Silver lining

And both hands, now use both hands.
Oh, no don't close your eyes.
I am writing graffiti on your body...
I am drawing the story.....

-Ani Difranco

We are at a beach resort and it is raining; the rain will last until our departure tomorrow. There is not much to do at the beach with this drizzle so we've stayed sequestered in our tiny room. I have not slept like this since I was a teenager.

The corner room holds a bed and an armoire -- a bath built for small people juts off to the side. It is all that we need.

He asked me, a few minutes ago, with sleep in his voice, to get the bath brush. I scratched his back instead, cloaking my defiance in sweetness, until he was sleeping once again. Now I am sitting on the covered balcony, my inner thighs aching and tired from our activities of yesterday and this morning. My bottom is tender.

I am happy.

I plan to wake him with coffee and place myself, gently, over his lap, an offering to pass the time. (I will not offer him the bath brush as it seems too harsh for the delicate nature of the day. The rain needs only a hand for accompaniment.)

We had plans, but what we are doing is better. We curl together and whisper in our sleep, my fingers tracing the bedframe of his body, his hand resting on the pillow of my bottom.

In a few minutes I will wake him. And we will rock, rock, rock back to sleep.

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.

Going Green

Tip for going green:

Dry your panties by hand. Wring out the panties first, otherwise it will take far too long (and although you may not lose interest, you may lose stamina).

Put on the damp panties. Assume the position, and have your "hand-dryer" start spanking vigorously.

After about 20 minutes, the back of your panties should be fairly dry. But the gusset? Hmm...wetter than ever. And maybe not so clean anymore.

Repeat the process until you achieve favorable results.

I'm unsure of this method for other articles of clothing; in fact, I doubt it would work so well.

As conscientious citizens, we all must do our part, however small. The Earth will thank you for it.

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.)

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.

Destination: unspanked

As you are reading this, I have probably already arrived at my Fourth of July vacation destination: a crowded home full of relatives suggesting what I should eat, wear, and how to do my hair. (My hair looks fine, by the way, despite my elementary school beginnings.)

But as I am writing this four hours before my departure, I have thus far succeeded in packing two items of importance: sun tan lotion (thank you German-Irish heritage), and my super-secret, ultra-quiet finger vibe. Yes, one thing to protect my skin and the other to titillate it. Priorities, right? Mine are obviously in order.

"A vibe on a family vacay?" You ask. Damn straight. I won't have my computer, my blog, my IM or any other connection to this beautiful, not-so-secret-but-still-hushed world of spankos. Sigh.

And when I close my eyes and press that button, I will imagine it: my Calgon....


...and, soon, this duty of vacation will be done and I can return to the blissful drudgery of responsibilities, pressure, and the never-ending ins-and-outs of the normal week.

Fourth of July? Bah! Vacation is so overrated.

That being said, to my American friends: I sincerely wish you a Happy Fourth, safe travels, and your own brand of fireworks!

Picture found on Au Fil de Jours.

(I'll be unable to respond or add anything besides the brief picture posts already scheduled until Wednesday. Bah!! Vacation!)