reprieve is not escaping from discomfort, but rather embracing it. Their 11th hour reprieve is with her, over his knee, his hand forging forgiveness between them.

December 11, 2010

Woman Vs. Wood

Shall it be death by fire?
Or perhaps I shall back over it with my car, and then advance, and then back over it again.  Surely it would crack then, rendering it useless.
Maybe I should plan a stealth operation and paddlenap it, under the cover of darkness, from its resting place in D's toybag.
No matter the method, that paddle has got to go.
I say this without any hint of coyness.  There is no love-hate relationship here.  My abhorrence of the thick, wooden paddle is pure and unadulterated -- I see that thing in D's hand and my blood turns to ice.    It's as if everything else in the universe ceases to exist and there is just that paddle and me, in a stand-off.
This morning, after the paddle retreated to the Black Bag of Hell,  I searched for evidence of our last battle -- a battle from which I tearfully  emerged, defeated.  I searched under and between my cheeks, everywhere.  But there were no marks.  There was nothing to indicate how much I hurt, how much I cringed and pleaded with it to cease its relentless assault.
The paddle is mocking me.  It is belittling me, reminding me that it hasn't used its full strength yet, its battalion of troops still waiting in the wings.   I do not appreciate mockery.  I do not appreciate its cowardly attack from behind my back -- be paddle enough and face me, woman vs. wood.
I will win.  That paddle will be decimated.  One day.  The gauntlet has been thrown and I will claim my rightful title of "Pink the Great" and all the imps will cheer.
I will go medieval on its ass, like it has on mine, pulling it apart splinter by wicked splinter.     And I will laugh my evil laugh as it is reduced to a pile of kindling at my feet.
Die, paddle, die.


On the first jagged breath of pain, my worries cling to me. By the tenth, I feel them dissolving and escaping into the air around us. By the twentieth, I am his again, emptied yet filled, diffused yet centered.
We are connected by invisible strings that move and flow and stretch any distance. His hand is not a hand, but a loom to craft our delicate web; the paddle is not a paddle, but a quill to separate each silken line until there are thousands of paths between us.
He breathes out; I breathe him in. I breathe out; he breathes me in. We work in synchronicity. Our chests rise and fall in the pattern of waves, a woven testament to the undulating give-and-take between us.
He delivers and I rise up to meet him, matching his strength with the strength of my will. Soon there is no telling where his ends and mine begins.

The Bluff

I need a dumber Dom.
The thing is, dear readers, that I am very often right. And when someone is very often right, that someone may just continue thinking that she is always right. And I am always right. Well, usually. Ok, sometimes.
There are instances when I can see things turning against me, however, and instead of immediate concession, I blaze on in my wrongness and employ the useful technique that I learned in sales: The Bluff.  The Bluff is most effective when coupled with made up statistics, quotes and obscure historical references that are hard to verify.
And, no, contrary to some people's belief, a bluff is NOT inherently bad in nature. It is not. Back in 1862, when Prince Kung saved the Manchu dynasty, he told a bluff to the European Invaders that successfully negotiated the safety of the Imperial Throne. (Damn, I'm good.)
Unfortunately for me, The Bluff has recently coincided with every salesperson's arch nemesis: The Blush.

No matter how authoritative and confident I make my voice (trust me, it's a particular talent of mine), when I feel the heat infuse my face, I know that the argument has been lost and soon I will be shamed into admitting that I'm probably not right.
Admitting error is a physically painful endeavor for me, made more so by having a man in my life who, whenever he wishes, takes me over his knee and proceeds to forcefully make his point upon my posterior.

Yes, I need a dumber Dom.  I need someone who will be awed by my intelligence, rendered speechless by my grasp of history and statistics, a man who will unquestioningly believe any sort of bluffed fluff I set before him.
As it stands now, when The Bluff leads to The Blush, I end up blushing on both ends.  This will be the case tomorrow, when I pay for a bluff-gone-wrong.
Katharine Lee Bates, best known for writing the lyrics of "America The Beautiful" and less known for her poetry and creative writing, once stated, "A creatively told story should be rewarded as fact."
So there. History is, indeed, on my side.

Edit to add: a few people have asked if Katharine Lee Bates was really quoted as saying that. And to that I answer, "She COULD have." *Blush
Second edit: Be sure to check out Season's brilliant companion piece over at Blossom and Thorn. D, you should most definitely not read it.

Ain't Too Proud to Beg

“Pride comes before a fall."
I used to proudly state that nobody could make me cry with just a spanking. I am physically strong: there is nothing petite or dainty about my build. Being 5'11 and with a high pain tolerance, I know I posed a challenge to many a spanker -- first with my long legs that rarely dangled and kicked helplessly, and second with my refusal to allow any pain to sink into my prideful heart and mind.
Yes, I could take quite the spanking. If I cried, which was rare, it wasn't about the physical pain, but rather the emotional connectedness. I've written about this already.
Now there is an additional component. My bottom is betraying me these days. In addition to the emotional element, the pain is sinking in.

My coyness, once ceremonial, is now a sincere desire for the spanking to end -- and sometimes for it not to even begin. I don't understand this increased sensitivity. Is it hormonal? Weather change? Is D just spanking me harder, trying to find my growing limits? Or is my bottom always sensitive these days due to the frequent and vigorous attention that it receives?
D, of course, has noticed my panicked wriggling, my change in tone, my increased struggle.  He has commented on how quickly my voice fills with tears, way before I actually shed any.
He claims that he is "turning it up a notch".  Perhaps I had grown complacent in receiving a spanking.  Perhaps his desire for dominance is quenched by making me truly submit -- and true submission often means submitting to something we don't necessarily want or think that we can take.

The result is a much more emotional experience. I, the Amazonian woman, become a pygmy over his lap, powerless to stop the onslaught of his hand. My surrender is both an emotional and a physical one requiring an enhanced trust in the man I call my own.
With him I am free to beg. I am free to plead. There is no disappointment in myself, either from him or me.
It turns out that I need this, as much as I don't really want the pain. I need to know that I can be pushed to my outer boundaries, emotionally and physically, and be reigned in afterward by the safety of his arms.

December 10, 2010

You're late!

The party is well underway at my new Wordpress location. If you're seeing this post in your blogrolls, please update your link list.

You know what happens to those who are tardy, don't you?

Don't let this be you...

November 19, 2010

Naughty nooner and an interview

Somebody is here right now. He's sitting at my dining room table, working. Soon we will pick up where we left off at lunchtime.

Working remotely is awesome, no?

So, while D & I get in our rare weekday time together, why don't you go over to The Cognitive Slut, a fantastic blog that explores all things sex, and read the interview that she generously gave me? There's even a glimpse of what I look like. (Or at least a peek at my lips.)

While you're there check out her other posts, too -- her Halloween costume post is hysterical.

November 18, 2010


Just because I wrestle you with all of my strength does not mean that I want to win.

My triumph is knowing that even though you can always overpower me, you'll never truly hurt me.

Just because I try to push you away doesn't mean that I really want you to stay away.

I sometimes build the walls around me to see if and how you will climb them.

Just because I kneel at your feet doesn't mean I'm undeserving to be by your side.

I know that you are a man worthy of my submission. My ability to kneel before you allows me to walk confidently and proudly beside you.

Just because I want you to spank me, punish me, discipline me, doesn't mean that I am a bad person.

I am so good, in fact, that I deserve your attention, your focus. You see my potential and you hold me accountable to my goals. My light, already bright, burns stronger in your care and under your hand.

Just because I hungrily take all that you are willing to give doesn't mean that my desires are born of selfishness.

The more you give me, the more I have to give you. When I think I have nothing left, you, like a magician, find more -- pulling one vibrant scarf after another out of my empty hat, each more brilliant than the one before.

November 17, 2010

Villains and Heroes

Ever since I was old enough for such things, I've had a rescue fantasy.

I remember a conversation with my father on what would make my ideal man.

"He has to be taller and stronger than me," I declared. When asked why, the only plausible answer was, "So he can save me." (To which my father replied that he hoped I grew tall and strong enough to save fun, Dad.)

I did not elaborate on what the hero of my dreams would save me from -- but I had visions of being tied, scantily clad, to the railroad with my imminent demise barreling down the tracks. My man would DASH and LEAP and do all manner of heroic things to free me from my fate. Even then, at so tender an age, I envisioned a lecture as he held me safely in his arms, and repercussions from putting myself, his most prized possession, in danger.

In my thirty-four years, I have not once been tied to railroad tracks. And I have yet to see a man dash and leap to my rescue. Thankfully neither scenario has occurred and I have gone on happily saving myself from life's little mishaps.

But the rescue fantasy remains, seeing several evolutions from the original "knight in shining armor".

During college it manifested as a yearning for a man to recognize my self-destructive behavior and intervene, taking me firmly but lovingly by the arm and guiding me toward healthier choices. After college, I wished for a man to sit down and work on a budget with me, demonstrating how to balance the growing financial responsibilities of home ownership, car payments, and entertainment expenses.

Me being me, of course these fantasies included certain ramifications were I not to turn my life around. Those ramifications included (but were not limited to) frequent spankings: reminders in the morning, motivations in the afternoon, discipline in the evenings.

Today things are a bit different. I recognize that I don't actually need someone else to guide me through positive choices or to help me sidestep dangerous scenarios, but there is yet an ever-present villain who needs vanquishing.

That villain isn't around every day, or every week. But there are days when, suddenly, I find myself hostage to the villain's negativity, falling prey to the whispered insults and immobilized by the worst case scenarios, as tied and captive as any damsel on the tracks.

That villain, in case you have not yet identified her, is myself. I am the one who poses the most danger to my well-being.

In this thing we do, my villain cannot be defeated by a simple telling-off or fist shaking, but must be met head on -- heroically matched with words and actions to have her scamper off to an appropriate, unoccupied corner.

When my self-doubt strikes, I long for my man to take me over his lap, bare my bottom and, in soothing yet confident words, say, "Nobody talks about my girl like that. Not even her."

That is my modern day hero.

November 16, 2010


"Strip," he commands.

He is sitting, fully clothed and patient, on the edge of the bed. The paddle is next to him, holding a silent promise.

I freeze, not out of defiance, but to absorb the effects of this moment that passes between us -- the shifting dynamic as palpable as the tremor of a train making its way down the tracks, my surging heart rate suddenly overcoming the sounds of the ticking clock until all that is left is a dim roar inside my head.

With trepidation, my fingers find their way to the button and then the zipper of my pants and I wriggle out of them, dipping my head, allowing my hair to momentarily cover my face.

I can feel his eyes assessing my revealed legs but when I look at him, he is staring at my lips which I have unconsciously licked and pulled between my teeth.

"Keep going," he says, his amusement at my hesitation clearly evident.

He has seen me naked before, both for pleasure and for punishment. This scene is not new -- he watching as I shed each article of clothing in a shy strip tease, his legs slightly spread, feet planted firmly, waiting -- but each time I am sharply reminded of our arrangement.

And, so, like his good, albeit tremulous, girl, I continue as instructed: unbuttoning my shirt and letting it slip from my shoulders to fall to the floor; reaching behind to unhook my bra which loosely cups my breasts before joining the collection of garments on the heap. I then turn from him to lower my panties, treating him to the unveiled sight as I bend and then busy my hands in the folding of my discarded clothing.

In all of this, his only movement is the flickering of his eyes, the smoothing of his hands over his denim-clad knees, the almost indiscernible rise of his chest under his long-sleeve tee, a twitch of his lips in recognition.

I am now naked. He's seen me this way hundreds of times, and yet I have never felt more exposed than standing here with my fingernails digging into the outsides of my thighs as I try to hold still while he, fully clothed, examines me.

He starts with my hair in its wild tumble of curls, continues to my sweeping collarbone which he will later kiss. I know he sees the full curves and erect nipples of the breasts he will grab and pinch, the swell of my belly encased by hip bones. He pauses as he assesses the closeness of my shave and continues down my long legs to finish at my freshly polished toes.

It is in these moments that I find myself wondering how it is possible to feel so small and yet so significant in his quiet appraisal. I no longer belong to myself; I am his.

He instructs me to come closer, to stand between his legs. I feel the soft cotton on his arms caress me as his hands assuredly cup my bottom, his hair tickling the undersides of my breasts as he holds me there, breathing in my scent.

My fate is sealed with the next three words.

"You've been naughty."