Open for submission

I'm just one woman. And I have limited time and funding...but, wow, I love testing new products and implements. Fun stuff like dildos and paddles and restraints and vibrators and kink wear.

If you have a product that you absolutely loved (or hated) send me a review and a link to the product. Be sure to tell me if you would like to remain anonymous or if you'd like to post under your id (include your blog link, too, if you have one). Reviews will be posted over at "the pink reviews", here.

Email your reviews to: thepinkreviews@gmail.com

This is an advertising-free zone. All reviews will be honest and for the purposes of seeking out the very best in kinky merchandise.

Getting off

Fingers release it

from the depths, out of the mouth:
electric thunder.

-bp

I need an orgasm and I need one now.

This post was intended to be one about my Saturday night adventures with the flogger and restraints, but I was distracted by various photos of women in the throes of passion. And now, all I can think about is adding my own picture to the mix.

Days like this are rare: I need an orgasm far more than a spanking. (Maybe because my bottom is still warm and pleasantly pink?)

And I just received the blessings from my Dom, so I'm off to...get off.

Naughty words welcome

I remember the moment I saw my parents holding my mad-libs book. A feeling of horror passed through my stomach and my mouth immediately filled with a sour taste. I knew what they were reading: "piss", "fuck", "dick", "sex", "vagina", among other naughty 7th-grader words scrawled in the blanks of the "kid-friendly" stories. To say that they were disappointed in their innocent, clean-mouthed daughter would be an understatement; that was the last time they ordered mad-libs from the Scholastic Books monthly selection.

Those words aren't so bad though, right?

We can do worse.

In following with my pre-adolescent tradition, every week I will post a list of simple parts of speech over at "the pink libs" (see side-bar link). Comment with your words (comments won't be published but I will read them) and the seventh submission will be used to fill in the blanks of a story I've written.

Here is my challenge to you: be kinky, be creative, be fun. Be as dirty as you want to be.

My parents aren't looking this time.

Ready to pop

I've been taking advantage of the amazing weather here to tend to my new yard. The flowerbeds had been neglected for so long; they were overgrown with weeds and grass which I have been steadily pulling out.

I am not a gardener (odious job), so I really don't know anything about plants. However, there was one that everyone said looked like a giant thistle. I was inclined to agree, but it had buds that looked ready to pop. So I waited.

And this is what emerged. Poppies. Their tissue paper petals surround intricate centers, adding a burst of much-needed color to the outdoor space.

Anyone versed in gardening probably could have identified them as poppies. But to me, they honestly looked like an ugly weed. The benefit of waiting, letting them open up to me, revealed the true beauty within.

And not to be all deeply philosophical, but the same can be said for relationships. Take someone who isn't your example of physical perfection, let them bloom for you, see what kind of color they add to your life.

As of now, these poppies are the pride of my garden. I can't imagine how blank my flowerbeds would look without them.

Decisions

This is how I imagine waiting for you.

My panties are resting just below my cheeks, thighs grinding slowly against one another, as I close my eyes and imagine the sight I'm creating for you: my pale, round bottom fighting for attention with my yearning pussy. I wonder which you'll go for first?

You pause when you enter and your breath catches. You feel your cock stir and your palm twitch as you contemplate my offering.

To spank or fuck? Which would you choose? Which do I want?

You cross the room and smooth your hand over my back and hold it there, my bottom rising upward to tempt you. Please touch me, it seems to say. I need you to touch me, and I can feel your deliberation that lasts the length of a breath....

I feel your hand move over the right cheek and lift it softly. Your fingers hook beneath and you feel my wetness beckoning. You push my thighs apart, lift your hand and...

Lucky number 7

Number One:

"No, I think you have to do it HARDER."

He increased the impact just enough that it was finally past the ticklish whisper of his palm against my bottom.

"Ummm....yeah, that's better. Now HARDER, I think." I said, feeling the frustrated pull in my belly. I knew I needed something, had fantasized about this moment for as long as I could remember. It took all of my courage to finally ask my college boyfriend to spank me, "really spank me", hoping he would know what that meant.

He had no idea what that meant. But I give him big points for being open-minded.

And so there we were, two 19-year-olds, he on the bed and me over his lap with my pants around my knees. His hand slow and tentative, warming my firm, young cheeks as I marveled at the sensation of finally being over a man's lap.

We improved with time, but it was far from perfect. I wanted and needed more. These first moments didn't quench my desire, but fueled it instead, propelling me down an unusual path that most don't know exists. A spanko was born.

Number 7:

"Pull down your pants. NOW!"

The words surprised me. There we were, enjoying a glass of wine after dinner in my cozy living room on our first meeting. And the commanding tone of his voice shocked me.

I knew it was coming. I had dressed appropriately, at his request. Concealed beneath my daily wear of a scoop-neck tee and jeans was the corset, garters and stockings as he had specified.

So the shock was unwarranted, but the spreading fingers of heat through my pussy WAS unanticipated. Nobody had dared be that direct with me, not on the first meeting. And yet, his steady gaze of expectation had me fumbling for the button on my pants as I eeked out a "yes, Sir."

Pants down and off, I glanced shyly at him, finding amusement and pleasure in his returning stare. "Turn around," he said.

A moment's pause, and I turned, fumbling with my stockings as I did so. I willed myself to stare at the wall in front of me, to stop fidgeting, to breathe. I heard him rise and leave the room, his footsteps across the kitchen quickly replaced with the sound of the chair in my dining room being pulled out and carried to where I stood.

This was the moment. There was no doubt now that this was happening: I would soon be over his lap, feeling his years of experience as a Dom against my neglected bottom.

I felt his fingers caress my exposed cheeks and the butterflies took flight. Gooseflesh replaced his fingertips and I gasped on an exhale of held anticipation. "Are you ready?" He whispered, close to my left ear now, his breath hot and soft. What could I say? "No"? "Give me a minute"? God, yes, I'd never been more ready or unready in my life!

I must have nodded. Or squeaked out something that resembled a "yes", because soon he was seated and pulling me across his knees.

After some minor adjustments to my garter, a caress to my hair and a tender acknowledgment of my offered bottom, he began a slow and measured rhythm that would gradually increase to an unpredictable staccato that lasted for months (and counting).

He is often hard, harder than I knew I wanted, but he carries me across the line between pleasure and pain, pushing me further than I've yet been pushed. He propels me down this path, that first began as a curiosity-turned-obsession, but has now transformed into a necessity.

It's as necessary as orgasms and sex, poetry and chocolate. It is who I am, a defining part. I am not a spanko. I am his submissive.

(Artwork by Endart.)

Death of a hairbrush

What a shame! A perfectly good brush met its demise in a battle against my bottom. And if I sound proud of this, let me assure you that I am not. In my many scuffles with the brush, I have only emerged victorious twice. Yes, folks, I have had the (dis)pleasure of beating the brush on two occasions, both of which, as you can imagine, are quite memorable for their...err...lasting impressions.

The most recent "victory"? Well, I'm not entirely sure if it happened in the parking lot of the pool hall or at the bar. You see, it was dark in the car by that time. And he spanked fast and hard for fear that we'd be found out at any moment. (He didn't fear this as much as I did, it must be said.)

We made it a mission to experience the back seat of his new car in a full-out, spank-happy fashion. A spanko christening, if you will. And so we did, the first spanking administered in full light of day with his hand, with my long legs pressed up against the car window and my skirt raised past my waist to reveal my thong and garter and rapidly reddening derriere.

The parking lot, by the way, was full, leaving lots of opportunities for discovery. Being a shy exhibitionist (and not wanting either of us to visit the local jail), I was torn. I imagined that someone must have heard or saw something, right? If they didn't hear the smacks as his hand and brush collided with my exposed cheeks, then surely they heard my whimpers and protestations, right? And would they share my shame with others later, conveying in shocked tones what they witnessed?

Ah, happy thoughts.

But it was on one of our later trips to the back-seat that the brush actually broke. I can well imagine the moment it did. There was one particularly hard smack that had me wincing and writhing over his lap, before I slid to the floor of the car. That surely was the moment.

Scorecard:

Miss Pink: 2; Brush: 987

Do I care to try for three? Oh, absolutely!

(Special thanks to Rayne at Mischief Managed, for providing me with this delectable photo. Visit her here, http://solemnlyswear-uptonogood.blogspot.com/)

I heart Amy Denison

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Fetch!

Now, when I close my eyes, I can only imagine how she looked: on her hands and knees, crawling as fast as she could, knowing that each second over the limit meant a stroke with the crop. Attired in a red bra and matching garter with black stockings, her focus then was not on her image but rather on the four small balls thrown around the room.

"Go fetch!", he'd call, starting the timer. He allowed her only 30 seconds to cover the large area in the master bedroom, her long legs and arms working quickly to retrieve each ball in her mouth, carrying two at a time, to bring them back to him.

"Oh, look at that hot ass!", he'd say but the words barely registered. "Good girl," he'd praise, and her spirits soared.

And when she wasn't good enough? She'd present herself to him, on all fours still, bottom high in the air to receive her earned strokes with the crop, feeling as many as 10 at one time. The sting of the crop was more a blow to her competitive spirit than to her reddened cheeks, although both hurt.

Now, as my fingers circle the rugburn on my knees, my thoughts linger on the image of a lusty woman, and every inch that must have been revealed during her game-play. He must have seen the bounce of her breasts as they freed themselves from the confines of her bra; he must have enjoyed the jiggle of her pinkened bottom as her knees connected with the carpet. He couldn't help but notice the swell of her pussy lips as she lowered her mouth to each ball, her bottom in the air leaving every area wantonly exposed.

"My balls look good in your mouth," he said, with a wink.

"Well, obviously," she thought, with a blush.

Toasted, with a side of butter

Let's take care of our bottoms, alright? I mean, in this kink of ours, they are a pretty major focus. And as much "abuse" as mine takes, I like it to feel soft, look smooth, and be well-admired. I want my bottom to be toasted, with a side of butter.

There's this product that I use. It is a-ma-zing. Origins makes an exfoliator called "Incredible Spreadable Scrub" and comes in several tantalizing scents. The one I prefer? Ginger. (They also make a fabulous line of ginger souffle lotion and bath creams.) Use it with a mesh poof (what ARE those things called?) for maximum effect.

Word to the wise, throw that mesh poof out after a week and get a new one. They are breeding grounds for bacteria so it would kind of defeat the purpose to have them hanging around for too long. (And you can get them at any dollar store for...a dollar.)

Having a smooth, soft bottom is my personal invitation for him to stay awhile. Even after last night's ministrations (there was more spanking following my discipline), my bottom is soft and pliable and ready for more. Hello, Saturday!

What are some of your bottom-beauty secrets?

Weightless

The mirror confirms the activities of last night: bottom is still pink, tender to the touch, small bruise from the paddle forming on my right cheek. I don't bruise easily; there was some power behind those four punishing swings. Enough power to make my hands fly away from the wall and lean my weight against him while I caught my breath and whimpered.

"Take a deep breath," he said when my hands returned to the wall. I obeyed, dragging the air through my open mouth, feeling the worry ease out of my forehead. "And another," he said. And I took another, steadying myself and regaining my focus.

It took all of my willpower to stand there and wait for the next smack, knowing how much it would hurt. His forearm against my ribs, cupping a breast reassuringly, helped me through it.

You see, those four smacks weren't meant for pleasure: four strokes of the heavy paddle, for the four times he's had to remind me of completing the same task. I deserved it. And he told me what to expect days before. I won't say that it was just as hard for him to deliver them as it was for me to receive them, but I know it wasn't easy.

It's been a rough week here at Pink Headquarters. A very rough week. I didn't realize how much stress I was feeling until shortly before he was due to arrive. I didn't want him to come. I didn't want to face the punishment on top of all of the other things that had been going on, thinking that the paddle would just add to the overall crappiness that I was feeling.

But I should have known. I should've known that my head would clear afterwards and that I could much better deal with things once the matter of my discipline was out of the way. It's amazing, "this thing we do". My stress was like a physical presence; my burdens weighed so heavily. And yet, those ten minutes (yes, it took 10 minutes) of leaning against the wall, intimately dealing with one of my discrepancies, somehow eased the weight of the week.

There were two people in that room. One of those people felt let down, and the other felt guilty for making him feel that way. But when they emerged, it was clear: let's start again; all is forgiven.

Mid-afternoon delight

For a girl who loves men, I sure spend a lot of time looking at girl-on-girl spanking.

But isn't this picture lovely? It's pure fantasy in photographic perfection.

Look at that Domme, bending the crop while eyeing her target, a target who just might be wearing the sexiest heels and stockings I have ever seen. Seriously, I could conquer the world in those stockings.

I'm not sure which of these delicious outfits I'd feel more submissively at-home in: the simplicity of a sexy black garter and stockings, or the complicated musings of the sub's waist cincher. Either would be fitting; either is absolutely lick-worthy.

And the intensity of the Domme's gaze? Yeah, I've seen that look in my Dom's eyes just before feeling the crack of the crop. It's a look that has me trembling in excitement and just a bit of fear, a feeling tangible even now, from a black-and-white photograph. That gaze has power.

And don't think I didn't notice what's on the night-stand. Do you see? Is that a ridonkulous black plug, or just my wishful thinking? And don't miss the cuffs dangling from the drawer, or the slimline vibrator standing in wait.

Many, many pleasures to be had in this scene. And my imagination is off and running on this Thursday afternoon...

The tedium of pants

How often do you need a spanking? For me, ideally, it would be a daily thing. Who am I kidding? For me it would be a morning, afternoon, and evening thing, with some sharp reminders and corner-time thrown in for good measure.

I say "ideally" because most of us live with other responsibilities. We can't be spanking all of the time, can we? We must go forth in the pants-wearing world and straighten our legs to walk among the pale-bottomed folk.

I see my regular clothing as a disguise. This is me, being a business woman. This is me, being a student. This is me, being the girl people are afraid to swear around. (That last one still makes me laugh: people censor their mouths because I appear so innocent. If they only knew...) While I am all of those things, barring innocence, there is a nerve that remains hidden beneath my daily costume. Underneath, depending on just how fortunate I am, there may or may not be a pink bottom.

So what gets me through the tedium of pants and standing upright? Well, it's the daily reminder, the pervertible objects, seeing the world through spank-colored glasses, and the promise that soon I will be unmasked, upended and undignified over a pair of knees once again.

The Hair (down there)

I'll admit it: my hair-down-there status has been open to requests. My man requests a bush? I get to growing. Trimmed and neat? I grow and manicure. Fully bare? Break out the hot wax, mama's goin' Brazilian.

There have been times these requests have caused much embarrassment.

One time in particular, I was with a man who didn't want me to trim AT ALL. Without going into all of the hairy details, let's just say that I had some major retro action going on down south.

Well, it was time for my annual trip to the fun doctor, the OB-GYN. I pondered a trim but knew my man would notice and my months of growing would be for naught. So, biting back my shame of having such a fuzzy pussy (what I saw as an obvious fetish statement), I took myself to my gynecologist and awaited the moment of the reveal.

To make matters worse, there was a resident doctor who wanted to sit in on the exam. Normally I wouldn't have hesitated: it IS for science, right? But, first, the resident was HOT. All caps. And second, well...I was the sort of hairy that would make the rounds at story-time. So I said I'd rather take a pass.

I think my OB understood when the paper gown opened and she was treated to my curly glory. It was at that moment that I've made one of the most embarrassing apologies of my life.

"Oh my god," I rushed, "apologies upfront. You see....I'm...er...well...I'm with someone who likes it hairy and so I haven't trimmed in like, forever, and oh my god, I'm so sorry. This is probably your least favorite part of the job, but I swear it's CLEAN! Oh my god. I can't believe I didn't trim for you. I'm so sorry!"

To her credit, the doctor laughed, and said that she sees women in their natural states more times than not. This revelation surprised me a bit: there are women who don't trim? And it's not a fetish thing? (This is a peek into how much I think about the kinky. To me, everything involving the body leads to a kink, whether I'm game or not.)

And after that relationship with that fuzzy-loving man ended, had I turned the corner and switched to au naturel forever?

Two words: clean slate.

Happy Anniversary to me

Today marks the one-year anniversary of my divorce. I won't go into the hopes of my marriage, or the details of its downfall, but I was happy the day it was finally over. Relieved and free, I began to make my way back to what was important in my life.

And now, 365 days later, I emerge unlike anyone I was before, but more like the person I always was. It's been a treasure hunt of an experience: full of fool's gold and false leads, the occasional pot at the end of the rainbow, some pirates and vagabonds, and many people with amazing capacities to live and love.

I have grown my circle of friends to include people near and far, most I've never met. These people are, at times, the very first to hear of my successes and frustrations. This fact doesn't speak to the absence of close, "real-time" friends, but rather the extraordinary power of our kink and of our ability to make meaningful connections online.

A few weeks after my independence day, I joined my first spanking personals site and began "asking for it" online. That site was Spankfinder. I owe a lot of my learning to those I encountered there. Although there were times of great pain (of the non-physical sort), those instances are marked with positivity. I'm happy I traveled those paths, made those mistakes and connections and learned from them. I'm appreciative of every single person I've encountered, regardless of result.

There have been far more great experiences than bad ones. My online friends have formed a sort of safety net of encouragement around me, my own private cheer squad.

This is truly a journey for me. And while I sometimes wish I made less missteps and more headway, I'm surely getting there. Wherever "there" is, I feel my arrival with a confidence and an optimism that a year-and-a-day ago would have seemed a pipe dream.

Thank you to everyone who has said "hello", "good-bye", and "ttys". Thank you to everyone who reads this blog; whether it's for 2 seconds or an hour, I'm happy you came. You all are the details in the fabric of this tale I weave.

Now: off to celebrate with one of those amazing people I met. Nothing says "closure" like bar-hopping and spanking in the back seat. I am, after all, a spanko.

Know when to fold 'em

Might I suggest a game of cards? How about a game that includes 4 implements, an eager bottom, and a playful Dom?

Folks, I played "Round Robin" and it broke me. Broke me. Me, the girl who doesn't cry (okay, once...but I was drunk).

Here's how you play:

1. The top or Dom chooses 4 implements (with or without the sub's approval). In my case? The belt, a paddle, a hairbrush and...a crop. Not my choice, mind you;

2. The sub or bottom chooses two cards from a deck (minus Aces and jokers). Each card is face value or Jack is 11, Queen is 12, and King is 13. The kicker is that pesky 2 card. It DOUBLES the other card. So the highest one can achieve is 26;

3. Rotate through the implements, delivering the number of swats as determined by the cards;

4. Continue until the deck is gone.

We skipped part 4.

We did not continue until the deck was gone. What happened to our valiant heroine? Well, friends, she drew a 2 and a King (26) for the crop. The thought of 26 with a crop on an already well-spanked bottom was enough to drive me to tears.

Have I told you that I don't cry? I don't. Like hardly ever (except that one time).

But there they were: tears springing to my eyes, a tremble in my lips, and a sincere desire to call a halt. Which I didn't do. I didn't say, "let's stop." I didn't use my safeword. He just knew.

And for that I am thankful.

Lest you think I have a softie Dom, you must know that I still got the belt. Hard. And then he strung me up by my toes.

Kidding.

Showin' some love

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Needing it

She grips the pillow tightly in front of her and glances over her shoulder to watch his face. His mouth is a firm line of desire and intent, his eyes calculating. He takes this activity seriously, proud of his ability to paint a masterpiece on her canvas.

Gritting her teeth, she tries to remain stoic. It's a personal challenge: he won't make her break! But she needs to break, she needs it, but wants it to be complete. Making too much noise or protest might dissuade him from completing his task. She doesn't want him to stop, wishes she could have these moments extend throughout the entire day, if only her bottom and mind could take it.

He ups the tempo, the lines in his face changing to pure concentration. Her silence challenges him because he knows it is forced, can see by the color of her bottom that she must be feeling it. She must need to cry out, soon. He must make her cry out!

Soft gasps and moans escape her lips and she wonders how they managed freedom, so firmly set is her resolve. And then the lone noises are joined with more and more, equally as soft, as if hearing herself respond elicits a greater response. Her hands twist the pillowcase and her fingers knead the softness, clutching at the pillow to maintain a firm grasp on something as his hand spanks its punishing rhythm on her burning cheeks.

This can't end.

She stifles her cries, to egg him on. Keep going, she thinks. Almost there. I'm not there yet.

"Please don't stop," she gasps. "Don't stop, please." And he obliges, despite the burning in his palm he spanks harder, faster, more resolutely.

She needs it. She woke up needing it, as she does most every day.

And he continues, with occasional words of encouragement, "let go", he says, "give it to me", he encourages. She knows she will. She recognizes his need along with hers and finally allows herself the release of a deep sob, a sob held prisoner throughout each day. A loud sob followed by another and another.

There is a wetness on the pillow to match the wetness on his thigh as he brings her down, slowly. And in all of the moments of their day, this moment will be remembered and replayed. This was the moment of her surrender to him, when both of them had one clear purpose and together they achieved it.

The diva and the bodyguard

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Ode to a corset

Look at her: the calculated-yet-alluring glance over her shoulder, her hair falling seductively over one eye; one leg thrust slightly back casting a subtle invitation;  the vinyl conforming to the curves of her waist while highlighting the delightful, delicious fullness of her bottom; the garters circling the mark while her stockings accentuate the bare of her upper thighs and round cheeks.

I imagine her partner sitting in a comfortable chair, his legs splayed while he gobbles up the sight of her.  Eyes hard in their desire of her softness, he is intent on possessing her but bides his time. 

It will happen.  She wants it.  He wants it.

But for now, they dance.

(Corset available at http://www.fetishflair.net/, offering small to plus size.)

Not a spanko

I'm really not a spanko.

The butterflies in my tummy at the mention of "spanking" are just left-over remnants of the few childhood spankings I received.  The tingle that spreads from my pussy down to my toes in the moments before I drop my panties is just a shyness at my exposure.  The irrepressible need to grind my hips against a set of thighs while having my cheeks warmed is just a way to make me forget the absolute horror of being disciplined.

No, I am not a spanko. 

My need to pour over spanking art and photos is a mere curiosity. And the fact that I am writing this blog is just an indication of my narcissism.

I am no spanko.

But tonight, at the appointed time, my scent will already be lingering in the air.  My lotioned bottom, encased in satiny lace, will be prepared for his admiring eyes.  The implements on the dining room table will be laid out: one, two, three, four of them, carefully arranged for the games we play.  My pulse will quicken at the knock on the door, and will leap at the first sight of him standing, once again, in the threshold of my home. 

I will yearn for an immediate surrender, a taking of my offering, a forced yielding after our greeting.  I want him to pull me over to the couch and renew our acquaintance, with quick, firm and demanding movements that leave no room for discussion.  I want to moan and gasp and bite my lip through the shock of his hand colliding with my full cheeks.  I long to be cleansed and dirtied all at once.

Spanko?  No, Sir.

Her Spanking Fantasy? Pt. 1

(Artwork by Endart.)

Her Spanking Fantasy? Pt. 2

(Artwork by Endart.)

Pull my trigger

It's a quirk of the eyebrows, a slight pull of the lips, a pause, a sigh, a hand run through his hair in exasperation. There are so many things that pull my trigger, get me hot, that it's hard to discern all of the separate ingredients that make a sexy exchange. Altogether, I feel like a well-chastened bug zapper waiting to crackle and pop, my sparks sending waves of hair-raising energy to anyone fortunate enough to be near.

So I offer you a very brief list of the things that are creamy, dreamy, and just plain steamy:

1. The mechanics of sleeve rolling, slow and deliberate, with eye contact and a steady determination that indicates the plan in mind requires some elbow grease;

2. The jangle of a belt buckle. I swear I have sonar for this, this erotic clank and ring raise gooseflesh from the other room;

3. "And what do you think we need to do about this, young lady?" Let's start by wringing out my panties, Sir;

4. Pulling out an armless chair, letting it drag across the carpet to the center of the room; the slide of the wooden legs to their destination are like nails across my belly, a nipple-tightening sensation that makes my thighs quiver and my mouth go dry;

5. Grabbing a knuckle-full of my hair without warning while issuing a direct and short stare before releasing me, a reminder that, at any time, I am his;

6. Asking for it, my hands clasped before me, my bottom lip pulled in between my teeth, my gaze belying the passion and need inside, my voice direct yet shy;

7. The simplicity of a gentle pat on my bottom in public, a signal of tenderness and reassurance wrapped in the heat of a promise;

8. An early phone call, "tonight you will be spanked," and all of the other details are kept purposely vague, inspiring my mind to work its creative story-telling ability to develop a hot, hot scene;

9. Inspection before making an over-the-knee trip, instructing me to drop my jeans and stand, motionless before him while he caresses my bottom first with his eyes and then with his hands;

10. The surprise attack: a sudden unsnapping of my jeans, strong hands pushing me over the kitchen table, the yank of my panties to my knees for a short and quick, spontaneous session that is as hard as it is desired.

Hmmm....now excuse me while I go celebrate May, National Masturbation Month.

May is National Masturbation Month

Let's talk orgasms.

February 14, 1999, at approximately 10:00 pm, I experienced my very first toe-curling, leg-jellying, vision-clouding orgasm and now they're as necessary for me as coffee in the morning. The specifics of that night will be as indelible as my college graduation, the day I learned to skip, the day I got my driver's license. It's that vivid.

Recently released from a disaster of a relationship, I decided to satisfy my curiosity once and for all. Had I orgasmed before? I thought I had, but it wasn't earth-shaking like Johanna Lindsey (of romance story fame) described in her smutty books. People always said, "if you have one, you'll KNOW!", but I found that people often exaggerate their sexual exploits.

So, on Valentine's Day, alone and happy to be so, I hopped down to our local sex shop, paid my dollar entry fee and described to the worker what I needed, while trying without success to keep my blushing at bay. I needed knowledge! I needed experience! I needed to CUM! Hard!

So he led me to the wall. The wall of pleasureable toys and assorted naughtiness. The cum wall. And after discussing the virtues of one over the other, I made my decision: a small, white, battery-operated vibrator that had a whole lot of power. I could hardly wait to get home.

Comfortable in my bed with a movie playing softly on my TV ("Run Lola run" will always hold a special place in my heart), I twisted the head of my new companion and tentatively let him vibrate against my clit. I would get close, and then back it away, trying to savor the pleasure in the "just before", and then work it some more. It took less than 10 minutes to understand the mystery of the elusive O.

It rocked me. It shocked me. I gasped and clutched my comforter and, in a voice I did not recognize as my own, moaned and swore like I never had before with my partners. I learned the various angles, the right pressure, the balance between greed and self-control.

I went through 6 batteries that first night. The next day I bought a value pack.

Since then, I wouldn't say that I'm a masturbation addict; I much prefer the presence of a cock and some fingers...and a tongue, perhaps combined with a dildo. (Okay, so I'm an ORGASM addict.) More importantly, I know when I'm close. I know how to get there and I can even provide directions.

Hooray for masturbation!

I got stripes

It's inexplicable, this recent addiction to Johnny Cash. I've always been a fan and I have a vinyl collection to prove it; but lately, I find Cash songs stuck in my head on an almost daily basis. The one that I've been humming since Friday night? "I've got stripes":

On a monday I was ar-rested (uh huh)
on a Tuesday they locked me in the jail (oh boy)
on a Wednesday my trial was at-tested
on a Thursday they said guilty and the judge's gavel fell

I got stripes - stripes around my shoulders
I got chains - chains around my feet
I got stripes - stripes around my shoulders
and them chains - them chains they're about to drag me down

Except for me: I got stripes, stripes upon my sit spots/I got stripes, stripes upon my cheeks. I just hope I don't sing it out loud.

The implement? Another crop: evil, inflexible, and cane-like, it was dressed in an innocuous, cheery pink nylon from Fleck. The reaction? Air hissing through my teeth, knees buckling after each stroke, it made an impact.

For a spanko, it's difficult to find an actual physical punishment. But this was another job well done! (Please don't mistake that as encouragement for a repeat session!)

Bottom line?

I'm nervous. I've been told not to dwell on it, but I am apparently poor at following directions anyway. So, yes, I am dwelling.

I do seek accountability. I do have an appreciation for rules and structure. But I am so used to functioning on my own, doing as I desire, existing happily in my selfish world of indulgences and guilty pleasures that I have a hard time believing that someone else might know best. In this, as in many others, he has a clear point.

As indicated by an earlier post, pouting is out. Explanations haven't seemed to budge his resolve either. So I'm just going to have to suck it up and take it, submit to whatever punishment-fits-the-crime-scene he has in mind.

Why is a semi-seasoned spankee like myself dwelling? Because I've been disciplined, but never punished. There is a line between the two, and I fear that that line will be on my bottom by the end of the night.

Eek! Update to follow.

Freak Flag

Yes! I did it. I created an account on Facebook for my alter ego, barely.pink. Find me on there, as Barely Pink.

There are so many resources available to us now, which is a refreshing change from when I was just beginning my exploration in the late 90s. Blogs, social networking, countless sites from which to garner knowledge and masturbation material.

Back in the day, I never had a term for what I was. I just knew that I fantasized about spanking. All the time. It was this obsessive compulsion just waiting to burst free. Unfortunately, it burst free on some unsuspecting vanilla men who just didn't know how to handle the power I was bestowing on them.

Nowadays, I almost forget that I'm "different", because I know so many people who are into this. This is comforting, no? Even if spanking is not completely mainstream, despite its appearance in TV and movies, the outlets available allow us to feel less marginalized.

Join me on facebook. Let your freak flag fly!

Adventures in voyeurism

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The Pout

I was looking for a way to lessen my upcoming punishment for breaking curfew, but judging by the ridicularity (yes, it should be a word!) of my pouty face, I think I might be up shit creek. With a paddle.

Damn those late night phone conversations. Next time, dear friend, I'm sticking the phone in the fridge! Talk to my lettuce!

Giddyup!

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As seen on Chross

This sitcom made me laugh. I've BEEN that crazy girlfriend who yearns for a spanking; this makes me wonder how many guys have had similar discussions about me.

Check it out!

http://chross.blogt.ch/index.php?/archives/822-Its-who-I-am,-its-what-I-do.html

Having my cake (and eating it, too)!

In case you haven't realized, I am a submissive. I lose myself in the moments of surrender, temporarily deeming those moments the only ones of consequence. I kneel. I oblige. I service. I defer to someone who I trust will take my power and use it wisely.

In a Sociology class I suppressed a chuckle when the professor asked, "What's your master status?" In my mind it was translated to "MASTER status", and was recorded as such in my notebook. But what she was referring to was a person's main identity: their core, the most important "label" that takes precedent over all other roles that are required of us.

"Submissive" is not my master status, I must confess. But it's one among many roles that I play in my day-to-day. I'm also an independent woman, a powerful ally or adversary, a sister, a daughter, a student, a citizen. Strongly opinionated with equally strong convictions, I can be demanding and unforgiving, although I battle the latter. All of these other traits and responsibilities do not diminish my submission, but rather translate to more power being relinquished in those exhilarating moments of surrender.

This is not unique to me.

In the online world and in the real-time scene worlds we can all appear to be one-dimensional. Emphasizing the sensual or sexual side of ourselves, we often do not reveal our other faces to the masses. I know I save myself for someone who is special enough to see ALL of me, rather than just the submissive side.

As I go deeper in discovery with that chosen person, my Dom, my safe confidante, I expect that he will also reveal the many dimensions of his personhood.

Does it make him less of a Dom that he shows tenderness, fear, frustrations, and worries about the mundane? Do his roles as employee, brother, uncle, lover diminish his "Domhood"? As vulnerabilities are revealed and emotions are expressed, do I deem him less of a leader?

No. You see, I want my cake. And I want to eat it. And then I want the cake again.

I want the leader, the lover, the tenderness, the firmness. I want to be disciplined, lectured, scolded, and then bathed and cherished and fed ice cream while watching a romantic comedy. I want trips to the grocery store and afternoon bondage. I want lawn mowing and sink cleaning punctuated by the slap of the strap.

I want the person, the whole person. I want to see all of the roles, all of the intricacies and complications that define him. I don't want one-dimensional, I want life in 3D.

I'm greedy. I want my cake and I want to eat it, too.

And once the cake is devoured, our platter is instantly replenished. It's magic. You see, the tender Dom and the strong submissive, together, make a wonderful cake.