Natty's Spanking Blog

And it was good

2009-06-27T18:04:00.000-07:00

So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them...And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good.

"Me and my body are not on speaking terms at the moment."

I backtracked as soon as I said it. Even before I saw the strange look Nurse K. gave me.

"Well, I mean, obviously I can't not listen to my body. It's just that between all the pain lately and this fresh freaky hell with the morphine not showing up, I've just been really pissed with it."

The pain I've already explained here. The morphine was in reference to the drug screen I'm required to have every six months to show I'm actually taking my morphine (as opposed to, say, selling it). For some reason, while the hydrocodone I take for break-through pain did show up in my system, the morphine did not even though I take the both, along with 16 other daily medications, every morning and evening in carefully allotted doses in two separate pillboxes (actually four pillboxes in total, which those of you who follow me on Twitter hear me whine about filling every Sunday night). And, of course, this had to happen right as I was undergoing one of the worst pain episodes of my life.

I really hate my body sometimes. It can't just be normal and do what it's supposed to do. It has to be complicated, enigmatic, anomalous.*

My godfather would scold me right about now. "You shouldn't hate your body, habibti," he would say. "Your body is made in the image of God."

So God is diseased, fragile, painful and utterly inexplicable?

Well, okay, I'll give you that last one.

Thankfully Nurse K. was able to report to me that day that the morphine -- along with the hydrocodone -- did show up in the more sensitive opiate screening my doctor did during my next visit. But it didn't do a whole lot to end my rage.

It's hard not to become almost gnostic when you live in chronic pain and illness. Hard not to think of your body as the enemy. The entity that keeps you bound in suffering and debility. A prison from which you hope you will someday be released.

Yes I know. It's the illness that's the enemy. But neurons and viral DNA and freaky biochemistry are so intangible and disparate. I can see -- and worse -- feel my body, that entirety of neurons and DNA and biochemistry, not to mention sacroiliac joints and shoulders and hips, making it a much easier target for my fury and frustration.

I can't even enjoy sex. My sexuality involves pain but for the last month the mere thought of spanking has made me nauseous. Why couldn't I be into feet or balloons or squirrel costumes? Why does it have to be about getting beaten? I got the bad pain genes; why did I have to get the whip-me genes too?

Though it's not only about spanking.

The last few weeks as my sacroiliac joint has slowly healed, my bottom has been abuzz with desire. I couldn't quite put my finger on what it wanted. God knows, it wasn't for spanking. Mostly just some sort of touch or caress, I think.

My hole in particular has been agitating for attention and soon my fantasies started turning to rectal thermometers and enemas. With a thick, strong nurse who was both strict and affectionate. Or with A., using the embarrassment that accompanies such an intimate and invasive procedure to punish me for whatever misdeed.

Enemas fascinate me, despite my lack of experience with them. They're invasive and dominating like anal sex, but with a softer, more infantalizing, and more embarrassing edge. Done for your own good rather than the good of the fucker.

I also found myself thinking about the P-Spot Vibe. How wonderful it feels in my hole and how it could be used as a sort of punishment (or pseudo-punishment as it would never work as a deterrent for me).

I imagined being a student in a school that utilizes creative -- if sexually abusive -- punishments.** A. would be the strict -- if dodgy as hell -- headmaster. I'd have been caught for some terribly stereotypical infraction like smoking in the lavatory. My punishment would be an hour with The Probe (aka the P-Spot Vibe). The school matron and secretary would drag me struggling and pleading to a Lupus-esque bench, the only thing said struggling and pleading accomplishing is threats of more time with The Probe. And maybe the substitution of a more uncomfortable lubricant.

There would be the helplessness as I'm strapped down to the bench. The humiliation as the secretary pulls up my skirt and pulls down my panties. The tightness in my gut and my hole as I hear the snap of the latex glove on the matron's hand. The chill of the secretary's hands pulling my cheeks apart. The matron's gooey finger invading my hole. The discomfort of the hard silicone penetrating what should never be penetrated. The degradation of having my most intimate orifice on display for these three relative strangers. And finally the shame that accompanies arousal...

By Sunday night as I headed for bed I was randy enough to think about wanking. But it was getting late and my medication was kicking in and, well, it's not like it wouldn't be there tomorrow. I slipped under the covers with sleep encroaching when the epiphany struck. Not a particularly profound one, mind you. Indeed it was more like reality smacking me in the face.

I need a body to feel that delicious tingle of arousal. I need a body to feel the wonder and explosive joy of an orgasm. There may be no dislocated sacroiliac joints in a bodiless soul, but there is also no ability to feel your lover caressing your ass. Or the taste of a fresh Oregon strawberry. Or the grainy sound of Bob Dylan. Or the smell of frankincense at Divine Liturgy.

Suddenly I could feel my whole body. The quilt against my calves. The mattress and underquilt beneath my bottom. The breeze from the fan against the skin of my arms. And yes, the sharpness in my right SI joint and the pinched nerve in my right thigh and the mysterious pain in my lower right abdomen and the achiness in my lungs.

My body and I were most certainly on speaking terms.

And it was very good.

____________
*And, of course, like all women, I have the traditional issues with my body because it's not pretty enough or thin enough or (insert unreasonable cultural expectation for the bodies of women of your choice).

**This fantasy would work just as well in a prison scenario, like this one.

A couple of reading assignments

2009-06-19T23:26:00.000-07:00

Before the horror detailed in the last post, I was going through a bad illness spell and forgot to give a shout out to Blog Nosh, which featured an old post of mine about the rather elitist nature of porn. Blog Nosh is an online magazine that publishes a variety of quality, archived blogging. It does tend to be heavy on the mommy blogging, but you will find much there to enjoy whatever your gender or offspring situation.

And since I'm unspankable -- for the moment! -- I thought I'd direct you to a new blog syndication site in the spankosphere, named aptly enough World's Top Spanking Blogs but with a bit of a British flavor. What I like about this site is that it's nicely laid out, easy on the eyes (no flashing ads), and focused on text.

Off you go now. You have some reading to do.

Unspankable

2009-06-18T00:15:00.000-07:00

My ass has been so sore the last several days that it hurts to sit much, even on my bed (aka The World's Softest Bed). And unfortunately, it has nothing to do with spanking.

On May 29th, I woke up feeling as if someone had driven a railroad spike through the base of my spine. I couldn't walk, sit, stand, or turn over in bed without excruciating pain. A week later at 6:30pm, it abruptly stopped, allowing me to sit again and walk a bit (aided by a cane...or two), though it still hurts quite a lot to stand or turn over in bed.

This has happened once before, also right before my period and also during a month when I'd gotten an extra dose of estrogen (that time I had gone off the progesterone-only pill but this time God only knows why I got the extra dose of hormones). However unlike last time, I had a good idea this time around what exactly was causing my pain because my physical therapist had recently identified weakness in my right sacroiliac joint (where the sacrum at the base of the spine attaches to the pelvis) and given me exercises to strengthen the muscles surrounding the area (which I have been doing religiously, especially as I can do them laying in bed and if that's not enough incentive, there's always A. with a clothesbrush). That extra batch of estrogen made my ligaments even more lax than they already are, leaving my sacroiliac joint even more unstable.

In normal human beings, this is a very, very stable joint with super thick, strong ligaments to keep it in place. In me, it slips and slides around like a kid on wet plastic in the hot summer sun. It's not my only joint that does this. I've had two surgeries to correct unstable joints (right ankle and knee). My fingers, elbows, hips -- all pop in and out of place. And since junior high I haven't been able throw a ball over hand using either arm without the shoulder coming completely out of joint and then popping back in.

And yes, it feels just as icky as it sounds.

After talking with my physical therapist, she's recommending I start using a walker until it heals up (though my insurance company at the moment won't approve said walker). I also have a brace to help it stay in place, but the brace presses down on an already pinched lateral femoral cutaneous nerve in my right thigh.

I'm a real piece of work.

At any rate, it means no spanking. Though my pain level has dropped enough that I can actually think about spanking again. As well as, maybe, a strict nurse with an enema bag...

Putting me in my place

2009-05-23T22:25:00.000-07:00

I've been having the same fantasy for months now. It's a fairly straight forward one: a punishment that begins with A. sending me to the corner to think about what I've done while he gets out the implements and straight-backed chair.

Initially I spent my reveries working out the details of going to the corner, draping myself over his lap, being whacked with the ping pong paddle (or rubber paddle -- implements that cause only surface bruising), squirming and kicking, crying. And of course, because it's fantasy, the spanking gets more and more severe. Involves more implements. An extra sojourn to the corner. Time over pillows on the bed.

However after awhile I noticed my focus had shifted to the dialogue. Each night I drifted off to sleep concentrating on what would be said and in what order. Editing the language to make it more stern, more infantalizing, more cheeky or more desperate. And the sharper it got, the more tingly things got between my legs.

Eventually I'd honed the conversation to a point where I simply had to write it down. Remembering it each night was getting to be a pain. It's nothing particularly clever or original. And the language isn't an exact match of what A. and I really sound like (though it's remarkably close). But it does articulate the place I imagine going emotionally and physically. And the more child-like I'm treated, the hotter it gets for me.

oOo

"Tell me again why you are going to be punished?"

"Because I didn't go to bed when I was supposed to..."

"And how late were you?"

"Just three minutes on Tuesday. But, um, an hour and a half on Friday and an hour and forty minutes on Saturday."

"And why were you up so late on those two nights?"

"Cause, um, I was online..."

"Did you forget to set the alarm?"

"No, Sir. I just kept thinking that I only needed a few more minutes."

"So you disregarded the alarm?"

"No. I hit the snooze button cause I thought I just needed a few more minutes."

"How many times did you hit the snooze button?"

"Um...uh...um...7 or 8 times I think."

"Seven or eight times?! That sounds a lot like disregarding the alarm to me."

"No. I just...I mean, I didn't mean to. I wasn't intending to disregard it."

"How do you do something 7 or 8 times without intending to?"

"I...I, um, I...I dunno...I just...I didn't mean to..."

"It would not be a good idea to argue with me, young lady."

"I'm not arguing, Sir. Just...explaining how -- "

"--You're arguing."

I pause. And scowl. And purse my lips tightly together in an effort to choke back the reasonable explanation/cheeky argument dying to come out. And look down at the carpet.

"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir."

"Look at me." A. grabs my chin and pushes it up so that my eyes meet his. "Now explain again, why is it important for you to go to bed on time?"

"Cause I feel more sick if I don't get enough sleep."

"That's right. Little girls who are sick need to rest. And when was the last time I had to punish you for going to bed late?"

"Last week." Sigh.

"Tsk, tsk. So clearly last week's punishment wasn't hard enough."

"It was hard enough. I just -- "

"-- Are you arguing with me again?"

I'm not sure how to answer this question. If I say "yes, I am arguing," it almost sounds defiant. But if I say no, well, that would definitely be arguing even more. So I just hang my head, purse my lips, and look at the carpet. A. grabs my chin and snaps it up again.

"If I have to warn you about arguing with me one more time, you're going to be holding a bar of soap in your mouth during your punishment, is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir."

"So, was last week's punishment severe enough?"

"No, Sir," I say just above a whisper.

"No, it wasn't. And what happens to naughty little girls who continually miss their bedtimes – not to mention are cheeky and contrary?"

"They get punished."

"And how do they get punished?"

"They get spanked."

"That's right. They have their jimjams and knickers taken down, are taken over the knee and get their backsides tanned. Lift up your shirt." (In another variation of this fantasy I'm wearing my pink dress and have to lift that up rather than my pajama top.)

"Please don't spank me! Please! I promise I'll go to bed on time this week," I plead even as I lift up my top.

"Oh, you'll be going to bed on time after I get through with you." He grabs hold of my pajama bottoms. "Let's get these down." With a quick tug, they are swimming around my ankles. "Right. Over my lap, please." Without hesitation, but without a great deal of speed either, I step to his right side and drape myself over his lap. "This, I'm afraid, is really going to hurt," he declares while stroking my hair.

There's no warm up. Using the ping pong paddle, he peppers my fleshy panty-clad cheeks with hard, sharp whacks all the while deploring my cheekiness and bemoaning my poor choices. The pain is searing and surprising. I start to panic somewhat as he turns to lamenting the less than dignified position in which I find myself.

"How very shameful, having someone take down your jimjam bottoms and spank you like a child. Just disgraceful." He keeps whacking with a fast, heavy hand. "And since your last spanking was so clearly a waste of time, I'm going to make sure I get every last inch of your bottom and thighs with this paddle in the hope that I won't have to do it again any time soon." That's the cue for him to stop just long enough to pull my panties in between my cheeks giving him a bare canvass to paint with the ping pong paddle.

And paint he does. There's no counting. Just minute after agonizing minute of hot pain accompanying a stern lecture about how disappointing it is to see that I've chosen to waste my precious energy on roaming the internet late into the night rather than getting the sleep I need to get stronger. About my shocking lack of deference when being addressed. When I'm asked a question I'm to answer respectfully and without quarreling. About how this penchant for arguing demonstrates the same unrelenting willfulness that keeps me from going to bed when I should, or keeps me on the computer for longer than I should be, or frittering away my energy when I should be saving it. And if it takes all afternoon, he's going to beat that willfulness out of me.

oOo

Of course, when I did get spanked over the phone with the ping pong paddle earlier this week for exceeding my allotted time online (which I'm doing again at this very moment, ugh!), I'd forgotten just how much that damn thing hurts.

"It never seems to hurt as much in the fantasy," I pouted as my backside smarted.

A., who too has experienced the dissonance between beatings in fantasy and reality, concurred.

"No. No it doesn't."

Come to bed with ME

2009-05-12T00:24:00.000-07:00

(I love tag line, but I wish the poster were a bit more kinky)

Today is International Neuroendocrineimmune Disorders Awareness Day -- including ME/CFS -- during a week dedicated to ME/CFS Awareness. A couple of years ago I used this day to talk a bit about what ME/CFS is. At my non-kink blog I've commemorated the day in years past by listing what I've lost due to this illness, as well as what I've gained from the experience of illness. This year I thought I'd describe what it's like to have ME/CFS, in addition to the example of an X-Files phenomena I used a few years back.

Here in bed with ME/CFS, you feel like you have the flu. Your throat hurts. Your joints burn. Your heart beats like mad. You feel chilled, profoundly weak, slightly nauseous, light-headed, mushy-brained, and just...icky. I wish I knew a more specific and/or scientific word to replace icky. It's almost like your blood has been replaced with poison. You feel dreadful. Vile. Horrible. Nasty.

And on top of that...

You've got a hangover. Everything smells so strong. The lights are so bright. Loud noise grates on your last nerve, as well as that throbbing in your head just behind your eyes and at the base of your skull. And you might still be a bit tipsy because your spatial perception is off (if I try to do that test where you close your eyes and touch your finger to your nose, I hit my cheek or my eye), not to mention you can't walk a straight line. Sometimes the room just spins.

And on top of that...

Someone is giving you low-grade electric shock torture and doing voodoo on you with a knitting needle. Most of the time it's a constant burning sensation throughout your whole body punctuated by arbitrary 5-30 second jolts of sharp sharp pain in completely random places -- your ear, your belly, your right arm, your left heel. (The burning sensation and the arbitrary jolts get markedly worse whenever I have an acute infection, especially if I have a fever.) And you have this weird buzzing sensation in random places too. As if a bumblebee or hummingbird were just beneath your skin. It doesn't hurt, but it's...weird.

And on top of that...

If you also have fibromyalgia (which up to 70% of ME/CFS patients do), you feel like you just had your first day on a chain gang breaking rocks in a quarry. Or that you went to the gym yesterday and worked out harder than you ever have in your entire life by far. Every muscle in your body burns and aches and is so stiff you can hardly move. You want to curl up in bed and sleep, but the kicker is you can't. You just lay there, though eventually you get up just to move a bit because your muscles have petrified and the stiffness is agonizing. You wish you could go to bed at a normal time and get up at a normal time, but your body runs on its own clock that, unfortunately, is not during normal business hours.

All of that. All the time. That's what it feels like in this bed. That's what it's like to have ME/CFS.

One million Americans have it -- more than have MS or breast cancer -- but it's among the bottom in diseases funded by the National Institutes for Health. The main reason for that is because most people don't take a disease named "chronic fatigue syndrome" seriously. However, as you can see, it's not just being tired. It's as/or more debilitating than congestive heart disease, multiple sclerosis, lupus, or end-stage renal disease.

So what can you do?

1. Donate money to fund research into what's causing this disease and how to treat it. Organizations include:

CFIDS Association of America - great advocates who have funded great research
Whittemore-Peterson Institute - first clinic devoted exclusively to research and treatment
IASCFSME - the main professional organization of ME/CFS clinicians and researchers
Invest in ME - a UK organization doing superb advocacy and research
CFS Research Foundation - UK group doing cutting-edge genetic research

2. Let your elected officials know you want them to fund more biomedical research into the causes and treatments of ME/CFS. The CFIDS Association has a great "Virtual Lobby Day" page to make this as easy as possible.

If you're still reading, thank you. If you can help out, thank you even more! You can bet that if I ever get my hands on a treatment for this disease, there will plenty of spanking (both getting and receiving) and kinky writing to keep us all happy for a very long time.

Will you please call me Cordelia?

2009-05-07T17:02:00.000-07:00

"Will you please call me Cordelia?" she said eagerly.

"Call you Cordelia! Is that your name?"

"No-o-o, it's not exactly my name, but I would love to be called Cordelia. It's such a perfectly elegant name..."

"...Unromantic fiddlesticks!" said the unsympathetic Marilla.

oOo

"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are? asked Anne wide-eyed.

"No."

"Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss -- Marilla, how much you miss!"

"I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away."

Anne Shirley has been a kindred spirit ever since I first watched the Kevin Sullivan production of the classic book by L.M. Montgomery. The first time I heard her talk about "so much view for the imagination," I remember thinking, someone else thinks like that too? followed quickly by oh but you're not supposed to say that out loud! Like Anne I spend a lot of time in my imagination. And when you spend the overwhelming majority of your time alone (and in bed to boot) the imagination can become your permanent place of residency.

For the last four years now I have required an in-home caregiver. I don't know why, but I always imagined she'd be a thick Germanic sort of woman. Probably based on a character in a cartoon or TV show that I've long since forgotten. She'd be no nonsense, of course. A bit like Marilla, though more affectionate. She'd have hands as hard as bed slats, to borrow Harper Lee's phrasing. With the personality of, say, Thelma Ritter in Rear Window. Or my nurse when I was in the hospital with my first pulmonary embolism (Nurse K. might well fit too, though she has some subby inclinations). She'd be discerning, dependable, and devoted. And she would definitely be the one in charge, with the hairbrush to prove it.

The reality, of course, is completely different. It's having a total stranger come into your home when you've just waken up and every dish you own is scattered about the kitchen counters and the laundry is a smelly mound Sir Edmund Hillary would have found a thrilling climb. It's having a total stranger who doesn't understand that while you may look perfectly healthy because you're young, not paralyzed on one side, and still have most of your wits about you, you're not. It's having a total stranger handle your belongings both precious and intimate.

Indeed the very first day with my very first caregiver ended with laundry soap all over the bathroom, a hardwood floor stripped with dark grime after being mopped, and a LCD screen sporting a giant crack after she tripped over the cord and sent my laptop flying (to be fair, that last one was mostly my fault for leaving my laptop in a precarious position). I burst into tears upon her departure. The agency actually fired her a couple of months later after she repeatedly failed to show up for work. I felt badly for her because she had no telephone but did have a child with a father who wasn't particularly helpful with childcare. Yet she was obviously in the wrong line of work.

It got better after that. Her replacement, J., was as perfect a non-kinky caregiver as I could want. Her first day she simply went about tidying up the disarray of my home without needing a great deal of instruction. And when she came across kinky toys that I had forgotten to put away, she never said a word. Just set them aside and went about her work. I was heartbroken a year and a half later when the agency she worked for dumped all of us county-paid clients. The county then moved us all to the only other agency they were contracted with and J. wouldn't work for them. I didn't blame her. The pay was shit and they effectively didn't provide health insurance. Which meant that her replacement wasn't nearly as good.

This last January I was switched to a different program which doubled my monthly allotment of caregiving hours. But with this new program, I have to hire my caregiver. And I hate calling strangers on the phone. With the old program, the agency just sent me someone. If I didn't like the person, I could ask for a new one but the agency was really the boss. Now I am and it feels...weird.

The first woman I hired, G., had the potential to be another J. But she had to quit after three months when she got a job that provided health insurance. I quickly hired S. as she worked for a woman just across the hall. S. could sense the ambivalence in my direction and promptly decided to take charge herself, which, on her second day, included replacing my old laundry baskets and handing me the bill. I hate conflict and since it was only $4.50, decided that was cheaper than mustering the energy to say no. Later that day she decried the clutter in my apartment and, after asking me if it was because of my illness that I'd "let the place go," notified me that she wanted to completely reorganize everything. Yes, there is clutter in my apartment though, while not nice to look at, it is neatly piled on shelves and out of the way.

This was not exactly the sort of bossy I was looking for.

So I mustered the energy to sit her down the next day and explain that I appreciated her ambition but I needed to channel that ambition based on my priorities, not hers. In addition, if she made me feel self-conscious about everything, she was not going to work out. She apologized, acknowledged that I was the boss, and agreed to follow my agenda. I thought it was going to work out after that. But, alas, she switched to a more passive-aggressive approach, telling me how I needed to replace this or that, including my vacuum as it hurt her shoulder. When she emailed me a few days later to tell me she was quitting because her shoulder hurt and her doctor told her to cut back on work, I was relieved. Fake excuses do make the world a happier place, no?

But that left me needing to hire yet another new Home Care Worker. And calling more strangers from among a list of names. It took me almost a week before I even looked at the HCW list and a few more days before I started calling potential caregivers. While my phone phobia could explain some of my procrastination, there was clearly more to my dawdling.

As I sat and thought about my feelings, I realized that, along with my continuing resentment over not being able to do my own cooking and cleaning, was fear and vulnerability. Will the new HCW understand that I really am sick, despite my seemingly healthy exterior? Will I have to prove I'm truly deserving of in-home care? Being fat makes me particularly paranoid about being seen as lazy. And what if she happens upon my toys? Will she freak out? I'm tired of putting together task lists and care plans (I haven't ever even bothered with creating a job application or seeking/checking references as apparently I'm supposed to). Being my own HR person is exhausting. I just want someone to simply take care of me already.

In the end, here alone all the time, it's so easy to slip into my imaginary world with my imaginary caregiver who already understands how ME/CFS works and will make me rest. Who understands and shares my kinkiness. Who doesn't need me to list every last thing that needs to be done but just...knows.

While I don't know if it was God, karma, fate, or whatever that put me in the circumstances that I'm in, Marilla's point that I'm not meant to imagine them away has a great deal of merit. Once I awake from my reverie, the real world is still here requiring my action. I can whine all I want about how hard it is. And like Anne begging to be called Cordelia, I can beg for life to be like it is in my imagination, but at the end of the day she was still Anne -- with an "e" -- and I still need to hire somebody to come do my laundry.

Tonight will be my first day with my newest HCW. I'm sure she won't be the caregiver of my imagination. And I don't even know if she'll be as perfect as J. was. But so far we've talked on the phone so much this week I feel like we're already friends. She cheerfully agreed to work my dream schedule and even volunteered to call my caseworker to make certain her pay is arranged (at least I don't have to deal with paychecks and tax withholdings), so I feel hopeful.

However it will be the alarm on my cell phone telling me when to go to bed tonight, the heart monitor I will be getting in the mail soon to telling me when I need to rest, and the good folks at LibriVox telling me bedtime stories.

Though I can imagine it's a strict nurse slapping a hairbrush against her palm...

The UN Spanking Court

2009-04-24T23:59:00.000-07:00

Bit of a startle on Jon Stewart last night in a segment entitled "Sh#it That's Never Gonna Happen" in which he details how conservatives are so worried about the UN telling them they won't be able to spank their kids, that our fair nation has yet to sign the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child -- the only other country that hasn't being Somalia. "The UN Spanking Court?" balked Stewart in response to the fears of conservatives. "Not gonna happen."

Though an international court that utilized spanking...Now that one has a bit of fodder for fantasy...

Actually I had a friend, K., who was from Sweden, a nation which had banned the spanking of children. K.'s father was a policeman who would be ostensibly enforcing said law. However when young K. pointed out to his dad that his ass was now safe, his father promptly replied that he would continue to take K. over his knee whenever he damn well felt it was merited. Interestingly enough, K. grew up to be a UN peacekeeper where he learned first hand how (in)effective UN treaties are.

I must confess that my lack of blogging this last week is probably a result of my having developed a Twitter fixation. It's like being able to hang out with friends without having to expend the energy required for instant messaging or actually going out. However while it may meet some of my socialization needs (which cannot be underestimated when one is housebound), it's ultimately not a replacement for proper blogging which I hope to return to in the coming week.

Though Twitter isn't exclusively to blame. I am in the process of analyzing my activity level and how best to balance my need for rest with my need to interact with the outside world. Can't say I've come to any concrete conclusions yet, which is why my posting has been so erratic lately. I can say my blogging will continue; I just don't know how much and how frequently yet.

I'd talk more, but my medication has kicked in and I don't know how much longer I'll be coherent. ;-)

I'll probably get spanked for this post...

2009-04-11T00:18:00.000-07:00

Ah, dear reader, I have not forgotten you. Indeed I have missed you all a great deal these last few weeks as I've padded the blog with obligatory repostings.

Recently I've been trying out a new internet regime as part of my effort to rest more. My time online is limited to two and a half hours and damn does it go fast. The new regime has produced results. I've felt stronger and had less pain this last week. Now I just have to figure out how to spend less time reading every fascinating thing I stumble upon (not to mention Twittering), and more time strategically spending my allotted minutes blogging.

In the meantime I thought I'd link (yes...more padding) you to a prize-winning story I read awhile back that those of you who like schoolgirl stories might enjoy. No, there is no spanking. It's a contemporary story. But the main character is indeed a naughty girl who gets herself into trouble. The writing is rich, sensual, and truly wonderful. And I really loved the ending.

Right. I'm 40 minutes late for bed and I think...oh dear, maybe an hour over my limit? I haven't been paying enough attention tonight...

Pleasurists #23

2009-04-10T23:58:00.000-07:00

Aliciante » Blog Archive » Coisas Simples via bendmeover

Pleasurists is your round-up of the adult product reviews that came out in the last seven days from bloggers all around the sex blogosphere. Did you miss Pleasurists #22? Read it all here. Do you have a review for Pleasurists #24? Submit it here before Sunday April 12th at 11:59pm PST. Please re-post this list on your own blog if listed.

Want to win some free swag? All you’ve got to do is enter.

Win the toy I rave about Deadline: Friday, April 10th.
Pleasurists Contest: LELO Toy Giveaway! Deadline: Friday April 10th at 11:59pm PST.
CrashPadSeries.com Contest! Deadline: April 22, 2009.
My First Sex Toy Contest! Deadline: 11:59 PM CST May 1st.
Do You Have an Erotic Adventure to Share? Deadline: May 31st, 2009.
Spring Contest Time! Deadline: TBD

Madame Editrix

Scarlet Lotus St.Syr

On to the reviews…

Editor’s Pick

Bebe by Beautiful Dreamer

Love Being Woman, once again, seems very friendly. Warm & welcoming. One of the things they set out to do was a create a vibrator designed by women that was beautiful AND functional. And they’d had enough with the tacky images and bad packaging. As someone who dissects every package with a little too much critique, I have to say I definitely appreciate their attention to detail.

Editor’s Note: I try to pick posts which are not only well-written but also which are somehow unique or unusual and make me desire to own the toy being reviewed. This one definitely fits both of those criteria. Interesting information, gorgeous toy that I’d never seen before, and overall a wonderful review!

Vibrators

LELO Elise by Scarlet Lotus St. Syr

Hitachi Magic Wand by N

LELO Mia by Marla Singer

Body Spa Vibrating Sponge by CarrieAnn

Vibrating Rabbit by Adriana

LELO Liv by Scarlet Lotus St. Syr

Rock Your World Vibrator by Adriana

OhMiBod Naughtybod by The Countess

Impulse Butterfly by Epiphora

LELO Gigi by Carnivalesq

Waterproof P-Spot Vibe by Natty

Paradise Curve by Bad Bad Girl

JimmyJane Form 6 by Domina Doll on Viviane’s Sex Carnival

Liberte by Bad Bad Girl

Cleopatra by Thursday’s Child

Dildos

Share by Marla Singer

SinFive Pikilo by Beautiful Dreamer

Share by Erin Leone

Fun Factory Share by Sleeping Dreamer

Ten Inch Explorer by Bad Bad Girl

Toys for Cocks

LELO Bo by Scarlet Lotus St. Syr

Classix Silicone Snatch by Bill Turner

Lube/Massage Oil/Bath Stuff

Intimate Organics Massage Oil by Scarlet Lotus St. Syr

Babeland Bubble Bath by Ansley Agnello

Intimate Organics Discover G-Spot Gel by Sexorcism

ID Juicy Lube 10 Pack by Ansley Agnello

Lyriana by Domina Doll

BDSM/Fetish

Nipple pump by Panthera Pardus

Super Strap Love Ties by Alpine Subdreams

Nipple Clamps by Natt Nightly

Under the Bed Restraint System by Marla Singer

Dr. Joel Kaplan Nipple Pump System by Alpine Subdreams

Tweezer Nipple Clamps by HotMoviesForHer Sex Toy Crew

Slut Impressions Paddle by Ang

Nipple to Clit Tweezer Clamps by Bad Bad Girl

Adult Books

Getting off- A woman’s guide to masterbation by Jezebelle

The Mistress Manual by Domina Doll on Viviane’s Sex Carnival

Adult Movies/Porn

Girls Girls Girls 2 by Epiphora

Crash Pad Series - Episode 9: Julie & Michelle by J.D. Bauchery

Raw Luck by FrzKey

ErocktaVision Volume 2 - West Coast Women by The Porn Librarian

Girls Coming by J.D. Bauchery

Perversions Of Lesbian Lust 1 by The Porn Librarian

Storage

Large Lockable Toybox by Wendy Blackheart

Miscellaneous

Corsette Harness by Marla Singer

Lil’ Pony Positional Pillow by Average Joe

pStyle by Erin Leone

Luna Pleasure Bead System by HotMoviesForHer Sex Toy Crew

Stripper Pole Kit Review by Essin’ Em

Body Tickler Ostrich Feather by Domina Doll

Sugasm #162

2009-04-02T21:27:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of posts recently. I crashed badly last week/week before last and have been slowly climbing my way back to my normal baseline level of energy. Unfortunately writing (among other things) has suffered as a result. And not just here. I even had to drop out of the writing group I wrote about back in February. But I'm feeling stronger with each passing day and hope to catch up with blogging this weekend.

In the meantime, I encourage you to check out some of the Sugasm posts for this week as there was quite a lot of great writing. My personal favorites included one that made it into the top three picks, "Tied naked in a field of grass," as well as "Work Violation" and "HNT ~ Blood makes noise," which looks at a rather taboo topic even among kinksters: menstruation and sex.

**********************

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #163? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom

This Week’s Picks
Justify My Love
“All I could think of was to have his arms around me so that they could make everything right.”

Tied Naked In A Field Of Grass
“Growing up on a farm has its advantages.”

On Machismo
“It’s very weird, this rigid interpretation of gender in America.”

Sugasm Editor
Sex Work And Compassion: The Angry Family

Editor’s Choice
Heat

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

VibeReview Fantasy: Waterproof P-spot vibe

2009-03-31T00:39:00.000-07:00

I imagine...being in an exquisitely grim prison. Something like Detention Girls. Except punishments would be very public. And on a spanking bench similar to the one starring in many a Lupus movie.

The basement, however, would still get a fair amount of use as the playroom of the sadistic female guards and an evil British warden who looks remarkably like A. I would be lead down there one night -- naked, of course -- and arranged over a table. My hands and waist fastened with straps conveniently attached to the boards and a blanket placed beneath my pelvis to lift my backside up, while my legs are spread far apart and tied to the legs of the table.

The warden would sit leering as one guard beats me with a prison strap while another pulls my head back by my hair allowing a third to attach some very pinchy nipple clamps -- made even more pinchy under the weight of my chest against the table. After watching this show for awhile, the warden would tell my chastiser to stop as he'd walk up and stand behind me. Caress my throbbing cheeks. Stick his right index finger into my cunt.

"And I always thought you were such a good girl," he'd murmur with a tsk upon removing his wet finger. "But clearly you like it nasty." He'd walk up so that he'd be right next to my face. "I'll bet you even like it up the ass."

The mere thought of which would make me whimper and shake my head and mumble a plea to stop. A plea that I am a good girl.

"Spread her cheeks," he'd bellow and a guard would promptly obey, exposing my most intimate orifice to everybody in the room. As the warden walks toward my backend, he'd remove his belt, the tip of which he'd use on my hole without mercy. Abruptly, he'd stop.

"If you're such a good girl," he'd begin, "let's see if you can keep from coming." Turning to the guards he'd bark out, "get me some toys...the Silver Bullet and...that anal vibe."

The two toys would be placed in their appropriate spots with the warden holding the controls. Slowly he'd turn up the power as I'd try and resist the rapturous sensation quickly enveloping my anus and clitoris.

But, of course, it'd be no use. My moans and muffled convulsions would reveal that the warden was right...

oOo

In the new box of toys VibeReview sent for me to play with, they had the good sense to send me more anal toys from my wish list, including the Waterproof P-spot Vibe. I have to admit that I'd forgotten I'd put it on my wish list many moons prior when I was looking for a vibrating anal probe and found the pickings rather slim. That has changed. VibeReview has added a number of vibrating anal toys to its stock, some of which I might have chosen over the Waterproof P-spot Vibe -- that is, prior to playing with it. Now that I've had the chance to put it to work, you would not be able to pry it out of my cold, dead hands.

Sure, I don't have a "p-spot" (aka prostate). But what I love about this vibe is that its shaft is not particularly thick or long. I'm not one of those anal people who likes the feeling of fullness. I'm much more into stimulation of the sphincter. And it doesn't go a whole lot further inside than that.

It also has a hand-held control, which I'm starting to consider almost mandatory for toys that get put inside any orifice. There's no digging inside or contorting around to change the speed. I can lay back and adjust the vibrations with a mere push of my thumb. Lazy? You betcha. Helpful to a weak invalid who barely has enough strength to come in the first place? Absolutely.

I can't really say much about it's waterproof capacity as I keep forgetting to take it into the bath with me (it doesn't help that I often bathe when my caregiver is here). Though, to be honest, I'm not really big on masturbating in the bath. However, I can note that the WPS vibe has the benefits that come from being made out of phthalate-free silicone.

Its price is reasonable, with the only downside being that it require batteries -- two AA to be exact. But buy yourself a charger and some rechargeable batteries and you won't be constantly stealing batteries from your camera or the remote for a good wank.

As my fantasy suggests, I used the WPS vibe along with my Silver Bullet for a fucking amazing orgasm. Upon waking the next day, my first thought was that I had to do that again. If it wasn't for the fact that I'm sick and orgasming can really wipe me out if I'm not careful, I'd be playing with this toy night and day.

The Miracle Massager? It's been sitting forlornly in the bottom drawer since the WPS vibe arrived. Yep, it's that great. Plus the head to my Miracle Massager keeps falling off.

I'm not sure if that means I'm very naughty or the maker of the Miracle Massager is.

oOo

Shameless Plea From A Commercial Whore: Today is the end of the commission quarter and I haven't sold anything since December. If you're thinking about buying the WPS vibe or any other sex toy from VibeReview via this here blog (and you have to go to the VibeReview site directly from a link like this on this blog for me to get any credit/commission), feel free to go ahead and do it today.

Obviously, buying something tomorrow or any other day is always cool. As is donating via PayPal, especially now that Natty has her own account.

Sugasm #161 -- I'm the Editor's Pick!

2009-03-24T20:18:00.000-07:00

What a nice surprise upon getting my new power cord in the mail and getting back online!

I heartily recommend the "Betrayal" post below. Oh the many times my cunt has betrayed me during a punishment!

***********************

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #162? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom

This Week’s Picks:
The Balance of Power
“A wave of lust coursed through her body at his words”

Betrayal
“What’s this? Evidence of pleasure?”

Secret signals
“I will adore him for it”

Sugasm Editor
Not An Overnight

Editor’s Choice
The Ghost of Abuse

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Broken power cord

2009-03-19T16:27:00.000-07:00

Letting you all know with my last 12% of power left in my battery that I'm offline until I get a new one, which probably won't be until next week. Hope to have lots of hot and thoughtful stuff then.

Impish

2009-03-16T23:59:00.000-07:00

I'm always sleepy when it's over. Endorphines flood muscles relaxing after tensing through blow after blow. I cuddle with my pillow imagining that it's his chest.

It was just another punishment. And for my customary offense: not going to bed on time. But the circumstances were somewhat ambivalent. I had substantially reduced my melatonin intake Friday night after a weary week under its somnific spell and didn't fall asleep until 6am. When it came time to go to bed on Saturday night upon the conclusion of Saturday Night Live, I didn't really see much point in getting there in a timely fashion. That I got confused about Daylight Savings Time and mistakenly thought I had an extra hour to spare is quite beside the point. I slid beneath the sheets well after 2am but didn't fall asleep until after 3...er, 4am. And since I didn't wake up until after 3pm on Sunday afternoon, it seemed silly to go to bed at 11:30, especially as I didn't even eat dinner until 10:45.

"I thought we agreed you would still, at least, get into bed at 11:30 even if you didn't feel sleepy?"

A. reminded me of this key clause in the bedtime compact that I had regrettably forgotten, making him a helpful, if austere arbiter.

"Yes," I sighed.

"Best fetch the ruler (phew!) and the long-handled brush (damn!), please."

It would be an odd sight to anyone peering through the gaps of my green velvet blackout curtains. While a muted-Margaret Warner conversing with Gwen Ifill looks on, a grown woman talking into a phone headset pulls down her purple pajama bottoms, lays over her bed and begins hitting her pale and considerable cheeks -- first awkwardly with a 24-inch ruler. After a minute or two, she stops briefly, resuming again a minute later -- counting this time to sixteen. Whimpering here and there after the ruler lands particularly hard or in a sensitive spot.

I really needed the spanking. The throb of nothingness on my backside has been building for weeks and has been particularly grueling during the last few days. When I woke up this afternoon, I felt impish. I sent a slightly devilish reply to a post on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup and spent the afternoon doing anything I could think of to avoid doing the physical therapy and meditation that are part of my required daily routine. I was in, as I am apt to say, my Natty mood.

"Tell me when you get to 9," A. directed as I started whacking my bottom with the long-handled (clothes)brush -- nine being the number from one to ten on the pain scale.

After a couple of minutes of whacking and whimpering, my endorphines kicking in and my arm (which was finally in the middle of the procrastinated-physical therapy exercises when A. called) beginning to tremble from overuse, I conceded that it was next to impossible to reach nine over the phone.

But that didn't finish my ordeal. I was still required to wallop my hind sixteen, then twelve times, and finish with eight more for forgetting to address A. as Sir during the first half of my punishment, as is entirely appropriate for such a sober occasion. Had he seen the roll of my eyes when I got the order to add those eight strokes, well, I daresay there would have been far more.

Like I said...impish.

"Big cuddle for my girl" was A.'s hearty but tender verbal comfort when it was over. It always ends with that. With me hugging my pillow and my eyelids growing heavy and my bottom smarting. With vows to do better and that strange buzz of penitence and contentment.

Except tonight I only feel a little penitent. And instead of contentment, I'm...hungry.

I find myself even pondering that which should never be pondered, namely, should I go for the hat-trick and miss my bedtime a third Saturday in a row?

(Cross-posted at the Punishment Book)

How BDSM is and is not sexist

2009-03-11T23:59:00.000-07:00

Back in October I tried to write a bit about sexism within BDSM, but my brain was way too mushy to articulate the problem coherently. However while catching up on some long overdue blog reading yesterday, I found this thoughtful, intelligent post over at Subversive Submissive that spelled it out in more detail.

From my perspective, BDSM is a product of human sexuality and its wide variety of expressions and is not inherently sexist nor inherently feminist. Because we live in a sexist and heterosexist society, we mainly see maledom-femsub parings, while any other combinations, including those involving trans and queer folks, are marginalized; and female dominants are largely still expected to be fetish objects for submissive men. (Or they aren’t really thought to exist.) Also because of the sexist culture in which we are socialized, there are a lot of men (in general) who are accustomed to getting what they want from women, and there are a lot of women (in general) who have a hard time saying “no” and sticking to it

I particularly liked the point about how BDSM pairings that do not fall within the traditional maledom-femsub paradigm are marginalized as I think this is why any discussion of, say, domestic discipline is always, always gendered even if many of us who engage in the practice do not look at it in terms of gender. She also talks about how BDSM practice can be used to mask sexist beliefs, as in male dominants who believe that all women are naturally submissive regardless of whether a woman may identify as dominant (I think we've all run into that guy). It's a really great post and I highly recommend reading it in its entirety (it's not particularly long).

Fanny-whaling on SNL

2009-03-08T01:01:00.000-08:00

They always seem to be in the last skit.

There was a spanking reference in the last skit of tonight's Saturday Night Live, with Dwayne Johnson (aka The Rock) playing a Casanova of sorts using a lighthouse to woo Kristin Wiig. Except that every time he turned around he was turning off the big light, causing various watercraft to crash against the rocks below. Ms. Wiig's character kept insisting they should go and help the people injured upon the rocks. However Johnson's character would dismiss the noise as something else, like whales, so that they would not be distracted from the fucking they were clearly anticipating. And, of course, there were double entendres aplenty to try and add some comedy to what was otherwise a truly surreal and not particularly funny sketch. The last of which came from Kristen Wiig who stated something to the effect of the only whale she wanted was "the whaling you'll do on my fanny."

Not nearly as funny or as substantive as the Catherine Zeta Jone sketch a few years ago where she and Will Forte sing their vows of undying marital spanking bliss to each other, but another example, I think, of how spanking is one of the totally hip fetishes these days.

Sugasm #160

2009-03-06T22:27:00.000-08:00

There was a lot of great writing this week on Sugasm. It was hard to vote for the top three -- indeed I settled on three totally different posts, even though these three were also very good. If you get a chance, head over to Sugasm and check out more.

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The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #161? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom

This Week’s Picks

He beats me
“I bite my lip in anticipation as I follow his direction.”

Jerking Off: You’re doing it wrong!
“However, I’m in it now. And I need it.”

Love Languages
“How do I best show my love?”

Sugasm Editor
Faking A Four Way

Editor’s Choice
Sugarbutch Star: Matt (part 1)

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

SpankingTube: Family-friendly porn?

2009-03-02T21:58:00.000-08:00

Thanks to a spanko friend at soc.sexuality.spanking, I've discovered a new web addiction: Spanking Tube. Yup, that's right -- YouTube (which I love) and spanking (which, um, I'm clearly a fan of) -- merge together like peanut butter and chocolate into one yummy site. For many of you, this site is not new, and I'm wildly behind the times. But I'm sure there are at least a few of you reading for whom this will be an exciting discovery as well.

After watching several videos, I decided to sign-up so that I could subscribe to various users' latest videos. And this, dear friends, is what popped up after I registered (click on the picture and note the bit circled in yellow with the big yellow arrow):

Because I'm sure you've always wanted to share a recently uploaded video of your adult diaper play with Aunt Betty or that night at the dungeon with Grandma...

The ghost of abuse

2009-02-26T16:03:00.000-08:00

It haunts every stroke, every word of a scolding, every moment anticipating a punishment. Years of being afraid and worse. Sometimes it seems so long ago, I start to wonder if it was really me all that stuff happened to. Sometimes the memories are still hot and raw, so much so that a year or two ago when I tried to write this post, I had to walk away lest it break the pieces I've spent years gluing back together.

While there hasn't been a lot of research on those who engage in What It Is We Do, research regarding BDSM in general suggests that child abuse is not the reason practitioners have the sexual orientation they do, even if those outside our community may think otherwise. In my own case, I started fantasizing about being spanked years before the abuse started and I am convinced that I'm a spanko despite the abuse.

oOo

My stepfather has delicate lips and a front tooth that is slightly crooked, and when making certain expressions, A.'s mouth reminds me of him. Sometimes when A. coughs or clears his voice, it's almost the same pitch as the muffled coughing of my stepfather that I listened ever so carefully for from my bedroom. When I'm over A.'s lap and he's giving me the full force of his hand, the motion feels almost identical to the full force of my stepfather's rage-filled palm.

There are so many ways that my punishment kink interacts with the abuse I experienced as a child. Memories that I've not thought of in years will suddenly terrorize me as I approach a punishment. Feelings that I can't quite articulate will harass me after, especially when a phone spanking doesn't allow for tactile cuddling.

Of course, communicating with my partner is vital. It means telling A. when I'm beset by the ghost of old chastisements and cannot deal with any new. He faithfully discharges me from whatever disciplinary session is at hand, no questions asked -- even though I may have spent all day worried that he would be mad, would not understand my fear. Sometimes the desire to continue with whatever regime we've agreed to is there, but I just need to make him -- and even more so, myself -- aware of the turmoil brewing just below the surface.

What I have learned is to never repress, though admittedly the habit is hard to break completely. Ghouls of all shapes and sizes never fare well in the light. The more I write (journal) and I talk out loud (mostly to a therapist) about my memories, the more power they lose. Not that it isn't painful. And it scares the living shit out of me at times. But it gets easier. Really.

After my mother and stepfather divorced, I kept having this recurring dream where I was in my old bedroom and it was littered with piles of old clothes, books and knick-knacks. A move was imminent, but I was completely overwhelmed with the disarray, as well as bewildered about what to do with all the stuff. I always woke up distressed and fatigued.

I still have the dream, except now the room is almost empty save for a handful of things that I'm still not sure what to do with. But I always wake up knowing they will find their place.

Yes, there remains a nagging interplay between my punishment kink and my history of child abuse. However, embracing my discipline fetish has been a means of empowerment through choice. It is also a means of healing because this time, there's no yelling, no rage, no belittling. And when there is fear and shame, it's yummy and magical and completely therapeutic.

(Cross-posted at the Punishment Book)

A spanko in a non-spanko world

2009-02-19T22:11:00.001-08:00

I've joined a writing group as a way to actually interact with real, live human beings. It's just next door, which is what allows me to participate given my limited mobility. I'm really enjoying a bit of camaraderie and surprising myself with some of the writing I've done thus far.

I suppose it was bound to happen at some point. We write based on prompts and one of the prompts tonight er, prompted me to write about a character interested in spanking. As different people read their pieces, I debated about whether I would share mine or pass. In the end, with a warning about its racy nature and what I'm sure was a bright red face, I shared. And it was received well. A few people even said they wanted to hear more, though I suspect that it had more to do with the characters rather than it being about sex and spanking.

Of course, that's just my guess. There well might be some kindered spankos in the class for all I know. However, I didn't get that sort of vibe.

I'd share it here, but it was only a few sentences, and I'm not sure if it might turn into something more that I might want to publish.

But it was sort of my small step for spanko-kind in the non-spanko world.

VibeReview Fantasy: Lily vs. Silver Bullet

2009-02-16T01:37:00.000-08:00

I knew it would be naughty. Shopping at Safeway with the Lily firmly ensconced in my labia, delivering a steady appetizer of arousal to my clit. But taking the Senior Shuttle to and from Safeway while the Lily buzzed between my legs was particularly naughty. The very thought that a woman who walks with a cane could be so depraved...it merits not just condemnation but severe chastisement.

And that's exactly what I got when I returned home and the frozen yogurt was put away and he felt between my legs.

"You dirty little slut," he said with a tut while groping my cunt.

A moment later he jerked my trousers and knickers down. Dragged me to the bed, pushed me over its edge, and spanked my full, meaty cheeks with his hand and a ping-pong paddle until they blushed with shame and sting. Turned me over and pulled my legs apart to expose the wicked gadget still teasing my clit.

"Don't you dare move those legs together," he ordered before disappearing into the kitchen.

When he returned, he placed a claw of peeled and scored ginger up my ass. Removed the Lily. Slid his belt out of its appointed loops and whipped my cunt with firm, measured strokes. Divided my labial lips and pressed a disk of ginger against my clit with the Silver Bullet.

"Let's give that clit of yours some real attention," he said as he nudged the control toward high.

My pelvis flickered and lurched. My legs squeezed together, then released. Soon my pelvic floor was convulsing from the provocation. My clitoris throbbed and twitched and soon it came...I came...

oOo

I'm beginning to realize that I'm a veritable Tim Allen when it comes to clit stimulation. My constant refrain is always, More Power!. Though I generally forgo the Neanderthal grunt.

In this review I thought I'd do things a bit different. Aside from beginning with the fantasy rather than ending with it, I also decided to compare and contrast two toys ostensibly prescribed with the same task, namely, vibrating the clitoris.

The Lily is the pretty rich girl with all the latest accouterments. She's got a pink (or black) phthalate-free silicone exterior, multiple speeds and settings, a charger to keep her running without batteries or cords, and comes in an inconspicuous black box along with a black satin bag to travel in style. The settings allow you to run her with short, fast pulsations. Or longer pulsations. And a couple of variations on that theme. Being cordless and quiet allows you a great deal of freedom in how you might choose to use her.

Like all rich girls, she's not cheap. Figuring out her settings can be tricky, as well as a bit awkward when she's down there. So play with her a bit before putting her to work. And when it comes to work, well, she has some breadth to her abilities, but not a lot of effort. The Lily will whet my appetite but never make me come. Even when I used it along with the Silver Bullet coated with cayenne ointment in my ass (that often makes me come all on its own). And like most pretty, but expensive dresses, hers stains easily. My Lily has all sorts of marks on it after sitting in its black satin bag, as well as from sitting in my bedside drawer sans the bag.

The Silver Bullet is the working girl that may not be all that fancy, but she knows how to work hard and get the job done. She's so affordable even I could buy her and I live well below the poverty line. The hand-held control makes her incredibly easy to use – just slide the knob up or down. No frantically digging in between your labia to change the setting. And the Silver Bullet has the power to make me come, which is any clit vibrator's ultimate objective. While the orgasm isn't as intense as it is with the Miracle Massager, I sometimes prefer that as it leaves me with enough energy to come a second time.

Sure, she does require batteries. And she may or may not be phthalate-free. The hand-held control is attached to the Bullet itself so it's not as portable as the Lily, though I imagine there are ways around that. She doesn't have a fancy satin bag or special box. But, well, she makes me come, and that's what really matters, no?

So there you have it. If you don't need something too powerful and want the fancy bells and whistles, Lily is your girl. But if you're like me and need your clit vibe to work hard for the money, you can't go wrong with the Silver Bullet.

Both the Lily and the Silver Bullet are at reduced price during VibeReview's Winter Sale, along with many of their other toys. Follow any of the links in this post or via the ad in the sidebar and you'll help out your favorite invalid spanko.

Not as perverted as it used to be

2009-02-13T20:09:00.000-08:00

Don't ya love news stories that state the obvious? "Kinky sex is on the rise," is the headline at ABC News. The line following lists several fetishes and then asks, "is it the Internet?" Um, need you ask? And as always there are a few things that are mostly right but the language seems a bit awkward.

But today, according to sex-perts, couples are looking for more intensity in sex lives, and interest in sado-masochism appears to be rising.

"After the pain threshold is crossed, they describe a type of ecstasy called 'flying," Dunlap found in his research. "It is no longer painful and gives an entirely sexual as well as psychological, transcendent place. Flying is bigger than any drug."

I've heard of "sub space" but "flying?" Have any of you heard it called "flying?"

I also wonder how it works for vanillas -- er, teleiophiles (ya learn something everyday!) -- when they use sex manuals suggesting BDSM to "spice up" their relationships. Spanking and bondage have been the core of my sexual fantasies before I even understood what sex was. It comes as natural to me as breathing. But does adding some handcuffs and a paddle really "spice up" a relationship for people who don't breath it?

The article was a nice reminder, however, that being a pervert isn't as perverted as it used to be.

Front page spanking: Bankers Flogged

2009-02-12T23:53:00.000-08:00

Oh how those tarts at CNN tease us.

Personally, I'm thinking it's time to get all French Revolution on those bankers' asses. And maybe throw in a few Republican senators for good measure.

All about the blows

2009-02-04T22:08:00.000-08:00

Slapping isn't just good for the ass. Sometimes it's exquisite right across the face, as Angela Connor details in this delectable essay over at Nerve. I particularly loved the following passage:

Peter asked about the sex, and I told him it was sweet, but I wanted to talk about the blows. And he asked the questions friends ask to make sure you're being honest with yourself.

"I'm just wondering," he said, "why isn't it abuse?"

Without thinking, I gave my most honest answer: "Because it feels good."

Talking about kinky sex can feel so strange with vanillas. Intercourse is nice and all, but it's the blows, the implements, the stern looks that are so much more interesting. And feel so good.

More fun than spanking porn?

2009-01-29T13:52:00.000-08:00

Saturday evening I watched the 1961 film version of Lorraine Hansberry's remarkable play, A Raisin in the Sun.* It was a fascinating movie to watch at this moment in the African-American experience, as well as American history as a whole. I was savoring Hansberry's complex characters and incisive dialogue when it happened: somebody mentioned spanking.

"Go on in there and get ready for your beating," says Ruth to son Travis after he returns from wandering around the streets at night. It takes several minutes for the action in the living room to finish so that Ruth can head into her bedroom where Travis has been sent to prepare for his beating, despite the fact that Ruth "sure don't feel like whipping nobody" that night.

You know how you're reading a book or watching a movie and someone mentions spanking but it's only a mention? There is no actual spanking or if there is, it's only alluded to. And that allusion will keep you going for days as you ponder the logistics. At least that's the way it is for me.

What does getting ready for a beating entail? What position will he be spanked in? With what?

This also happened to me last summer when I was feeling well enough to finally read A Hundred Years of Solitude.** Colonel Aureliano Buendia is trying his Conservative enemy (albeit a very friendly enemy), General Moncada, (who is mother has grown rather fond of) in a kangaroo court-martial. Along with several other women, Aureliano's mother, Ursula, pleads with the court to have mercy on Moncada and delivers a stern warning about what could happend if that mercy is not granted:

"But don't forget that as long as God gives us life we will still be mothers and no matter how revolutionary you may be, we have the right to pull down your pants and give you a whipping at the first sign of disrespect."

Yet as Colonel Aureliano Buendia tells Moncada after he's been condemned to the firing squad, "I'm not shooting you. It's the revolution that is shooting you." And as revolutions are hard to spank, Ursula ends up whipping no one. Well, except her son Arcadio a bit earlier in the story when he becomes a complete despot, but it was more in a "Jesus in the temple whipping the money-changers" sort of way rather than a maternal punishment.

At any rate, Ursula's courtroom warning had me entranced for days as I tried to picture this tiny, if strong 60-70ish year-old woman taking down the pants of a legendary revolutionary and spanking him. And I found myself asking many of the same questions I did on Saturday night about the spanking reference in A Raisin in the Sun.

Sometimes I think those references are more fun and provide more view for the imagination than spanking porn.

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* A Raisin in the Sun: The Unfilmed Original Screenplay, Lorraine Hansberry, New York: Plume, 1991, p. 127.

**One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, New York: Avon, 1970, p. 153