Recommended reading

I'm away for the weekend again. This time D and I decided on a more hoighty-toighty trip to wine country and a Bed & Breakfast, as opposed to last week's NASCAR camping adventure. I'm sure I'll have much to share upon my return on the challenges of keeping quiet while in someone else's home. B & B's are strange and lovely that way -- we really will be guests in a stranger's abode.

While I'm away, take a few moments to check out these hot bloggers. They are my go-to destination for inspiration.

• The Pleasure Principle - She truly is a hedonistic, smart chick with many sensual tales.
  
  
• Ecce Spanking - A new blog, but one to watch. His entries read like poetry.
  
  
• Mischief Managed - A well-written, thought-provoking blog by one of my favorite spankos. She also recently posted Vol. 2 of her tale with D & I.
  
  
• Think Pink - A light-hearted view of the spanking fetish. Her posts are fun and frequent.
  
  
• Awesomeness and the good girl - They're cool. They're committed. They're...awesome.
  
  
• Chross Blog - I always enjoy his regular posts as well as his links to the best spankings of the week.

This is by no means a complete list. Check out my blog roll for more hot entries from some of the most talented & hardworking bloggers around the net.

Until Monday, then. Enjoy your weekend!

Some women

Some women are born sex kittens.

Their thigh highs never roll. Their lips, at rest, assume the perfect, sensuous pout. Their skirts are always just the right amount of short as to leave one breathless for more. They exude sex right down to their perfectly shaped, most likely polished toenails.

I have a great admiration for those women. But I am not one of them.

My thigh highs are more likely ripped knee highs by the end of the night. My pout is ludicrously unbelievable. My skirts are typically too short (thanks to my 5'11" stature), requiring me to do the "check behind" maneuver before bending to pick anything up. And after a world-class pedicure, my toes still maintain their awkward disposition.

No, I am not a sex kitten.

But when I am over his lap, a too-short skirt sure comes in handy. And he's certainly not looking at my toes as my feet flex with each downward stroke of his hand.

I am a woman transformed by his presence. I am aware of each whispering movement I make, imbued with a confident sensuality. When I lift my bottom high in the air, I am the sexiest woman there ever was; when I moan and purr for him, my inner kitten is released; when I am on all fours with my back arched, I am his lioness stretching in the sunny warmth of his gaze. My whole being bristles with an electric sexual energy.

I am his sex kitten. And that is all I need to be.

(Photos found on Doonstar.)

Turning the other cheek

There I was: on a boat with the most powerful clients my company had, drinking wine, mingling, making important conversation with Mr. Bank President and Mr. Creative Director. And then I felt a breeze.

Someone dropped his cocktail napkin, and I graciously bent to pick it up (I now distinctly recall that movement). I flitted between groups of my own clients and introduced myself to others, imagining myself a great hostess on this trip around the lake as I networked with the mostly male big wigs. And then I felt a breeze.

Finally, after wondering about that "breeze" for far too long, I reached a hand back to double-check my bottom. My cheeks were still encased in the fabric of my brand new, bun-hugging pants, but....wait a second! I felt bare flesh down the middle. LOTS of bare flesh!

I quickly moved to the railing and pressed my back against it, knowing my face was infused with that tell-tale blush I often wear. Mind racing, I sorted through my purse hoping to find safety pins or something to close my pants and restore my modesty. Nothing. I contemplated jumping ship.

Instead, I worked my way over to the lower deck, careful to keep my back to the railing, engaging in polite conversation here and there. Scurrying down the steps to the lower, vacant bar I caught the eye of the female bartender and crossed my fingers.

"I have a problem," I announced to her. "I'm hoping you have a sewing kit or pins behind that bar!"

She stooped to check and stood up with bad news. No sewing kit. No pins. "Why do you need it?"

"Ummm...look!" I said, turning around so she could see. I only had an idea how exposed I must have been; I had specifically chosen an extra-skimpy thong to avoid panty lines so I imagine a great deal of naked flesh was exposed. I heard her gasp and, turning back to her, noticed she was swallowing her laughter.

"Oh, my. Hmmm...," she said, rummaging through more bar paraphernalia. "I have duct tape!"

"Duct tape it is!"

I excused myself, tape in hand, to the ladies' room to inspect just how bad the situation was. It was bad. The whole back seam had come unsewn, leaving a gaping hole where the material met. I had shown a lot of cheek and nearly all of my thong-filled crack. Swearing to myself, I got to work, taping the inside of the pants so the repairs were hidden, I managed to close it enough so that I could return to the upper deck.

First I had a shot of whiskey. Well, two. Armed with liquid courage and a plastered smile on my face, I rejoined the gentlemen clients upstairs.

I only have so much confidence, Readers. And I have even less confidence in the strength of duct tape. So I hope you understand when I tell you that for the rest of the trip, I remained mostly seated, hiding my mortification with lots of wine and an embarrassed silence. Surveying the audience I realized just how many attractive older men had seen me in my compromised state. And yet, no one had said anything, including any of my colleagues.

The only positive thing I can say is that my cheeks were unmarked, not having been spanked for quite some time. Had my cheeks been pink...well, let's just say that jumping in the lake would have been a far more viable option.

Oh, and on follow-up calls the next week to some of those clients, I closed a few rather large deals. Anything for the job.

Most of us are great, but...

Before I was fortunate to stumble into D on Spankfinder, I had an encounter that almost made me hang up my spanko hat in favor of something safer, and ultimately less exciting. But instead, I continued my search, wiser and ready to find the true thing.

Aside from the golden rules of a safe word and a safety (a person who knows your whereabouts), what are some other things you should do to protect yourself when meeting someone from an online forum?

A lot of great information can be found on vanilla dating sites. But, from my own personal experiences as well as acquaintances', I've compiled a short list of tips tailored to our kink:

1. Distrust proclamations of love given before you actually meet. It's not real until it's real. And he's not a knight until you make him one.
   
   
2. Never, ever allow someone to restrain you on your first meeting. This seems like common sense, but sometimes the heat of the moment can have you disregarding personal safety. Don't. There are a few amoral people out there waiting to snap your picture while in a compromised position -- or worse.
   
   
3. Google the person. You can find out their actual age, profession, and other things they may have been less than honest with you about. This is a good site to find out your prospective's real age and location.
   
   
4. Trust your gut -- we are better at reading people than we give ourselves credit. If your gut tells you that something is "off", believe it.
   
   
5. Spankees, never share your limits before the spanker shares theirs. Ask questions -- forwards, backwards, rephrase them until you are satisfied. Make sure you know what kind of top you're potentially getting involved with before you are caught in an undesired situation. If a top refuses to share this information, move on. Once limits have been discussed, be clear and persistent about them.
   

Be smart, be safe. We are a minority -- pickings may be slim -- but never disregard your safety and your instincts out of horniness. The real thing, whether it be for casual meets or a life-long relationship, will come along.

Until then, I can recommend a really great vibrator.

Parking fines

To the parking attendant in Indy:

I'm sorry that we stole your "park" paddle but we definitely needed it more than you. You'll be happy to know that my naughty bottom received a taste of it later in the form of a smack that rang out through the camper, jolting our hosts from their slumber.

(Perhaps you heard it too and mistook it for cracks of thunder?)

In the actual theft of the paddle, I maintain my innocence. My Dom caught me quite by surprise when he pulled it out from the couch cushions and ordered my panties down. Still, I did not return it to you the next morning (oh, how I wish that I did!) so I am complicit in the crime. I expect to receive my comeuppance shortly, so I hope this transgression can remain between us.

Your red-bottomed camper,

Miss Pink

Clear instructions

He told her to get on all fours for her spanking.

"But I am pushing my bottom up," she said petulantly.

Minding her manners

Knees together and bend. Her mother taught her well.

Maintaining high speeds

“Count on counting for me before we leave,” he said when I asked if we‘d have some playtime prior to our weekend trip.

We’re off to the races. NASCAR. Which may or may not be punishment enough for this particular girl. You see, I’m not a fan. I’ve never quite understood the appeal of watching cars turn left at dangerously high speeds. I am, however, looking forward to a weekend away with D and his friends, card-playing, barbecuing, and a (drastic) change of scenery. The thunder of the race cars, the adrenaline, the fans in head-to-toe NASCAR apparel (I own nothing of the like) may convert me. I suspect I am inconvertible, but we’ll see. I pride myself on my open mind, so this will be a test.

And of course, I’m anticipating a sore bottom and wondering what type of spanking is in store for me this afternoon. I foolishly, yet purposely, mentioned to D earlier this week that as we go deeper into our relationship I view him more as a “boyfriend” than a “Dom”.*

That’s like dangling raw steak in front of a tiger. Raar.

Maintenance may be on the menu. A reminder of our D/s roots, if not today, is certainly in our immediate future. That means more time with that dastardly heavy paddle and the wicked pink crop, more time on my knees, more time accepting his dominance over me.

It is what I want. It is what claims my breath and sets my mind on its blissful float: to give myself over to his will, to free my other self -- the submissive that remains well hidden to the masses. We mustn’t lose this element no matter how strong our romantic feelings grow.

I am, however, posting this after D already left for my house. No need for him to read it prior to passing a sentence that I suspect has already been passed.

Oh, and this is for D: Jeff Gordon sucks!

(*I have never for an instant forgotten that D is my Dom. It's just difficult finding and maintaining that balance. More on that for a later post.)

Top photograph by the amazingly talented Viva Van Story.

I wanna be a cowgirl

I don't want to be a schoolgirl with my head inside a book.
I don't want to be the kind of girl who likes to clean and cook.
I don't want to be an office girl with my paper and my pen.
I don't want to be the kind of girl who waits for who knows when.

I don't want to be a good girl. Good girls have no fun.
I can't play spanking games indoors, I love the rain and sun.
I've got my shiny spurs and boots, I've got my cowgirl hat --
I just wanna be a cowgirl, Sir, what's so wrong with that?

I want to break in leather and feel your rope lasso.
I want to do the kind of things a cowgirl likes to do.
I'll drift across your firm knees and shine my rosy moon.
I just want to be a cowgirl, and I want to be one soon.

I don't want to be a girly girl who likes to sit and chat.
I just wanna be a cowgirl, Sir, now what's so wrong with that?

Adapted from a children's book of same title.

Freudian Slip: speaking Spankish

Here's an announcement: I speak Spankish. Or so I mistakenly told someone tonight on Messenger. That extra "k" in there really sold me out.

That's right, Spankish. I even studied abroad. I took my coursework very seriously -- immersing myself in the Spankish culture, enjoying the Spankish Flamenco, even going so far as dreaming in fluent Spankish.

And the homework? I totally busted my butt to get the marks that I deserved.

He sido una chica muy traviesa, señor. Necesito que me azote largo y duro.

See?

Call me Miss Pink...

…or just Pink will do. Or Pinkie, or any derivation of Pink. Pinkalicious. Pink-a-dilly. Pinkness. Pinktastic. Just some suggestions.

Being in my early thirties (fast approaching the mid-range), I was not afforded the luxury of the internet during my developmental phase that so many budding spankos enjoy. (By developmental, I do mean 18-early 20s, as these blogs and sites are specifically for those of legal age.) But by my mid-20s, I was writing stories and contributing them to free spanking sites all under the moniker of “barely.pink”.

This name stuck, its use expanding to spanking personal sites, Yahoo Messenger, Facebook, and even some vanilla dating sites (how daring!). People who knew me before can easily find me, which has both negative and positive outcomes.

The purpose of this post? Recent days have me questioning the value of holding on to my name. Should it stay or should it go? Should I update it to something more suited to my maturity, something more reflective of my level of experience?

And then there's the added confusion of knowing what, exactly, to call me. Pink? Barely? BP (which has some negative associations of recent newsworthy events)? Miss Pink?

During an amusing phone call with a very close, in-the-know friend, we tossed around different names for me to use, finally settling on Nadia B. Is Nadia B. my real name? Not likely, but you are more than welcome to believe it. I changed it on my blogger profile, but seeing the "Nadia B." filled me with a sadness as if I was letting go of a safe and comfortable friend. I've become quite attached to my online identity, it would seem.

Do I keep the barely.pink or lose it? Opinions please...

Until then: I'm barely pink. You know what to do.

My eyes cross too...

...and out the window he goes!

Preheating required

In one of my many attempts at self-improvement, I have instituted a "one-new-recipe-a-week" rule. I love breakfast dinners and will whip up this quick and easy quiche for tonight.

Sausage and Mushroom Quiche

3 large eggs
1 pound small fresh button mushrooms
1 pound ground pork breakfast sausage
1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley
1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley
1 cup half-and-half cream
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 unbaked 9 inch pie crust

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F (200 degrees C). Prepare the mushrooms by snipping off the stems. Cut in half if large. Use your small wooden cutting board for the job.


2. Crumble the sausage in a large skillet, add the mushrooms, cook on medium-high heat until the meat and mushrooms are lightly browned and all the liquid from the mushrooms has evaporated. Drain off the grease. Add the parsley. Imagine what that big, bad spatula can do.


3. In a large bowl, beat the eggs, adding the cream, cheese and salt. Pour into the mushroom/sausage mixture; blending well. Pour mixture into the pie shell. Lean over the counter, close your eyes and imagine him behind you.


4. Bake in preheated oven for 25 to 30 minutes, until crust is well browned and the filling is set. Let stand 10 minutes in the corner before serving.



Wednesday is laundry day here, so be sure to join me tomorrow for my stain-removal tips.


Last apron available at Carolyn's Kitchen, home of the hottest aprons on the net.

And the winner is...(The game, 3/3)

The real fun begins. Check out my previous post if you haven't done so and be sure to watch Rayne's blog for her accounting of the events.

Round Robin is a game I'd played before with D but the rules were adjusted for our night of double-spanking pleasure. We would each draw two cards to determine the total number of swats. If one of us drew a two from the deck, then we would both get it. The implements to cycle through were: a strap, a leather belt, a wooden hairbrush, a cane-like crop, and D's powerful hand. (When I later drew a wildcard joker, allowing me to choose my poison, D added a wooden paddle to the mix because I hesitated for all of two seconds. Ouch! Indecision hurts when playing with an impatient Dom.) The game would continue until all of the cards had been drawn.

Being already acquainted with D’s lap, I was up first with the hairbrush. My bottom was still warm, and I suspected a glowing pink, as I drew my two cards. A King and a seven, denoting 19 with the first implement -- the dreaded hairbrush, my least favorite on the table. I carried the brush to D, cast a sidelong glance toward Rayne, and maneuvered over his knees. I lay there, suspended, while he smoothed his hands over my panties and began to take them down.

“What’s this? You have a thong on underneath!” D exclaimed. Blushing, I reminded him of Rayne’s and my agreement to keep our girlie bits covered in the interest of modesty. His laugh resonated and I could all but imagine him shaking his head at our naivete. My thong, consisting of mostly blue elastic and a feminine floral, covered virtually nothing and the thin swatch of material only served to hold my wetness close.

Then it began with a “Whack!” and I managed a strong “One!”. That first strike with the hairbrush indicated that this would not be a light game, but something to be remembered every time I sat down for the next few days.

“Whack! Crack!“ The hairbrush connected with my cheeks with a fierce, resonating bite that set my bouncing cheeks on fire. I squirmed but resumed my count, “Two! Three!”

After a dozen strikes of the hairbrush, I was pounding the carpet and curling my legs upward in an involuntary attempt to shield my bottom from D’s punishing blows. This was not allowed, his commanding voice reminded me.

I should say here that I never forgot for an instant Rayne’s quiet presence. I forced myself to look at her while D delivered the spanking, wanting to give her my reactions and further heighten our experience of the evening. After all, we were both here to enjoy the added pleasure of another set of watchful eyes.

The final two blows landed with an intensity that matched, if not exceeded, the first. “Smack! Thud!”, and I remained there, draped over D’s comfortable lap while he caressed and rubbed my bottom. A pat to the battlegrounds indicated it was time to slide off, gather my pride and stand. The moments before and after each spanking were the most vulnerable -- I could fully see Rayne and, standing in front of her as I was, I knew she could fully see me.

And then it was her turn. I may have hugged her in those moments before she drew her two cards, lending her strength as she received her sentence with the strap.

D ordered her jeans down before she draped herself over the couch to receive her dozen (or more) licks with the heavy leather he held menacingly in his hands. I was torn: do I sit in front of her, hold her head in my lap, or should I take up a position behind Rayne to maximize my view? For this first time, I greedily chose to maximize. It was a lovely sight -- watching her flushed cheeks absorb the impact of the strap.

Rayne's jeans remained up between sets, pulled gingerly over her stinging buns, while I trounced around pantsless at D's behest, growing more and more comfortable with my displayed and increasing redness. Her dark denim was of the skinny jean variety, so I could only imagine how hot and tender her cheeks were while covered by the unforgiving, tight fabric.

We must have been quite the delicacy to D's feasting eyes: her in the flirtatious argyle shirt, jeans unbuttoned and partially up; me in my argyle panties and fishnets as we cooled our buns on his marble fireplace hearth.

D called half-time and we huddled on the couch, discussing strategy, while he fed us chocolate eclairs and cream puffs from his freezer. (How many Doms feed their girls chocolate? I am fortunate.)

Rayne and I proved to be good teammates -- sometimes "tagging" in and splitting the strokes when the other had too large a dose with the specified implement (the crop and strap were particularly difficult adversaries). When I was breathless from a hard round of the hairbrush, I would hear her voice, strong and reassuring, take up the count in my stead. As Rayne lay draped over the arm of the couch, taking 19 with the heavy strap, I sat on the cushion next to her, stroking her hair and watching with genuine concern and support. We hugged; we rubbed each other's backs; we each felt guilty pleasure from watching the other receive her licks.

D reminded Rayne several times throughout the evening about her safeword, taking care to ensure her well-being. I whimpered a bit when D told Rayne, while over his knee, that he wasn't being as hard on her as he was on me, because he knew my tolerance and needs better than he knew hers.

And for the grand finale? Rayne and I draped ourselves across the dining room table, bottoms uplifted and waiting for the last strapping. By then we were beyond tender and each stroke was nearly intolerable. The leather bit and stung, and yet we remained, counting together and presenting ourselves obediently to D's hearty ministrations.

We remained in that position, clasping hands, for a few moments before it was time for our cool-down.

Who administered Rayne's last spanking? Maybe it was me.

In the car, she and I sat together, two co-conspirators with warmth spreading beyond our matching red bottoms as she relaxed her head in my lap.

Everyone wins.


(Photos from "House Rules", a firmhandspanking video series featuring Samantha Woodley and Lizzie Madison.)

And the winner is...(The warm-up, 2/3)

A continuation of Rayne's and my adventures with D. Check out my previous post if you haven't done so and be sure to watch Rayne's blog for her accounting of the events. (If she ever posts it that is -- naughty girl!)

The whole way over I was nervous. It was as if the butterflies in my stomach were blocking my view of the road.

I could also feel Rayne's heat and shy nerves next to me. She asked a few questions and I gave her some reassurance. But as much as I trusted her and the man I have spent many months with, walking up to his door this time felt novel and when he opened it, the evening burst with possibility.

D was the master. He brought out piles of implements for us to choose from, and explained the RULES. I tingled at that word, and when my friend heard me call him "Sir". This was my first ever public submission and spanking experience and it was even more perfect than I had envisioned in the years leading to this moment.

When D called me to him and pulled me over his lap, I dared not look at Rayne. He began firmly delivering a hand-spanking over my jeans, gradually increasing intensity and frequency until I was "oofing" and "aahing" over his lap. D made pleasant conversation with Rayne about the amusing sounds I make while being spanked, eliciting various responses from me as demonstration of my verbal versatility.

Patting my bottom signaled that it was time to lose the extra protection that my jeans afforded and his words confirmed it, "Get these down." I stood and caught Rayne's eye as I unbuttoned and smoothed my pants down past my warm bottom. One deep breath later and with my pants at mid-thigh, I was back over D's lap, feeling his khaki shorts against my hips as I presented my bottom for his attention. He continued, his hand feeling as firm as a wooden paddle, his tempo increasing until I was kicking my objections and vocalizing my escalated discomfort.

As he finished and stood me up, D ordered me out of my pants. "Those jeans need to come all the way off and stay off," he commanded. Blushing, I wriggled out of my tight pants. Jeans off, I stood for a moment, at once relishing and resenting the embarrassment over my continued exposure in front of Rayne. I fiddled with my fishnet thigh highs; I yanked my shirt down to cover my naked bits. I did everything I could to postpone looking at the woman on the couch.

I knew D respected Rayne's position in his home and he wouldn't make her strip for the night, so now here I was the most submissive one in the room. It was a delicious predicament, and I felt both their eyes on my legs, bare but for the white fishnets. Being exposed and vulnerable such as I was, with both D and Rayne fully dressed, made me hotter than expected. I could not have predicted this level of wetness.

Rayne had, for the most part, sat transfixed by the jiggling and bouncing of my cheeks as D's hand thoroughly changed them from a soft to a bright pink. But as I moved back to the chair across from her and waited for her turn to begin, I took a closer look at her reaction. And there on her face I read the same emotions I was feeling: trepidation, excitement, pleasure and an eagerness to continue our game.

And then suddenly it was her turn, and I watched as she bent over the hot spot on D's lap. I licked my lips and leaned closer.

Her bottom swayed beatifically as his hand made contact, her feet off the floor, her hands gripping the chair. His warm up was slow and thoughtful, measuring her response and her boundaries, increasing the impact little by little as she proved she could take more. And then, she was standing and unbuttoning her pants, shyly pushing them under her cheeks, casting me a hesitant look before she placed herself over his lap again. I could not help it: I watched her cheeks with modest awe as D set about heating them up, my own bottom still blazing against the cool leather of the chair.

"Oh, that left a hand-print!" I'd exclaim as her cheek turned from a white to hot pink, heightening her awareness of my presence. I felt so naughty!

Warm-ups complete, the game was ready to begin.


Up next: your daring heroine and Rayne try their luck at a game of Round Robin, led by the ever-cool and consistently firm-handed D.

(Photos from "House Rules", a firmhandspanking video series featuring Samantha Woodley and Lizzie Madison.)

Destination Calabria

Enjoy this musical intermission from Alex Gaudino featuring Christal Waters. I'm sure you'll understand why I'm entranced (i.e. the flirtatiously yummy booty-smacking around the 2 minute mark).

Thank you to the talented spanking author Alex Bernaise for sending me the link.

And the winner is...(The anticipation, 1/3)

I am presenting the details of Spankfest 2010 in several posts. Second part to follow later this weekend.

You know how sometimes the anticipation of an event is far better than the event itself?

This is not one of those times.

Yesterday started off as most any other, except the central thought as I went about my routine of living was, "spank!". So again, not much different from normal, but today these thoughts had an undeniable question mark. What will it be like to watch another woman over my Dom's knee? How will it feel to have her watch me?

Selecting what to wear was a challenging endeavor. We had agreed to be comfortable, with both of us in jeans. But, having many panties to choose from, I opted to, at the last minute, purchase a pair in argyle that matched the button-down, transparent shirt I'd be wearing over a tank top. (I know, tedious details, but you must understand how absolutely nervous I was. Instead of eating my fingers, which would have been my sole nutrition as I could not eat anything, I occupied my afternoon with selecting the most perfect outfit. I can be, after all, quite girlie in these matters.)

Suitably attired in tight jeans over fishnets and the aforementioned breezy and cleavage-revealing shirt, I quickly packed a few implements that would be used in our game of Round Robin in addition to those that D has in his collection.

My nervous excitement only increased as I drove to pick up Rayne, the fabulously intriguing author of Mischief Managed and my soon-to-be lovely cohort, on the way to D's house.

Ringing the doorbell, I took a deep breath. This was a date like no other, and I didn't even bring flowers. For shame.

Rayne answered the door and seeing her immediately put me at ease. I remembered why she was the perfect partner for this experience. Her deep and obvious intelligence is tempered by a quiet charm and mannerisms that would calm even the most sweaty-palmed, would-be heart attack victim, such as I was in the moments before she opened the door. And, not hurting her cause in the least, Rayne has a supremely spankable bottom. (How could that go unnoticed by a self-respecting spanko who admittedly loves the female bum?)

We were on our way.

Up next: your daring heroine and Rayne get a thorough warm-up over the knees of the "Designated Dom" affectionately known as "D".

Successful advertising

I am suddenly in need of a Bavarian cream doughnut. And beer. While wearing Lederhosen. And dancing to Oompa music.

I'm spent. I know nothing else of Bavaria. Except that those shorts are a brilliant marketing ploy for doughnuts, beer, Lederhosen and traditional Oompa music.

Nicely done Bavaria.

Drumroll...

Three friends meet for dinner and this is how it ends. At least for me. Tonight. Minus that silly hat.

(Please don't wear a hat, D. In fact, I propose a ban on hats for the evening. Don't make me use my safe word.)

Against the fence

Summertime and my recent outdoor switching have me recalling my first ever outdoor experience when I was 25. Thus began my trend to overstep the edge of decency in my quest for arousal.

It is a cool evening, the waves lapping at the shore, mimicking the sound of leather against my exposed cheeks as I grip the chain link that surrounds the private beach.

I feel the cold steel against my forehead, can smell the rust as I inhale. I hear my whispered moans, the secrets passed between two lovers on that September night, as the sting caresses me and awakens my desire with a hiss.

The fence marks the time, each slap of his belt echoed by a clang of metal, a pause, another slap and clang. Grasping the links, I feel like climbing but must stay rooted here, the sand burying my feet, forming imaginary restraints at my ankles.

We are vulnerable to discovery but in no hurry, two actors entranced with their performances under the spotlight of the moon and the crashing applause of the lake.


(Incidentally this is a photo of Moonlake. I thought it appropriate, although not the true setting of these events.)

To tears?

In my not-so-distant past, when I was a chat-slut on Yahoo Messenger, men would often say, "I'll spank you 'til you're crying like a baby over my knee." (Or in many cases they would type "your", one of my biggest pet peeves ever. "YOUR spelling alone makes me want to cry," I'd hold back.) The thing is, men would say this, and I know it's a standard line, but I rarely cry. Rarely.

I cried when I broke my collarbone in a drunken bike-riding accident involving a parked car. (But, hey...I was drunk. And cars hurt.) I cry at funerals and weddings, especially if I either really love or hate one of the parties involved. And sometimes I cry just because the mood hits me, usually when I'm alone and watching a specifically chosen movie for that purpose.

However, my take on crying has changed after having my first tearful experience over someone's knee a few months ago. Now it's become a fairly regular, yet still memorable, occurrence. The dam has broken.

What is the winning recipe for tears, especially for a "tough girl" like myself?

For me it's not the intensity or length of the spanking. I have walked away from 2-hour sessions (literally), bruised and swollen, with completely dry eyes. I have begged and pleaded, kicked and struggled, gone limp, but still no tears.

At the risk of sounding corny, and perhaps a bit cliche, for me it's about connectedness and feeling safe with the other person. To allow another to see me at my most vulnerable takes supreme trust -- trust that he will not laugh but rather recognize that moment for the soul-baring gift that it is.

It is in those moments that I need to feel cherished, safe and protected. It is in those moments that I feel lovable and treasured. I release my tears for his safe-keeping. I release my tears because sometimes they're too hard for me, alone, to hold.

When the wind blows...

Peek-a-boo!

I was playing the Google Image search game again when I happened across these two lovely examples of wind-sensitive advertising. No need to disclose the search words as it may reflect poorly on my character (as if you didn't know I was raunchy!).

Perhaps these billboards didn't persuade people to watch the show, "Secret Diary of a Call Girl", or buy Bustop lingerie, but I'm sure it inspired itchy palms among many a spanko.

Anatomy of a Spanking

Uh-oh. The evidence of your overspending has arrived, both in boxes and on the credit card statement. Your frivolity, while enjoyable at the time, comes with a price heftier than the impact on your bank account. There's the look. Now here comes the inevitable lecture.

You can't help but roll your eyes a bit. After all, it's YOUR money, too, right? But you are both supposed to be saving for your dream vacation, a romantic get-away full of hedonistic pursuits.

Your eye-rolling doesn't sit well, and that's when his sleeve-rolling begins.



Phrases such as, "you need to reevaluate your priorities, young lady", and, "showing little regard for our goals", make your gut seize with guilt. And then comes the chair. Followed by the look (again). And you know what's next.

"You know what's going to happen, now, don't you?" Yes, I predicted as much, you think. But instead you apologize and acknowledge that you know what's coming...a spanking. But hopefully I can keep all of those pretty things, you silently pray.

"And then you are going to return all of this stuff because we don't need any of it." Drat. That question's answered.

He looks you in the eyes and orders your panties down, beginning his session in Money Management 101.



You know there's more to come later. But it'll have to wait until after the trip to the post office to mail back all those lovely, yet wholly unnecessary extravagances.