Spanked outside

Mmmm....great outdoor fun. Sure beats gardening.

Waiting

I am showered, shaved, corseted and perfumed, awaiting your arrival. Your phone call just announced that you are running late. I must wait more.

What joys will tonight bring? To what depths will you take me this time? And will I be strong enough to offer the submission that you deserve and desire?

Maybe your hands will be soft in my hair, releasing it from its updo. Or perhaps you will roughly grab the nape of my neck and force me downward so I may gaze upward.

My body still bears slight marks from our last encounter. Will you run your fingertips over them, admiring your work? Bend to kiss them, acknowledging the ownership they proclaim?

I anxiously await you. This journey, these gifts we give one another, they are what I knew I wanted and needed. Following the soft whispers of my submission, I am eager to explore more and travel the road untraveled with you as my leader, your voice firm yet reassuring in guidance.

(Artwork by Kami Tora.)

Add another to the list

I love butts.

I love the curves, the softness, the flare of the cheeks, the power residing under the silk. I specifically love the female bottom.

My love of the ass developed at a very early age, sneaking peeks at women undressing, watching the cheeks move and sway as they removed their panties.

This love is so deeply ingrained in me that I think it might be key to why I so enjoy having my own bottom reddened; the simple act of baring myself produces an immediate physiological response. My pants go down and I get wet. Indisputable cause and effect.

I love butts and I really love mine.

But of course it goes deeper than that. One can enjoy the visual of a beautiful bottom and not necessarily thirst for it to jiggle, clench and turn crimson under the force of an implement. But I do.

I like to watch. I like to listen. I'm a voyeur and an exhibitionist. I can get off on the sounds of a firm spanking, my nose tucked into the corner, my bare bottom on display. Or perhaps I will someday put my own skills as a bottom to use on another woman's bottom, with me delivering the smacks, caresses and gauging their effects.

It's on my list; it might be done.

The Lexan treatment

Not having experienced lexan (yet), I'm wondering if it's as effective as it appears.

Check out how quickly these women mark. Lovely! Ouch!

(Thanks to my good friend in MA for these videos! You know who you are.)

Realtor Retribution

A nice hand spanking to kick off the weekend.

I think he talks a bit too much, but I love her panties (and her bottom).

5 simple rules

Having spent considerable time over the last year on numerous dating sites, vanilla and lifestyle alike, I feel entitled to make some sweeping generalizations. Bear with me for my 5 rules of hitting the back button on a man's profile, and if this offends, I apologize. There are, of course, exceptions.

He MIGHT need personal enrichment classes if:

1. Before he even knows you, he is yelling at you in ALL CAPS;

2. His profile picture is of his cock...in someone's mouth;

3. He is posed next to his prized possession: a faux wood-paneled minivan, or any car for that matter. (note: I hold no importance on what kind of vehicle someone drives, but if you use your car as a personal selling point it leads me to believe that there isn't much there to sell. Motorcycles notwithstanding.);

4. He carefully capitalizes all pronouns in reference to himself but ignores any other acceptable grammatical practices;

5. He is scowling in every photograph. Looks like fun! Sign me up!

Those were the rules I lived by. What are some of yours?

Brat, undercover

I don't want to divulge ALL of my secrets. But I'd like to make a confession here: I am an undercover brat. Most people would not describe me as such; it's a bit more camouflaged than the typical stick-my-tongue-out-and-run behavior of some successful brats I've met. That's just not me.

I prefer to brat and get away with it.

Actually, that's not entirely true. My true preference is to brat and get called on it by a man astute enough to detect the brattiness.

The thrill for me comes in wondering whether my attitude will go undetected or ignored.

It may be as simple as making a drink for my Dom that contains more ice than beverage. Or as innocuous as saying I will call at a certain time and wait an extra 5 minutes, phone in hand while I watch the clock tick past the appointed time. One of my favorites is to wear complicated underthings, lots of layers, that make the unveiling process difficult.

The danger of my brand of bratting? Well, I'm blonde so I suffer from stereotypically blonde moments which can be mistaken for insolence. And it's awfully hard to convince a man who is sold on my intelligence that I REALLY did send that email to the wrong person by mistake. (Funny story there.) Or to convince him that I REALLY didn't notice I was wearing a shirt, a tank top, a corset-thing AND a bra. Or that I REALLY didn't notice his drink was all vodka, that I had a momentary lapse and forgot to add the 7-up.

The end result? Well, either way, if I land over a firm set of knees, it's all good.

French fried fanny

Love this clip.

The idea of a third party watching a spanking is a recurring fantasy of mine. More on that later.

Trouble with a capital "Oof!"

I'm the dork who got herself into trouble. And why? For the same reasons I always do: stubbornness, procrastination, and a firm belief that I'm too much of a good girl to actually warrant true discipline.

(Artwork by Kami Tora.)

Wrong on that last account, evidently. Today I was informed that I earned myself some time with the wicked crop (the longer cousin of the one I prematurely praised in an earlier post). And that, readers, is true discipline indeed.

It's not like I haven't been warned, scolded, spanked for my tardiness prior to this, the last straw. But, really, doesn't he know how "busy" I am? Doesn't he think it's cute when I drag my feet and make sweetly apologetic excuses? Apparently my charms are wasted on that steel-hearted brute because nothing I said (although I know better than to argue) could change his resolve.

Whose fault is this really?

The blame rests squarely on me. And I regret that our Saturday will be marred with the business of reminding me of my promise and of my failure to deliver on that promise. Although, he assures me that it will not make him any more or less comfortable. Well that indifference makes me feel a whole lot better, thank you, Sir.

So when I assume the reminder position on Saturday while he sips the tasty drink I make for him, I will be cursing my slacker ways and dreaming of better excuses so I can get out of the next punishment.

Or, crazy thought: perhaps I'll do as he asks, because when he says, "next time it will be worse", I'll know he means business!

(Author's note: I mean "steel-hearted brute" in the most tender way, of course!)

Blog-tastic?

So many of my friends and online acquaintances have asked: why a blog?

Last night, after being asked this question for the seventy-second time (okay 7th), I decided that perhaps I should have a better answer than, "I've always wanted to blog." Why have I always wanted it? What do I get out of baring myself with my words, as opposed to just baring myself to my spanker?

Answer: I'm tired of lying.

I feel the need to cast my truth into the blogosphere to an unknown audience rather than share it with my vanilla friends and family. I want to explore my submissive feelings in a safe way, free of stigma and recrimination. And I want to have fun doing it, enjoying who I am and embracing the shadowy part that was long ignored during my failed marriage.

Will my online friends find themselves in my blog? (Another question from some worried folk.) Perhaps they will appear in fragments; they are a part of my story. But to those I care about (and there are many), I promise to be gentle and respectful. This is not an endeavor to out other people because they have a right to tell their stories (or not) in their own ways.

Also, before I share any intimately revealing details about the people currently in my life, I offer a review of my post before it goes "public". And it's my pledge to attempt respect towards people I am no longer in contact with, or at least keep the anonymity in the absence of warmth.

Is this my way of getting attention? Do I really expect my words to hold meaning for other people? To be honest, neither is my goal. If I get positive attention, awesome. If my blog helps someone along their journey, then I'd be happy to know that. But this blog is for ME.

You can only be so selfless before you become less of yourself. And, after years of denying what I really wanted and who I really was, I'm ready for all of the pieces of me to come together again.

Super spank!

Hello, my name is barely.pink and I've been a spanko since I could remember.

During my early years I lived in typical middle-class suburbia: rows of brick ranch houses on a quiet cul-de-sac, lots of neighborhood children, and playing outside until dusk. I had two particularly close friends during that time, Michelle and Brian.

Michelle and I would spend hours playing in her finished basement. We created a house under her father's pool table and played Barbies inside. And we would spank each other, taking pauses between the Barbie drama. Sometimes we would argue over who would "get" to be spanked; neither of us much enjoyed spanking the other, the fun was in receiving.

And occasionally we would rope our good friend, Brian, into the fun & games. He would play the daddy while Michelle and I would alternate between mommy and child.

Brian was a good-natured sort. Being the youngest of three older brothers, he was used to being steamrolled. So when Michelle or I would say, "Spank me! I've been naughty!", he would unquestioningly oblige. Over the knee we'd go for a quick round of smacks to our covered bottoms. Oh! The tingles!

One memorable day, Brian dressed like Superman. His costume was a good one: utility belt, cape, built-in pecs with the "S" emblem, he even wore tights! Dressed as he was, he looked the spitting image of the superhero with his dark, wavy hair, strong chin and piercing blue eyes.

That day Michelle and I were playing in his tree house while Brian ran around below, cape flying behind him, making "whoosh!" and "POW!" sound effects.

He clearly needed to save someone and he was armed and ready for the task. So, I, being the damsel-in-distress type (no longer) and his cooperative accomplice, climbed out the window of the tree house and hung there.

"Help! Superman, help me!" I called while kicking my legs and desperately hoping that I would not, in fact, fall.

Brian loyally sprang into action. He bounded, as only Superman might, up the tree house ladder and got to the window in a flash. Michelle dutifully played her part and said, "Thank goodness you made it in time to help my friend, Superman!"

And there we were, Superman leaning out the window attempting to rescue the foolish girl who endangered herself to garner his attention. Resting his elbows on the ledge, his hands locked around my upper arms and he pulled with all of his might to bring me to safety, his face screwing up tightly with the exertion.

After I was safely inside and caught my breath, I realized that Brian really was angry. I had worried him with my foolishness. I watched the boy, in his Superman gear, wipe his brow and breathe in deep huffs and puffs as his face resumed its normal color. He could barely look at me!

And then, free of preamble, he pulled me over his lap and delivered the mother of all spankings! A Super Spank! He lectured; he scolded; he paused to make sure I was paying attention. It went on forever, with Michelle giggling next to us, undoubtedly wishing it was her that had devised the "window plan".

And afterwards, we remained in the tree house until our parents called us home. Three children emerged, seemingly innocent, who had just had the earliest costumed role play perhaps in the history of spanking.

The Dom factor

What's with that Dom? Always telling me what to do..."yes, Sir", "no, Sir", "please, Sir". Just who does he think he is anyway?

Does he think it makes me hot to have me kneel at his feet, kiss his hand, and then press my lips to his jeans to welcome his cock? Does he think it makes me wet to stand with my hands clasped behind my head as he teases, licks, and tortures my nipples? Does he think I lose my breath when he slips his fingers into my unzipped pants to check the closeness of my shave?

He thinks exactly that. And he knows, with absolute certainty and irrefutable proof, that he is right.

But really, what's an independent, strong woman like me doing with someone who would be considered by mainstream society to be "overbearing", "controlling", and "sadistic" behind closed doors?

It's in the way that I feel, the lightness that accompanies the relinquishing of my control. It's the ability to be forgiveably directionless for the few hours when I'm with him--my direction is his, his desires match my own. It's in the safety of his arms as he holds me afterwards while I make my funny, happy noises (i.e. snoring contentedly).

He withholds while he gives; forbids while he allows me everything.

The "Dom factor", which I've tried to ignore but keep coming back to, is a force that once enjoyed is irreplaceable. My Dom's factor is the strongest force I have yet felt.

And, oh my goodness, we're just beginning.

My most excellent shopping adventure

I swear I do more than shop. But in between appointments today, I popped into a store I rarely, if ever, enter. (Little story about road rage in between, in which I actually yelled "dick fucker", two words I have never combined before in my life. Today's vocabulary lesson provided by the bozo who nearly sideswiped me.)

The store: Burlington Coat Factory. My mission: success!

Did you know that they have corsets for $9.99? Corsets! For $9.99! And, surprisingly, they were not made of material that will make my sensitive skin break out in hives.

They also had the famed Playboy one-piece, drop-seat pjs, which I have had my eye on for months and months. *Sigh...It was as I suspected: they are not designed for a long-framed woman such as myself. But at least I know now and can cross them off my list. But really, they have them for $14.99 and they are as cute in person as online.

So what did I walk out of there with, besides my renewed mouth-of-a-sailor? Some sassy lingerie, hot heels, and a new plaid skirt, all for under $30. Who says a lady can't be cheap AND dirty?

(Ankle cuffs available at http://www.northbound.com.)

Hot for teacher

Imagine opening your door to an adult schoolgirl, contrite and ready to be taught the lessons she's been missing for, oh, 5 days. Imagine that schoolgirl nervously turning her feet inward and pulling her bottom lip into a bite that is at once seductive and innocent. Imagine her playing with the bottom of her skirt, wondering how much you can see and what the neighbors are thinking.

Why am I having you imagine this? Because that will be me today. Around 6:30 pm, with my uniform freshly pressed yet inevitably wrinkled from the hour-long drive.

It's so good to be a girl about to be spanked!

Awakening

I consider myself to be fairly self-aware and self-actualized; I've always been confident of who I am and what I'm worth (although those feelings have waxed and waned, particularly over the last year).

But today, I am more in tune with the quiet part in me left undisturbed until now. Although I'd like to give credit to myself in awakening that part, it would not be entirely true.

Credit where credit is due, right?

To be seen for who you are, to be understood better than you understand yourself, is a gift. I feel the tight fist I've kept over my heart unfurling once again, but this time it's safer. Safer, but not entirely safe: no risk, no reward. And, even though I'm a Libra, I haven't dusted off the scales and measured which is greater, the risk or the reward. But I'm betting and hoping that the rewards will far outweigh.

I understand I'm speaking in cloaked phrases, intangible descriptions. But it's a simple as this: I am awake now. And the reality is so much better, so much more vibrant, grittier, than the ideal.

So thank you to luck, fortune, kismet, coincidence, or whatever placed me in the right place and in the right hands at this particular moment in time. I am awake now, but still dreaming.

Clap-on

Okay. Here's what you do:

1. Order the clapper (of "clap-on, clap-off" fame);

2. Install the clapper prior to your Dom's/top's arrival;

3. Make a snarky remark;

4. Let the fun ensue.

Probably not the most original gag, but it beats drawing a bulls-eye on your butt.

And I also think I just tipped my hand. I'll let you know how it works out for me.

In the open

I must own this button.

It could be my not-so-secret badge that some would consider tongue-in-cheek. Others would have no concept of "nipple clamps". Others would know and, perhaps, share the sentiment.

If I worked at TGIF, it could be a piece of flair. (Do they still do that, a la "Office Space"?) I would wear it next to my "Plays well with others" button to make the picture even clearer.

Realistically, it's not a flag I'm yet willing, if ever, to wave publicly. There's a satisfaction in keeping secrets.

Wish list...answered

An important man in my life believes that there are no coincidences.

I'll leave this decision to my 5 readers after I give my brief and purposely vague account of the weekend.

Friday afternoon, and there are three items on my wishlist: a Hitachi wand, restraints from adamandeve.com, and a thick wooden paddle from spankinc.com. I had already ordered the wand (with two attachments...squee!), having considered it previously, and am anxiously awaiting Tuesday's mail.

It is finally Saturday night, and I am presented with (drumroll)...the wooden paddle. Not the exact one, mind you, but with near identical measurements. My assessment: strictly punishment, no fun to be had there! Cross that item off my list, please and thank you.

Imagine my surprise when I next meet a restraint system similar to the one I had my eye on, quickly followed by the Hitachi wand! My assessment: in the interest of modesty (and a good sense of self-preservation), I will only say that the restraints should arrive in about a week. And the Hitachi? Money well spent.

Yes...that good. And regardless of the existence of coincidence, I do believe in fortune. And I am one fortunate, pink-cheeked, satisfied girl.

Happy Sunday night!

Clone-a-Willy

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Marked territory

She lifts one cheek and then the other to inspect the hidden marks beneath. They are slight: thin bluish lines that end in flares of pink and gray. The right side bears a darker line, with the flare sitting on the innermost part of her leg, where inner thigh meets inner cheek. The left, fading faster, curls toward the outer edge of her thigh, extending along the lower curve of her bottom.

A warmth moves over her as she knows the marks were not created in violence or in anger, or through a misjudgment of force. He saw that spot of her body and he wanted himself there. Those stains are the evidence of his claim on her.

There was a time when marks were undesirable to her, a sign of too much force, an ugly marring of her pale skin. But any who had marked her before had done so accidentally, betraying their lack of knowledge or skill in preventing the bruises that would last for days.

Tracing the lines with her fingertip, she reflects on the effort necessary to achieve their perfection. Two lines. One beneath each cheek. Like a painting, the strokes were designed to add to the beauty of the whole, nothing haphazard or ugly about them.

Deliberately placed, they are tender in their reminder of the night he put them there. And she is proud and thankful at once for his gift.

(Artwork by the fabulous Boris Vallejo)

Cropped!

In the past, I'd always been somewhat hesitant in embracing the thinner, whippier implements such as the crop, cane, and switch.

But recently I was paid a surprise visit by a crop.

I can safely say that I have met my match. I may have a high tolerance; I may be stingy with the tears; I may display a false bravada. But this crop was the great equalizer, and was not even administered with much force.

Did I love it? I am loathe to love it. So, that's a "yes, Sir".

I still prefer my old stand-bys, but this adds an extra oomph to the toy box.

You can purchase yours at: http://www.countywhips.uk.com/.

This is a child's riding crop, measuring an approximate 24" of leather-bound glory.

I highly recommend this for the uninitiated looking to dabble with their more experienced partners.

The Stranger

Though we share so many secrets,

There are some we never tell.

Why were you so surprised

That you never saw the stranger?

Did you ever let your lover

see the stranger in yourself?

-Billy Joel, "The Stranger"

By nature of what we do, most of us are liars. I know I wore several faces in the beginning of this journey, even went so far as to play a switch (which by nature I am not). To borrow, once again, from Billy Joel: "some are satin, some are steel/ some are silk and some are leather/ they're the faces of a stranger but we love to try them on."

Driving to the store today, "The Stranger" shuffled through my ipod and I was surprised to find such personal meaning in the lyrics. Billy wasn't foreseeing the online dating world, was he? Certainly, people wear their masks in person, but this internet thing makes it so easy, so tempting, to stretch the truth, to create a persona more in line with who we want to be or what is expected of us. Younger, older, thinner, stronger, more accomplished, more dominant, more submissive, single, male, female. Some are more harmless than others, but they all erode the delicate nature of trust.

So do we ever know who we are really talking to? And even after meeting, are those masks so firmly in place that the truth is inscrutable?

And while I may have stretched the truth a time or two, more recently I've been committed to full disclosure. What is to be gained by the masks we wear? Aside from the momentary escape, the ability to be someone who we aspire to be, in the long-run we do ourselves no favors living in the fantastical roles we create.

I want to be wanted for myself: my desires, my needs, my age, my size, my imperfections, my story. And the person I choose should have enough respect for himself to demand the same.

No more pretending. I've had too many strangers in my life. Strangers are disposable, far too easy to leave but harder to forget. My trash can is full and my heart is bruised. But I'm not afraid to try again, in fact I am happily and eagerly doing so.

Eight notes

So far our actions have not covered new territory. I have been spanked with all of the implements you have chosen. I have been fucked. I have been made to beg. You have seen the reddening of cheeks, gazed upon a face between your legs, pulled hair, twisted nipples, withheld orgasms, and created scenes beyond the realm of my vast imagination.

And yet...

When it is I with you, over your knee, over the couch, over a stack of pillows, we set our own unique rhythm. Our own beat. When it is I with you, the carpet pressing curlycues into my knees, my breasts meeting your hands, my forehead kissing your sternum, we set our own instrumental.

It is the same eight notes, you say. But with different lyrics. Different tempo. Different voice.

When it is you with me, me with you, our hands, mouths, feet move together over old territory and find new ground. Our dance. Our song.

(Arm cuffs available at http://www.northbound.com/)

I'll take a banana split

I have a confession.

I love vanilla ice cream. You can dress it up with sprinkles, caramel, or put it on a piece of chocolate cake. It's versatile. It's simple. And sometimes it's completely called for.

Consistent and predictable, and despite some variations, there is no doubt what "vanilla" tastes like. You get what you ask for, right?

Let me extend that confession now to a more personally revealing detail. Until very recently I was sampling some of the variations of vanilla in the dating world. I had German vanilla. I had EMT vanilla, Prof vanilla, and Put-a-beer-in-front-of-me-and-I-will-not-shut-up vanilla. I tried pensive vanilla, shallow vanilla, intellectual and meathead vanilla.

You get the picture. I wholeheartedly explored the creamier, paler offerings of my locale in an effort to simplify.

And while these vanillas had slightly different flavors, the most I could look forward to was getting to the bottom of the bowl. The experiences were not "lick the bowl clean and get my nose sticky in the process" quality, if you know what I mean.

So give me a banana split. Give me different flavors, colors, the burst of pecans and the sweet ripeness of a long piece of fruit. Banana splits are like fingerprints: no one's dish is quite like another's.