Am I right?

I do not feel selfish. I do not feel guilty for basking in the pleasurable sensations of being over his knees, or bent roughly over the arm of the couch and rapidly man-handled, each downward stroke of his hand like the plucking of a chord in my favorite rock-a-billy song.

I know it's not one-sided -- and I think I know what he gets from all of this. I trust you will tell me if I'm wrong.

He gets the warm willingness of a beautiful woman succumbing to his demands.

He gets the freedom to make those demands, able to command in such a way that is impossible outside the privacy of the home (or car, or secluded park bench, or...).


When you are in position and looking questioningly at him from over your shoulder, hair partially obscuring your dilated pupils, back rising with each quick intake of breath, your anticipation is a welcome invitation: do what you will, Sir. And he knows he can take it as far as he'd like, whether it is short and intense, or prolonged and sensual.


When you present your pantied bottom to him, he is free to admire it for as long as he wishes. He can smooth those panties over the cheeks, adjust the elastic so they lay just so, or perhaps he will yank them upwards into a "Y" and expose the blank and quivering whiteness beneath.

And when he begins, he gets to gauge each effect his hand makes. He can admire the fingerprints he creates; he can press and knead your bottom, causing the freshly pinkened area to whiten once again under the pressure. Lifting each cheek in his hand, he can drop them to watch them bounce and then, just as quickly, surprise them with another smack, eliciting a shocked gasp as you suddenly clutch his ankle.


He will, at his whim, scold you or whisper in your ear, knowing that each word makes your heart race in expectation. It is in his power to do so. He owns your reactions. He owns your wetness and luxuriates in knowing that it is he who put the sheen between your thighs and the moans upon your lips.


And when he is finished, when he decides that you have had enough, or that he has taken from you what he wants, he can hold you and smooth your hair, feel the warmth of your bottom press against his thighs as he cradles his most prized possession: your submission.

So, tell me, because I really do want to understand -- I really am not a selfish person -- am I right? Is this what he gets?

An auction I would love to post to eBay

Natural Wooden Bath Brush Spa Scrubber


Item condition: Pre-owned
Time left: 2d 01h (Aug 30, 201017:53 PDT)
Bid history: 0 bids

Starting bid: US $0.49

Buy it now!: US $1.00

Shipping: US $2.85
Returns: No freaking way!

Description

Up for auction is this natural, HARD wood bathbrush. It has never been used in the shower or bath so the bristles remain like new. However, the finish on the back of the brush and on the lower part of the handle shows wear.

For reasons I cannot disclose, I must get rid of this bath brush immediately.

I hope that it will find a home that will put it to its suitable use as it is just too painful for me to keep.

Be sure to check out my other auctions for more items for your home: wooden spoons, spatulas, a garden hose, and blind pulls. I offer an excellent combined shipping rate!

Thank you for looking at my auction!

Do you think I'd have any takers?

What I saw

Maybe it was just yesterday that I watched myself in the mirror while getting spanked. Maybe it was months ago, but the memory of what I saw remains.

I watched his arm swing with a mild detachment, as if I were a bystander instead of an active participant, as if the reddening bottom that dipped in and then swelled out with each impact was not my own.

The angle was such that I saw the woman clearly: she was bent over the foot of the bed, her arms outstretched and battling to remain that way; her bottom shifted as her legs jogged off the belt's effect; her breasts had swung free from the tank top she wore. I was embarrassed for her.

She was staring back with a hungry interest.

And even though the belt was used with significant force, enough to lift her with each blow, the spanker remained in cool control. Before his arm swung, I saw him simultaneously measuring the effect of the last stroke while calculating the exact placement of the next. His hand would move over her bottom in admiration of her and his work, paying homage to these moments of surrender.

And then he looked up and saw me watching, nodding in acknowledgment before his lips set again in concentration, broken with a twitch at the corners as if in enjoyment. He did not mind the audience. This was not a time to hide.

But then the intensity grew and I had to grant them privacy to finish. She began to moan and turned away from me to focus on the building crescendo. I could not watch them anymore.

I left them there -- he abandoning the leather belt in favor of his hand while she lifted her bottom to greet it.

These are things not needed on film. These things will be remembered.


(Second photo found at Dauntless Journey.)

The slow unzip

When zippers made their fashion debut in 1937, religious leaders deemed them inappropriate for women's clothing -- they made the undressing process too quick and easy.

Only audacious women wore zippers.

Those leaders could not foresee women like us -- women who would grasp the zipper and calculate the effect of the slow unveil. For women like us, the process became an enticing strip-tease.

In the 1950s, the era of nesting, the zipper was placed on the back of dresses in an effort to stop the "slow unzip".

Instead, that slow tease became a game for two. He could unzip me at any moment. Or, the only thing between my hand and her bottom is that zipper.

It was the cause of the baby boom, I am certain.

Now, for the most part, the power is back in our hands as we incrementally lower our zippers, tooth by jagged tooth, making our men wait.

It may begin with a whispered command. "Remove your pants," he could say.

And just as the jangle of his belt buckle awakens in you the slick memories of times before, you know that the hushed movement of your zipper makes him pulse and throb. Your eyes may lock with his, or perhaps your lids will coyly close in time with the zipper's descent.

Breath is held and hearts wait as the zipper finds its midway. Will you keep the steady pace? Or will you pause and glance, a silent question of, "Really? You want these pants down?" passing between you.

Yes, he wants those pants down.

But, by all means, take your time.

Closer to fine

It's been a difficult week at Casa de Pink. I've been thinking it over and finally settled on what, exactly, is needed:

Girl time. (I call dibs on the crazy head piece.)

Really, though, my friends and I aren't like that together. Honestly. Well, except for that one time with Michelle, aka "Leather Hand". And that other time with Lisa...but I swear there were no ruffled panties involved (such a shame, really, since I do love frilly things).

But we will drink martinis.



Not like that! We'll be standing like civilized people do when they drink martinis.

Normal posting shall resume after I've cooled my head with my gang tomorrow night.

Like that. But with clothes on. Probably.

(Side note: All's blissfully well with D. No worries there.)

A simple question

"Where did you two meet?" she asked as we nibbled on sweet corn at the barbecue.

I cast a look at D, who was thoughtfully staring anywhere but in the direction of his very close relative, and nudged him under the table.

Clearly I would have to answer. Boy, he has a lot of faith in my discretion.

"Online," I said, uncharacteristically brief. "Spankfinder," I thought.

Please don't ask what we did on our first date. Please don't ask; please don't ask. If she asks, just talk about dinner. Dinner. That was it. Stick to that. Dinner and...shit, don't think about that. Dinner. End. Of. Story.

Er...umm...excuse me?

...I thought you might want to know, you have an eensie weensie hole, about yay big, right...there.

I know men don't notice this sort of thing, so I really thought I should tell you.

This post will get me spanked

Not because I've been a naughty girl. Not this time. This time I've been so good, good enough for ice cream and new shoes, two indulgences I rarely allow.

No. This post will get me spanked because he's going to want to, he's going to need to after reading this. I can see his palm in my mind's eye -- opening and closing, rubbing against his thigh as he anticipates why it is necessary to take me over his knee, pull down my panties, and spank until I am gasping and undulating against him.

You'd think after the hundreds of spankings he's given me that this would get old. After all, it's the same hand, paddle, strap connecting with the same round bottom. My cheeks, I imagine, will yield and bounce in the same way he's already seen; my moans will turn to pleas and back to moans again in the same song he's already played so many times.

I don't have new panties. I don't have a new corset or schoolgirl skirt. I won't disguise myself as a cowgirl or a librarian. I haven't purchased a cane that needs trying out. There is no ruse, no fabricated excuse.

He's just a guy who loves to spank his girl. And I'm just a girl who loves to be spanked by her guy.

And here, for all to read, I'm asking, "Please spank me in any way you want. You can even use that awful wooden paddle that makes me buck and squirm away, forcing you to hold me in your legs' powerful scissor grip. Spank me for as long as you want. And after your thirst has been quenched, start again. Spank me until I'm past begging, until I'm limp and floating, pliable to any invasion you might want to plot. Please spank me, Sir."

In case of miscalculation, I'll just add this little bit: when I bend, naked, at just the right angle, with my hands on the arm of that leather couch, he will see just how much I want him.

Feel free to skip the spanking, Sir.

What he does

It is a list of things I cannot touch:

It is in the unwrapping of my deepest insecurities, laid bare for him to scrutinize, treasure and kiss. Every white-lined scar that happened before him becomes a stanza of poetry to be read together, each imperfection held as delicately and reverently as an egg.

It is in the moments before and after sleep overtakes, my thighs satiny and slick, his hips instinctively straining for my bottom's heat.

Even in dreams I am his.

It is in the power of words not spoken: a quirk of my lips; an arching brow; a thumb on my chin, honoring me with his fingerprints.

It is embedded in my growing tapestry: each caress, each sharp sting is a detail in my fabric.

I am braille. Trace the stripes and patterns written on my skin to know us.

You can read it in the way we move, in the occasional blue-black clouds, and more often in a cherry sunset, peeping out from beneath my panties. It is in the way his ribs lift me and his knees embrace me.

This is the story of how we fit.

This is the story of what we do.

The injustice of it all

It is terribly unfair.

For years I've stood on the sidelines and watched my vanilla friends grab, smack and threaten to spank each others' bottoms. And all I could do was watch -- my cheeks flushing brightly, afraid of betraying my closely guarded secret.

They can joke about it. They can joke because to them it is all a joke.

In college, I pledged a sorority. No, not that kind. We were more of the hippie-chick, liberal-loving, free-spirits who saw purple clouds in the diamond sky, rather than the sorority that gave "snaps" to everyone with great highlights. Peace.

But still, there were paddles from every pledge class dating back to the 40's adorning the walls of our basement. Paddles that had a lot of weight and, presumably, thud. Paddles that were occasionally removed from the wall in a mock-threatening manner when someone committed a party foul.

I committed a lot of party fouls, especially when tequila was involved.

And when that paddle came down from the wall, I could not good-naturedly stick my bottom out and wait for the one-off smack. I could not play along. Instead I would stand there, frozen by the sight of that delicious wood paddle, and I'd tingle. I'd tingle until I thought everyone could feel the electric energy, until I was certain the stereo playing NIN's "Closer" would implode and scatter bits among my sorority sisters in a blast louder than any bare-bottomed smack this world has heard.

And then the moment would pass when another of the sisters would bump and grind her way to the inner circle and thrust out her butt, freeing me of my stunned mortification. Big cheers for the team player! Hoorah!

It was torture and I, the girl in the center of all the parties, kept thinking, "What is wrong with me? Why isn't this fun for me?" I could dance on pool tables. Give blow-jobs in the tennis courts. Fuck in the backseat of unlocked strangers' cars.* But I couldn't stick my ass out and whoop with joy?

They were not spankos. No spanko could, in those years of youth and ignorance, approach our trade with such nonchalance.

No, it's not fair, even now when people joke about getting "spanked" by a competing ad agency and my pulse quickens. It's not fair when bands call themselves "Spanking Machine" and nobody else at the bar gets the reference.

It's not fair. But I guess it wouldn't be fair if we had all the fun either, would it?


*Always lock your cars on college campuses. You never know when some horny party-goers will be in need of a vacant back seat.

Monday, Monday

I usually accomplish all manner of household tasks on the weekend. But I was away on Saturday and feeling lazy yesterday, so all of those chores have fallen on today, a wicked Monday.

In selecting my clothing this morning, I remembered I had not yet done laundry. I had absolutely nothing appropriate to wear for this hot and humid day.



Determined not to let the tasks ahead spoil my otherwise optimistic mood, I set about checking things off the list.

Laundry: Clothing is washed, now it's time to dry them in the sunshine. What a beautiful day it is.



Lawnwork: I'll take advantage of the relative coolness and garden first thing. It'll be too hot later and, thanks to my Germanic ancestry, I'm liable to burn.



Time to pop inside and cool off with some dusting.



Ah...household tasks complete. Perhaps I should head to the grocery store?

What's that?

You think I need a spanking?

Well, ok, if you insist. But let me get some clothes on first.

Results are in: To brat or not to brat?

I posed this deeply philosophical question on whether it was better to ask for a spanking or to earn one through bratting. I thank you to all who answered. Great participation!

As of today and out of 45 responses, survey says:

40% of you sexy respondents are tops

• 22% of you say, "Ask away!"
• 6% of you say, "Brat away!"
• 72% of you say, "Mix it up!"

60% of you naughty respondents are bottoms

• 30% of you prefer to ask for a spanking
• 15% of you prefer to brat your way into a spanking
• 55% of you prefer to mix it up

I guess, as in all things, variety is the spice of life, with an overwhelming number of you preferring to keep a healthy balance in your relationship.

Ever the persuasive guy, D made a compelling point: "When you ask, you get to choose your implement. When you brat, I get to choose your implement."

Ummm...can I change my vote?

(Photo of Caroline Lannon, one of my recent obsessions, courtesy of Firmhand Spanking.)

The other side

There was no denying as I watched, naked, from the doorway who those restraints you were attaching to the bed were for. That soon I would willingly place my hands in the velcroed enclosures and offer you my bottom as penance. I wanted to look away, to pretend that this was not happening. But you were still there, head bent as you prepared the area for my punishment.

I'd already been forgiven before you started scolding me. My tears had already fallen before you warmed me over your knees.

Now you were giving me something to remember: I am yours. I gave you the right to protect me and, in doing so, you bear a great responsibility toward me, toward us. I can't just say the words -- I must let you protect me. But I didn't. I am so accustomed to protecting myself that I disregarded your warnings and your direct order. I was wrong.

This is the other side of spanking. This is the side I do not enjoy. I do not like being held accountable, but I expect you to. I do not enjoy crying because I disappointed you and undermined what we'd built together.

I do not like what you are about to do, but I know that it is necessary.

You were not angry; your words were soft. You placed a pillow on the end of the bed to raise and protect my hips and motioned to me. Fidgeting and ashamed at my complete nakedness, I crossed the room and took the expected position: my hands near the restraints, waiting; my hips pressed against the cushioned foot board, lifting my warmed bottom.

And you gave me a choice. Which implement would you use first -- the thick wooden paddle or the stiff pink crop? Knowing this, knowing that both would be used, cemented the gravity of my actions.

It began and ended as a blur I'd rather forget. I don't want to remember my tearful pleas, or the way I pulled against the restraints trying to escape the paddle, and, later, the crop. I don't want to remember my howls and repeated apologies, my tears falling on the bedsheets.

But I remember. And I remember the moments of us together afterward, your tenderness, the way you held me and kissed away my lingering guilt.

I remember. I remember that I am yours.


(First photo of Caroline Lannon courtesy of Firm hand spanking.)

Was he trying to be ironic?

A road contractor hired to paint the word "school" on a freshly paved stretch of road near Southern Guilford High School in North Carolina rendered the traffic area in question a "shcool" zone.

That's right, dear road contractor, get on your knees and look at that typo. Do we need to circle it with a red pen, a la "Secretary"?

Prepare to be spakned.

Letter to self

Dear younger self,

Some day soon you will be BOLD.


You will desire to do things that you didn't know existed and lead a life that you had no name for.

You will talk to strangers, ALL OF THE TIME. When those strangers call you a "delicious slut", you won't be offended -- it will be high praise.


Those spankings you hated so much growing up will seem like love taps in comparison to the spankings you now request.

You will be spanked. Often. And you will always want more.


The hottest thing a man can say to you now is, "Get over my lap, young lady." And instead of sending you flowers on Valentine's Day, he'll send you to the corner.

But you will love deeper than you thought possible; you will be loved deeply in return.


Even though your preference will still be mostly for men, you will spend hours on the internet looking at naked women. This will arouse you.

Because of the time you spend in this state of arousal, you have perfected the art of masturbation. You can finish in 2.3 minutes.


In your possession will be a hundred pictures of yourself.

Seventy percent of them will be of your ass in varying shades of pink.


All of these things, these shocking things, make you happy. You are breathtakingly happy.

Oh, and one more thing...when you throw that kegger your senior year of college, don't get on your bicycle afterward to impress that boy. He will not be impressed by a broken collar bone and will instead make out with your best friend while waiting for you in the Emergency Room.

Hugs,

Miss Pink

Being good

Please make me a good girl.

I've been your dirty girl. I've been your naughty girl. I've been your slut, your whore, the girl on the horse. I've bucked against restraints and kneeled at your feet; I've stood before you with my hands on the floor.

Now I want to be your good girl.

Please press your lips to my forehead. Please smooth away my week. Run your fingers down my spine and gently trace the curves of my hips. Circle your arms around me and whisper in my ear, "Thank you for being my very good girl."

Show me what a good girl gets.

Pull me up and over and in to the folds of your waiting lap. Hold me there with your palm against my back. Rest your other hand on my thighs and knead them like cinnamon bread; savor these moments before the feast.

Rub and rub and rub until our friction warms my cheeks. Then lift your arm, as if in praise, and bring it down again -- firm enough for me to know you, soft enough for me to want you -- and again, and again...and (oh God, please don't stop) again.

Joining in: How spankable are you?

Fellow bloggers everywhere are taking this challenge and posting their scores. So I decided to take the test and make it official.

Your result for The How Spankable Are You Test ...

SPANK SLUT

You are 100% spankable!

You love to be spanked, good and hard, with any available object. You will take it as hard as anyone is willing to give it. You are probably guilty of provoking your lover into spanking you, by flagrant misbehavior or verbal challenges. Hell, your ass is probably red right now. We wouldn’t be surprised if you are standing at the keyboard, because it hurts to sit down.

I disagree.

Provoking my lover? Flagrant misbehavior? Verbal challenges?

No way. Not me. Never.

And just so you know, I'm kneeling at the keyboard, not standing.



(Artwork by Waldo.)

To brat or not to brat?

You reappear in the living room with a hairbrush in your hand, catching his eye as he's watching the news. You walk slowly to his side, biting your lower lip as you muster the courage to ask for what you need and want. You hand the brush to him and unsnap the top of your jeans and present yourself to him, like a gift.

Or...

You wear a tone of exasperation and roll your eyes at everything he says. You agree with him, but he doesn't need to know that! When he misspeaks, you are sure to point it out, laughingly. You poke him in the ribs and stick out your tongue. Finally, you push too far and you find yourself sent to your room to await his arrival, nervousness and the promise of fulfillment fluttering in your belly.

Two tactics. Two ways of getting what you crave. One question: to brat or not to brat?

Is it better to ask for a spanking or earn one through bratting? I'm a top; ask away! I'm a top; brat away! I'm a top; mix it up! I'm a bottom; I prefer to ask. I'm a bottom; I prefer to brat. I'm a bottom; I mix it up. Current Results

RESULTS POSTED: MIX IT UP!

(Drawing by Nikoralou.)

A thong and a promise

Energy, for me, comes in the form of a thong and a promise.

I've been exhausted all week -- slightly injured and feeling shy about sharing with the public. I have not felt sexy. I have not wanted to talk. I've wanted to succumb to my grumpiness and chew out strangers, crawl into my lonely bed and eat uncooked Ramen noodles while watching "China Town" for the fifth time since Sunday.

But tonight, I will be spanked. Tonight, decisions will be made, but not by me. Tonight I will do the easiest and the hardest thing at once: I will be; I will surrender.

Just knowing this, selecting tonight's outfit (I'm gonna be a cowgirl), packing my overnight bag, preening and prepping, just these simple acts have cured me of my woes. What I needed was a little imagination and the magical words, "When I spank you tonight..."

I've got my thong. I've got my promise. Now let's shake on it.

Exposed

"Please pass the syrup and tell me, did everyone hear my spanking last night?" I asked the assorted guests at the Bed & Breakfast where D and I spent our weekend. "If not, I'm sure D could give it another go before check out."

They heard. But you know I didn't really ask. However, that question hung in the air, thicker than the honey-glazed bacon the innkeeper served for breakfast. I saw the truth there, as they glanced from D and back to me -- D looking as proud as a peacock and meeting their eyes, me staring intently at their foreheads.

While charming in its 1896 imperfections, the house was not designed to hide the boisterous affairs of its occupants. And boisterous we were, although much less so due to my pleading, "Not the belt! Everyone will hear!" It was a request spoken in a loud, mirthful whisper, a request I'm positive was overheard as well.

Really they should have thanked us. I am certain, in the afterglow of our tryst, I heard a pair of beds squeaking in the night.

Smack that...bottle?

As if I needed further reason to blush while enthusiastically smacking the bottom of a stubborn ketchup bottle, Dressing for Pleasure, a fetish wear site, introduced these lovely stickers as a means to promote their gear. Place these stickers on condiment jars and invite "patrons to explore a completely different appetite while addressing their hunger".

And no, dear Sirs, spanking the hell out of a ketchup bottle will not serve as a proper warm-up.