Contradictions

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

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



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

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



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

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



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

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



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

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

Stripped

"Strip," he commands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My fate is sealed with the next three words.

"You've been naughty."

On being a smart girl

No matter how smart a girl is, or how wisely she negotiates, she's going to find herself over his knee before the end of the day.

She can use logic and reason, mathematical equations, a persuasive speech, but it is an eventuality, like growing older, that must not be avoided but rather approached with grace and acceptance. She will be spanked.

So she does what any smart girl does: she makes it worse for herself.



She pokes and prods him, criticizes his word choice, allows a defiant tone to edge its way into dinner, as if the guarantee of the looming deed were not enough. She does not need to stick out her tongue, that would be taking it too far, much too obvious for a smart girl. She does, however do everything in her power to ensure that she will not only be spanked, but that she will feel it.

After all, a smart girl knows that if something's worth doing, it's worth doing well.



Second photo from Spank Amber. Other sources unknown.

Clouds in my coffee

I wasn't going to write about this but looking over my posts of this past week, I realized how solemn they all sound. I also realized how difficult posting anything of worth has been this week. I owe you an explanation, and in giving it, I hope that I can resume my regular posts, get this out of my system and move forward.

One year ago this week, my heart broke for the very first time. I didn't think I would recover from it. This week, though, has not been one of mourning for the one I lost, but rather an introspective look at how far I have come since his betrayal.

This post is not about him. That statement is rather like Carly Simon's "Clouds in my coffee" though, isn't it? Her whole song was about her unrequited love, and yet the subject would be vain to recognize himself in her words:

You're so vain, you probably think this song is about you
You're so vain, I'll bet you think this song is about you
Don't you? Don't You? Don't You?

Again, and I mean this free of irony, this post is not about him.

Like Carly, I had some dreams. They were lost when he and I said our good-byes (although he didn't so much as say those words, just vanished completely from my life). The point is that I was terribly silly to think that things would work -- looking back there were so many red flags and signs that I chose to overlook. But being the romantic, wistful dreamer that I was then, I forged ahead, allowing my heart to take over logic's domain.

Afterward I was a mess. I'd find myself crying over the kitchen sink, gripping the counter and silently pleading for him to come back or at least, at the very least, tell me why he'd left. Even now, knowing the reasons (have I mentioned my penchant for research?), I am still occasionally gripped with the lingering question: why wasn't I good enough?

I will never know. And I don't need to know.

In order to recover, I fully immersed myself in the task of living. I did laundry. I painted. I scrubbed the toilet, the sink, the floor until they sparkled and my knuckles were near bleeding from the effort. I put one foot in front of the other and walked the balance beam of treacherous emotions -- this was almost worse than the death of a loved one, a pain I did experience about a month later when my beloved grandfather died.

My dreams had died. My confidence was nearly decimated. I made poor choices simply because I valued myself less and didn't think I could or should demand as much from a partner. I clearly was not deserving, I thought.



Months went by and I thought about him less and less.

I learned to trust again, but that trust was tempered by a weariness that wasn't present before. I guarded my heart, second-guessed anyone who showed an interest in me, kept everyone at arms length until they jumped through the appropriate hoops and were granted entry into my private thoughts.

I met several men from online forums. Some of them translated into lasting friendships, most of them I do not know anymore. And one of them sneaked his way into my heart.

In the eight months that we have been together, I have thrown many roadblocks D's way. In fact, and I hope you know how uncharacteristic this is of me, the first night we met I cried while he held me. I told him the whole story, sobbing into his shoulder and then curling away from him while his body embraced mine. He let me cry, encouraged me to cry, recognized my need for it.

I owe much of my healing to him. I don't owe him my self-confidence -- that I regained on my own -- but I owe him my recovered faith in people. He showed me that people can be who they appear to be and free of ulterior motives.

I don't know what the future holds. I can't guarantee that a year from now I won't be crying over the kitchen sink again. There is one major difference: I will never allow anyone to define my worth again. I define it. I do it every day.

Until the next time we meet

He says he can tell that I need a spanking, far more than I want a spanking.

It may be true, but he has no idea the depths of my want. I want him in the mornings, first thing. Not just a spanking, but the smell of him, the feel of his unshaven chin on my forehead as I nuzzle into him to place a kiss on his neck. I want him mid-morning as I make my phone calls, wishing it was his voice on the other end negotiating with me. I want his brand of saying good night, every night, with him propped against the headboard as I emerge from my nightly routine, see him there, and crawl gratefully over his waiting lap.

My want, it seems, has no end, cannot be satisfied by the limited time we have.

Two weekends a month. That's all the time our particular schedules can afford. That is the reality of us.

Every other Sunday, as the regular pattern of my life resumes, I return to this cycle of wanting him until the want turns into a need so great I can barely contain it. Every other Thursday, like today, I am consumed to distraction, envisioning what our weekend will hold. The rest of my life, between those times, carries on without him but always with him in mind.

On weekends like this upcoming one, when there are issues to deal with, my need is laced with trepidation. Part of me wants to celebrate our time together, joyously, with an abandonment of reality, immediately committing our carefree moments to memories that will last.

But the other part needs the weighty significance of his discipline, needs to be spoken to in ways no other can. I need his steadying presence, his powerful hands, his soothing words as I hiccup my admiration and gratitude for this most intimate gift one can give another.

Only I can determine how much I want this. Only he can determine how much I need it. He will deliver, as he always does, until my wants blur with my needs, until his own hunger is satiated, both of us already thinking about the next time we meet.

Accountability and forgiveness

I have not posted in a few days and I find myself doing things I shouldn't and saying things that I will later regret. I've purposely distanced myself from all of this so as to deny that there will be repercussions to my actions.

I don't crave his negative attention; I don't set out to be naughty. But there is, within this responsible and conscientious woman, a bit of a she-devil, a darker force who is desperate to be noticed and overcome by someone both astute and caring enough to recognize her.

It's not that I want someone else dictating to me things I should or should not do -- micro-management has always supremely annoyed me in any setting -- as I am quite capable of making the best decisions for myself. Being capable to make those decisions, however, has very little to do with following through on the best course of action.



When I feel myself spiraling into this decadent and destructive behavior, I want someone to step in and mediate the two sides of myself. I need someone to recognize, lovingly, that the path that I'm on is not in my best interest, a recognition that is carried out in both words and actions.

He is the only person I allow to make unfettered judgments on my behavior. He is the only person I trust enough to help guide me when I am so mired with indignation and denial. He is my voice of reason when my own, typically rational reasoning has lost its calming voice.

With my confession laid bare, denials stripped until there is only truth, with both hands in his, I feel safely cornered within the confines of his words; I am a captive audience and finally able to see myself clearly through his eyes which only convey the best intentions and deepest awareness of all the parts of me, she-devil and angel both.



He knows what I need. When he is finished talking, he has forgiven me. I have not yet forgiven myself.

While I am ultimately accountable for my actions, his is the only accountability that has ramifications beyond my own internal guilt. My guilt is a powerful, all-consuming beast and he tames it with his forgiveness. I ask for one more gift that will finally allow me to forgive myself.

I ask him to spank me, to cleanse me. I don't say that word, cleanse, but it is there and he knows it's what I need. Instead I say "I'm sorry" and "please forgive me" as my shaking fingers find the button on my pants and I slowly push them past my hips, scarcely able to look in his eyes, ashamed that it has come to this.

It has come to this. I want this even though there is no pleasure in it. To feel his strong hands upon me, cleansing me in the rain of his strokes, his words serving as antibiotics to the raging shame within, it is what I need, what we both need to be right again.

One last thought* about corner time...

This is how one should stand in the corner. Much more interesting, don't you think?


Ok, pardon the interruption. Carry on.

*Disclaimer: This, most likely, will not be my last actual thought on corner time. In fact I plan on thinking about it more this afternoon, later this evening, and perhaps even into tomorrow.

Greedy Thing

You crave this position, yearn for it with every strained muscle. The time is finally here.

Raise your hips with two pillows, bend your legs, arch your back so your bottom is up and displayed with nothing left to hide. Flex and unflex your feet, relax your hands. Breathe. Feel this moment; feel the sheets against your cheek; feel your heart race and slow, race and slow. Open your eyes.

This is you at your most pornographic. This is you at your strongest, your most vulnerable. It takes all of your power to remain this way, shivering in anticipation of what's to come while hungrily beckoning for him to satisfy your greed.



He can see you. He can see all of you, standing behind you like he is. He takes his time, admiring what you continually choose to show him. He knows that you enjoy this; he knows how hard it is for you to wait. He makes you wait.

He is silent, but his pulse races along with yours. You can feel it: each of your hearts thrumming with desire, imagining his palms opening and closing while he contemplates your thighs, your bottom, white with wanting. You lick your lips and exhale, readjust your hips while you wonder at his thoughts.



And then you hear the rustle of his body as he steps forward; you stop breathing so you can listen harder. You examine the white linen in front of you, trying to read it as one might read sheet music. You listen to the air and try to judge what is in his hand. A belt moves the air differently than a paddle; a cane would send a whisper down your spine. It is none of those things.

You sense movement behind you and it is his hand reaching for your bottom which it cups and smacks just lightly enough for you to feel the pillows beneath you more distinctly. His fingers trail down, pausing at the space between your thighs and then pushing them apart even further.



You know you are wet. You can smell it. You can feel it as acutely as his hand. And you strain for him, careful to hold position but you want, you want...you want his caress, his attention. You are on the center of the bed but you want to be the center of his world.

He tells you your positioning is perfect but you knew this -- you've anticipated this surrender, memorizing the exact position that will please him the most.



"Good girl," he praises. "My naughty girl," he says.

Your pride at "good" and "my" and "naughty" has you raising your bottom even higher until it is on its rightful pedestal to be pet and punished, forgiven and worshiped.

You know the time is now. You let it begin.

Resolve

A choice: don't do this thing or do it and get the cane.

And it won't be the nice cane I've met before either. It'll be more of the wicked caning that I received on Saturday for doing this same thing. "A sample", he called it. It was a sample that left a half dozen stripes across the bottom of my cheeks -- now gone but the memory of their raised fury remains. It was enough of a taste to know that I don't want the full course.



If I do it, I will confess. That is the way with us. And then it will happen just as he told me it would.

"No," I will whisper.

He will order me over the foot of the bed, without warm-up, without the comfort of restraints. He will order my panties down, will watch as I struggle to obey, will instruct me to keep my bottom high and my arms stretched out in front.

And then I will see him, standing slightly to my side, my eyes pleading with his as I watch his arm rise.

"No," I will whisper again. "Please," I will say, "I won't do it again. I promise."

In response, the cane will slice through the solemn air to bite my bottom with its licking venom.

And again. And again. He will do this six times, in rapid succession, before I can absorb the full impact of the burn. And then I imagine I will sob as the pain begins to come, pleading for it to be over, vowing that I will never do this thing again. I will try to stand but he will push me back down, swatting my hands away as they instinctively attempt to rub out the fire.

Then he will begin again. I do not want to imagine the second set of six. But I know that I will have difficulty finding my breath, difficulty staying put. No I do not want this. I want to be spanked and held on his lap; I want to skip this part and be forgiven.

Will this be necessary? Will this happen? I hope that writing this post and revisiting it will lend me enough willpower to prevent the preventable, to strengthen my resolve to avoid a session with a cane like he has described.

I will not do this thing. I will not. I will not.

When you're not here

Imagining you behind me, I press my hips against the arm of the couch, lift my nightgown and drape myself over the cushions. You'd explore the offering first with your hands and then with your lips and tongue and teeth.

I am wearing your favorite panties -- the ones with the tiny, cream bows, a blanket of lacy gray cloaking my hills in a light fog, giving you a hint of the treasures that lie hidden. Your hot, assessing eyes would roam, determining where to start as we both savor this anticipatory moment.


When you are done with your appraisal, I would turn and run my hand down your firm stomach, licking you with my fingertips and devouring you with my eyes, as I slowly unbuckle your belt and release the button on your pants, tempting you to make your move. I am uncertain whether you would choose to remove your belt and press me back into position or if you would, instead, allow me to ease your pants down to receive a proper homecoming kiss.

I sigh, knowing that if you were here we would erase the days spent apart by writing our new history in the living room, over the kitchen table, scrawled across the countertops and painted on the floors.

Because you say so

We both know that I will do it.

Last Friday, when you ordered me to fetch that wooden paddle from your bedroom, telling me to keep my skirt up and my panties where they were, rolled under my cheeks in such a way that made me want to reach back and hide my burning shame, in my mind I hesitated. But that hesitation didn't last long, because you said so and it must be done.



When you ordered me to the corner my resistance was gone, weathered away by the storm of your palm and paddle thundering against my cheeks, your words making me feel small and quiet but not insignificant. Never insignificant. I feel like the center of your world when you hold me. When you look at me, I know you are seeing all of the parts, flaws and all, and you cherish them. You even kiss the ugly parts of me.

And when you made me bend in front of you while you were seated, I knew you were seeing everything -- turning me into a house without walls, opening me in such a way that hiding was impossible -- and it scared me for a moment. But I did it because you said so.



This is unusual for me. I am the girl who needs to know why. I am the woman who makes up her own mind. But because you say so, I do not question you. I know that you will keep me safe, battling my own fears right alongside me, demanding that with you there is always truth. With you, in humility there is dignity.

I love it when you say so.

I need you to say so.

I am yours because I say so.

An apology

I'm sorry that you must spank me.

I know what an imposition this is. I know you hate it when I unbutton my pants and stand before you, my anxiety at the impending events weighing on your conscience so much that you later lose sleep -- recounting those moments when my eyes plead, "no, please"; your memory looping to the moment when I finally concede and push my pants down.

I hate to be the cause of a guilty conscience.

So let me appease some of your guilt.

When I pause, mid-reveal, and bite my lip, my real concern isn't that you are about to spank me. No, I understand at that point why you must.



My concern is, while you are feeling guilty and your gut is twisting with disappointment from my misbehavior, that you will notice how wet I am. You see, I know I should feel sorry for what I've done -- and I do! But that remorse battles with my desire for this to happen -- and my body wins every time.

And when I beg you to allow my panties to remain up, it's not that I truly detest you spanking my bare bottom, it is that I fear I might leave a tell-tale spot on your thigh during the administration of your discipline. How naughty would that be?

I am incorrigible.



Will it help if I look at you and then down at my feet and give you the most sincere apology that I can?

I'm sorry I enjoy what you do to me. I am sorry that my actions put us here, in this position -- you lecturing me and me honestly feeling guilty, but still aroused. Undoubtedly aroused.

Can you ever forgive me for that?

I know I'm not in any position to ask for a favor. But next time, before you start disciplining me, can you please see for yourself how naughty I really am? If you spanked me for that, I would know true forgiveness, Sir.

Shimmer

I wake up in the cocoon of his comforter, the well-washed softness of the sheets caressing my naked body, the heat from my bottom like a warming brick in the bed.

I remember how it started, when I was placed over his lap and he began the slow beat against my bared cheeks; I remember kicking my feet as he increased the heat with the paddle.

And then I remember...intangibles. Everything was at a distance. My body and mind surrendered to him as he took me to El Dorado, the Lost City of Gold. His voice, soothing and faraway, recalled as a kiss to the forehead -- reassuring and kind, as if he wanted to tell me something.


Look at what I can show you. Look where I can take you if you permit me.
Look at the golden magnificence, shining its offering, laid at your feet.
Listen to the thunder; smell the washed air, crisp and impossibly alive with electricity.

Inhale.
Exhale.

Be.

There is no need to measure time, but it feels as though I was gone for hours before I feel his lips press against my nose, his hand cupping my face, his breath tickling my ear and neck.

Prompting me to open my eyes, he whispers for me to see our world as it really is: the dim quiet of his bedroom; the glowing sunlight of early evening fighting through the blinds; and my gold dust-covered King shimmering beside me, my souvenir from El Dorado.

What comes after

It has been done.

I am a drunk woman, inebriated by sensations, overcome by the warmth that spread like whiskey fire through my blood.

My vision is blurred and I would not recognize myself if I could make it to the mirror; as dizzy as I am, as unsteady as my legs are, I could not walk a straight line or find my nose in the dark. My fingers have no interest in a sobriety test -- they are walking a crooked line across the raised highway of my heated cheeks, mapping the distance between each dip and curve.



The bedroom door closed behind him and my eyes lazily opened. He left me here to sleep; he thinks I'm sleeping already. Or perhaps he left me here to think, a task requiring neither silence nor solitude as I am flooded with thoughts and memories -- I cannot stop remembering.

I remember when he grabbed my arm and steered me toward the bedroom, searched my eyes for understanding, satisfied when he found recognition laced with fear there.



I remember when he slid his hand from my elbow to my wrist, encircled it and guided me over his lap to begin his calm, low sermon in a tone that makes my spine tingle from neck to tailbone.

I remember how I struggled, at once remorseful and joyful that he would not let me up, would not let me off that easy. I remember when I stopped struggling and just let it happen.

I remember elation and not defeat.



My roaming hands comfort my assaulted bottom as I remember these things.

And although I am penitent, although I did not enjoy the spanking or this mandated time alone, I remember it all while a smile plays hide-n-seek with my lips.

Command

"And tomorrow if you're not kneeling at the door with your knees apart and your naked pussy on display, I will casually drag you out the door and spank you in the driveway.

I'm going to touch you and probe you before I spank you. Then I'm going to probe you again."

This is why I'm addicted.

And he means the bit about the driveway.

The bag

During dinner we maintained normalcy. An observer would never have guessed that I was about to be spanked. I knew it, although it remained unspoken.

Throughout our warm conversation, our intermittent hand-holding, my mind would drift to our inevitable return home. I would be spanked hard with an unnamed implement, an implement, perhaps two or three, that I would not like.

The empty backseat held no clues. I craned my neck to peer under the seats as he parked in my driveway, dinner having passed too quickly. I could see nothing peeking out, nothing that would indicate what he'd brought for me, to use on me.

And then he popped the trunk.

Calmly, as if retrieving groceries, he stepped out of the car and matter-of-factly withdrew an unremarkable black bag to sling over his shoulder. He could not know the effect that casual gesture had on me; or perhaps he did.

The premeditation required to pack a bag with items to discipline me, and then placing it in the trunk, out of sight, set off alarms deep within. Yes, this was serious. Yes, he had meticulously planned my punishment, thought about it throughout dinner, and had yet to make mention of it.

With my insides twisting, bursting, and then liquefying, I forced my shaky legs to carry me up the steps to the front door to let us in.

And then he placed it, that little black bag, contents still unknown, on the sofa and beckoned me near.

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 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.)

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.