Jinkies you're naughty, Shaggy!

Click the pic to make Velma spank Shaggy!

A. and I happened upon the above GIF during some research for our discussion deconstructing the class narrative of the Gang and their Mystery Machine vis a vis the -- Nah, just kidding. We were googling Scooby Doo p0rn. And we were quite enjoying it too, thank you very much. I've made this one -- which you can find here -- my new screen saver! Other hot pics included this one, this one, this one and this one (love her sweater and skirt hung neatly up on the side - nice touch!). 

One question, though, with regard to cartoon p0rn: what the fuck is with all the giant balloon boobs? Do guys really think that's hot?

Rock of submissiveness

I just told A. that I'm topping tonight.

"That's not right. You're still supposed to be in subby mode with your schedule and your pigtails..."

"You switch at the drop of a hat," I pointed out.

"Yes, but that's me. I'm Even Stevens. While you...you're my rock of submissiveness."

Except the rock in his trousers showed who the submissive one was. You know, at least for tonight.

A dommey vignette

A. is clearing up the apartment at the moment. It never has been fully ordered since I moved in at the end of January. He just picked up the 24-inch wooden ruler off the floor between the foot of my bed and my dresser.

"Hmm...and what might this be doing here?" He raised his eyebrow and slapped the ruler against his palm.

"I used it to beat you with the other night," was my casual, haughty response.

"Ah...right." His eyes fell and he shook his head. "I just can't get you out of this dommey mood, can I?"

I grinned. "Nope."

The perfect body for three-minute porn

Last year A. requested I make a few sexy videos of myself for his birthday including both dominant and submissive themes. Eager to grant my beloved's birthday wish, I set about creating story lines and writing scripts for the three minutes of video my camera will shoot.

I did so with a muggy dread at seeing my body in all its fullness and folds on camera, peppered with carbuncles, cellulite and bruises in their multicolored stages of healing -- so very unsexy when they aren't on my backside. The video of me as a slave in which I was completely naked was -- and remains -- the most difficult for me to watch. However upon checking myself out in the mirror when I was dressed up in a black lace bra, black stockings, and black garter belt for my dominatrix character, I was surprised to find myself thinking that I looked, well...hot. Neither was I adverse to watching myself in this costume on video.*

For one of only a few times in my life there was symmetry between my body and the construct. Between the ideal depicted in popular culture, in this case the full-figured dominatrix, and what I was trying to attain in my imagination. It was then I realized that one of the reasons it has been so hard for me to accept my body over the years has been that as someone who has lived much of my imaginary (and sexual) life as a little girl, seeing a fleshy woman with mountainous breasts and lavish hips in the mirror has always been a source of tremendous dissonance.

It's not that my body is devoid of "little" characteristics. I'm 5' tall. My feet can fit into shoes as small as size 5 1/2 if they're wide enough. The fingers on those miniature stretchy gloves are often still too long when fitted onto my tiny hands. And the hair stylist I used to go to referred to my hair as "baby hair" because it's so thin it slides right through "adult-sized" barrettes.

However I did not have the body of a child for much of my childhood. I can remember watching Annie as a nine-year-old, with Aileen Quinn dressed in dainty cream and navy sailor suits and perky royal blue rompers with puffed pants and wanting terribly to dress like that. To look like that. Except I would have looked laughable in them. Despite being the same age as Aileen/"Annie," I had finally resigned to wearing a bra that year as my C-cup-sized-breasts could not longer be allowed to hang about. A few months ago my grandma presented me with a picture of my 11th birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese. I suddenly understood why strangers were so shocked when I told them how old I was. In a my black and white flowered dress with the collar dipping down to breasts bulging against the cotton fabric, I would have sworn I was in my mid-20s.

Being a woman who is sexually submissive is about being small. Easily overpowered and dominated. You do not see many tall, fat submissives in BDSM porn. Not only is there the cultural aesthetic favoring the thin, but large women also take up too much space with estrogen-rich fat that the male dominant should be filling with testosterone, muscle, and patriarchal authority.

Yes, I'd like to see porn with more fat -- and tall -- women playing submissive characters along with their traditional roles as dominatrices. Though if I'm honest, I know I'm being more than a little hypocritical as I personally would not feel comfortable putting my own body on film for more than my lover to see. It may be that there are spanking porn producers out there who are more open to various body shapes and sizes but simply do not have many larger women auditioning.

I suppose I could say I have the perfect body for a switch. I'm short enough that my feet dangle above the floor when I'm over his knee and I have enough weight to throw around as the demanding domme. The perfect body for my dearest to both pet and worship. The perfect body for three-minute porn just for A.

_________________
*Needless to say, neither was A. He was quite pleased with all three.

Horror vacui

I'm trying to remember when A. first used the term vacuum to describe the absence of kink in this studio apartment. Sometime last month I think. After my birthday when the spanking that should have been wasn't.

It is natural to abhor vacuums, or so Aristotle said. Never mind that later physicists from Ibn al Haytham and al Jazari to Torricelli and Pascal concluded that nature was rather comfortable with her vacuums. And that since then we have found all sorts of ways to put nature's vacuums to good use cleaning carpets and lighting homes and sealing food and providing television.

Aristotle was merely wrong about the subject. It is not nature that abhors a vacuum but us. We cannot tolerate vacuums of power or money. Empty is almost always bad. Our very bodies will bloat and die after mere minutes in a vacuum. We need oxygen. Stuff. Someone. Spanking.

For weeks the libidinal pressure in this space dropped while the outside atmosphere remained saturated in sex, sucking up my nocturnal spanking fantasies -- the sedatives that put me to sleep each night. I had to switch my guided imagery techniques from imagining I'm a naughty girl having my pajama bottoms taken down and my bottom soundly spanked to imagining I'm releasing spent qi out of my fingers and feet. Low pressure indeed.

There is, of course, no such thing as a perfect vacuum, spanking or otherwise. A few weeks back I bent A. over the futon and filled our ephemeral vacuum with a cane and a riding crop and a strap and purples welts and red skin.

Apparently I did not fill it enough.

"Maybe next time you'll give me a proper beating," A. sneered later adding a handful of other smart-ass comments that I can't remember now. I never knew how adept he is at bratting for it. Like the bird in Boyle's airpump losing oxygen in the vacuum, he was losing the good sense to shut the hell up. A week or so later when I beat him again, he had to safeword out.

There was also the belated birthday spanking that I thought I was ready for. A. used the strap lightly and told me to tell him when the pain level got to 8 ½ or above. Except that once the strapping started, the pain clogged my brain to the point that I couldn't even think to say "stop!" I spent 36 strokes trying to evaluate whether my pain, or the strokes, or this pain compared to past strokes was at 8 ½ and if the strap would become more tolerable or if I could just bear a few more strokes or...

"Why didn't you tell me to stop?" he asked with the sort of worry that is both caring and cross as I sobbed and shivered in his arms.

The week before last I made it through a brief spanking with the ruler. On the bed over lots of pillows. With just enough sting to make me feel a little bit naughty and punished.

And last night he used the ruler on my backside again. Softly at first. Slowly building the sting so that I was soon squeaking and yelping. With his free hand he dipped his finger in my cunt. Circled my clit with it. Shoved his thumb up my ass.

"I think your ass is over due being violated," he whispered with a leer. "In fact, I think what you need is a giant piece of ginger up your ass."

"Like the ginger I bought a Limbo's last week?"

I gave him that look. The Do Me Now look.

A. made off to the kitchen. Returned a few minutes later and pulled my cheeks apart. Shoved a large chunk of peeled ginger into my hole and twisted it around inside. Left it there while the juices seeped into my sensitive tissues. Grabbed the ruler and spanked me several more times. Turned on the Miracle Massager and thrust the vibrating head against my cunt.

In vacuo gave way to in plenum. Lovely, wonderful plenum.

VibeReview Fantasy: Decadent Indulgence

Every since I saw that episode of Sex and the City where Miranda introduces her pals to a rabbit vibrator, I have thought it would be very cool to own one. So the good folks at VibeReview sent me one of their top of the line models, the Decadent Indulgence.

And it is a very cool, technologically advanced toy. After popping in four AA batteries among the microprocessors, I was a bit wowed as the substantial shaft twisted about at the same time the little jelly elephant buzzed its trunk back and forth in anticipation of my clitoris. At the base of the Decadent Indulgence is a simple to use control panel where you can choose the intensity of how much the shaft twists and the clitoris tickler buzzes.

I popped it in, using a bit of Climax Burst Cooling lubricant that VibeReview had also sent me to review. Climax Burst does give you a subtle cooling sensation, and if you like that sort of thing, you might like this lubricant. But I didn't find it to be a particularly intense sensation -- which I tend to like, particularly if it burns -- and ultimately it didn't really seem all that different to me than KY Jelly, except that it has these teeny tiny blue Vitamin E beads that give you a teeny tiny bit of moisturization.

So, I had the Decadent Indulgence in with a little bit of lube. I played around with each of the buttons that control the ten levels of intensity for both the shaft and the clit tickler with relative ease. It felt really nice. But I couldn't ever quite get the intensity right. And the base, with those four batteries in it, began to get really heavy. And it had a strong odor, like shampoo, that wasn't necessarily unpleasant, just...strong. Yet I really, really wanted to come with this toy because it just felt so cool.

Alas, after half an hour of holding this increasingly heavy toy and fiddling around with the buttons and smelling that strong chemical perfume smell and my pelvic floor muscles getting more and more sore from the arousal without any resolution, I finally had to turn it off and pick up the Miracle Massager (which I increasingly find myself referring to as Old Faithful) to get the job done. It made me sad (not to mention I was very weak, sore and exhausted and unable to engage in the experiment reader Indy wished for).

Now I'd give the Decadent Indulgence another chance but...that smell! I placed the DI on the table near my bed and all the next day the smell just kept making me feel sicker and sicker. I finally picked up the box to see if it could explain just why it had this intense odor. And there, on the side, was Pleasantly Scented in fancy purple script.

Who the fuck wants their sex toys scented? For the love of God, why? I mean, it's right up there with deodorant tampons!

I should note that I am particularly sensitive to perfumes and all sorts of scents as Multiple Chemical Sensitivities often comes with having ME/CFS. While my MCS isn't nearly as severe as it is for some people who can't leave their homes or have to live in specially built structures, it does mean I don't buy traditional cleaners (my caregiver is still adjusting to cleaning the bathroom with baking soda and hydrogen peroxide or using vinegar for fabric softner) and I've learned to make my own perfumes from pure essential oils (and even that doesn't always work out well). And I sure as hell don't buy anything that's been purposely secented.

But not everybody has my limitations in terms of scents, nor are they as weak as I am and wear out so quickly, in which case the Decadent Indulgence would probably work out much better for you. There are, of course, plenty of other rabbit vibrators available at VibeReview that I encourage you to try out as I hope to myself, particularly those that have a separate control, like the Rabbit Pearl or the Kangaroo, which might not wear me out quite so quickly as those with a heavy base.

Then again, if the toy is too heavy, a good cunt boy might be the answer. A cunt boy who has been so thoroughly whipped that his mind is utterly focused on my pleasure. Sadism does turn me on so.

I imagine turning his white cheeks into a Pollack-esque painting of purple bruises, crimson strokes, and black-blue welts. Laboring with the riding crop, the cane, and the rubber paddle to create my masterpiece of cruelty. Watching his flesh twitch with dread anticipation of the next blow.

And when he has been thoroughly broken and pliant, I will order him to his knees where I will buckle a ring around and fasten a leash to his dick and lead him to the bed. I will see the hungry look in his eyes as they settle on my bountiful breasts protruding in black lace. Yes, that's what he wants.

But instead, as I sit on the bed and spread my legs just enough to reveal a glimpse of my shaved cunt, it is my black-stockinged foot that will find its way into his mouth. Without delay he will kiss and massage it. And do the same to the other. When my feet and legs are in a sure state of peace and bliss, I will nod and spread my legs wide. The nod producing a smile that is part little boy handed the candy shop and part mortal given entry to heaven.

His tongue will do the circuit workout between my cunt and my clit, slurping up my ever increasing juices as he goes along. And while I do enjoy this most focal of massages, my cunt and clit will begin to ache for more.

"Fetch the Decadent Indulgence, please," I order with a short tug of his cock leash.

He'll look up at me, tongue still hanging out slightly between his lips. His face clouded for a second with hurt and disappointment. But only for a second. Perhaps he remembers the motorized assistance he has wished for in the past when his fingers and tongue have tired before I came. At the very least, be it a tongue or a toy, his overriding desire is to please me, and fetch the Decadent Indulgence he shall.

There's nothing that makes me feel more spoiled, more pampered than having my own personal cunt boy to fiddle with the buttons at my every command in order to achieve that most perfect setting for the most perfect orgasm. A cunt boy I will then most certainly reward with those black-laced breasts he has been pining after.

Yes, this is a toy enhanced on so many levels with a good cunt boy.

*******
Don't forget that VibeReview is offering a 10% Obama coupon on all toys from now through the election.

And if I could just make a little appeal, if you're thinking about buying something from VibeReview (or the Stockroom) through this here blog, buying it by October 1st (or donating via PayPay) would really help with A.'s ticket back over before Christmas. Thanks so much!

The Sunday Switch

If anybody gets spanked around here on Sundays, it's supposed to be me.

But since A.'s arrival at the end of April, most Sundays have found me a bit too weak for a weekly schedule and spanking. Or, as was the case last Sunday, A. has had to work.

However, this Sunday my expectations regarding what I've often imagined becoming a comforting and familiar ritual were tempered both by my still-sore backside (exacerbated by the clothesbrush the day after that) as well as by the fact that, well, I wasn't feeling particularly submissive.

I can't remember now what exactly started it, but our conversation Sunday night shifted to A. feeling subby and me feeling, at the very least, not subby. Soon we began to discuss the possibility of him being my slave for the night. Both of us played with his swelling member as we considered what he might do for me and what might I do to him during his service and eventually agreed upon an enslavement of two hours.

The last few months I have been having the fantasy off and on of him naked and strapped to our wooden-planked futon frame while his pale, quivering cheeks glowed an ever deepening shade of red under my hand.


His birthday spanking in May was my first taste of this reverie in reality. And while I did give him a hearty introduction to our noble American tradition -- with the marks to prove it -- it was sans the restraints. I was still doing poorly at the time and not fully able to revel in my sadism. And forty-two strokes just didn't seem to satiate me.

His birthday, though, added another dimension to my dominant fantasies. Per his request, my present to him was a cock ring/leash. And I tell you dear reader, once he put it on, got down on his knees, and I took hold of the leash, I was positively wet.

The first twenty minutes of A.'s enslavement, however, were spent looking for the restraints. Three of the four were found, and I decided to make do with the cord that ties the curtains together as a substitute for the missing wrist restraint. Yet as A. bent over the futon frame, I realized I'd misjudged how tall he is and/or how diminutive the futon frame. My homemade restraints proved worthless as his arms and legs lay well past the bottom of the frame (unlike me, at eleven inches shorter, whose legs dangle).

No matter. I had the riding crop, right?

I surely did. After reddening his cheeks with the ping pong paddle (in which I gave him a whole new appreciation for an implement he once dismissed because it has a silly name), I laid into him with that riding crop. Watched with delight as brick red welts began to pepper his lower cheeks and thighs. Smiled with what was probably far too much pleasure as he cried out and wriggled about. And warned him that this was just the warm-up.

The first time I tried to top A. many years back, it was a complete disaster that ended with me in tears. After that my clever darling appealed to my competitiveness by setting up contests in which I had a set amount of time to get him to give in or I lost and would get thrashed. Needless to say, I generally ended up much more sore than he. Topping was hard work. It was acting. Playing a role that took a lot of research and with which at the end of the day I found little in common. Had illness not reduced me to a state of a semi-dependent child/prisoner craving control over something, I think my journey to domme-hood would have been much longer.

After a massage and a bath under the glow of candlelight, I ordered A. back over the futon for the main thrashing. A few months ago he and I talked about pushing my topping limits a bit more. While I've moved past the incessant mental apologies with each stroke, I still have a tendency to stop too soon. To see the marks beginning to accumulate and worry I'm going to break him, which is in fact what I should be doing. This time, with the soothing security of a safeword, I was going to let go of my hyper-empathy and push both of us further than we had gone before. And unlike any of the other beatings I've administered, he was going to feel this one the next day.

Several dozen strokes of the cane introduced several dozen crimson weals and welts to mingle with the earlier ones from the riding crop. Being an Anglo-American couple, I thought it appropriate to match such a British implement with a quintessential American one: a 16 inch oak paddle. I've only been on the business end of it a few times, but that is enough to know how truly sincere his howls of pain were. Especially as I kept having to tell him to move his legs apart and lay against the futon. Most understandable as many of those strokes were full force. I finished with our electric cord loopy whip, mostly because I love the violet loopy marks it makes on his pasty skin. Many of those strokes were also as near to full force as I could make them -- though not without some harm to myself. Whenever I pulled it back before slamming it down on A., the tips of the loops would snap back and hit my knuckles. Yet my bruised knuckle had nothing on his battered ass. Nothing.

Afterwards I led A. to the bed and awarded his suffering with my breasts, bulging out of my black-lace bra, as well as the ultimate prize: my soft, shaved cunt. I reclined against the pillows in awe yet again as he too seemed to handle me in a state of awe. Closed my eyes and squealed with glee as he skillfully pleasured me. Laid in his arms for a few moments afterwards before helping him climax.

A few years ago my beloved began to whisper over the phone to me about how much he wanted to worship my body. I replied with sheepish flirting even while my face became hot and my eyelids failed to hold back my tears. How could I demand -- even accept -- worship when the best I could give my fat, broken, diseased body was half-hearted forbearance?

Yet I've always been a big believer in the "fake it 'til you make it" adage, and the more I let A. caress and fondle my feet, my breasts, my belly, my ass, and my cunt, the more the idea of veneration moved from mere toleration to a service I could increasingly -- and truthfully -- insist upon from my slave even if a part of me remains amazed by it.

With the duration of his enslavement over, A. was more than ready to take his revenge. Unfortunately I haven't been quite ready to switch. Indeed my inner sadist has been enjoying watching the poor dear think up whatever silly and completely dubious pretexts he can think of to get me over his knee.

"That's it. This is going in the punishment book. This clock (pointing to the one by the bed) is not set to the same time as that one (pointing to the one on the wall)."

"I think we should play a spanking game. We haven't played Spanking Poker in a long time."

"Right. You've got five minutes to finish that post, or you're going over my knee."

And each time as I laughed and teasingly told him to fuck off, he feigned such shock and grief (even as he too was laughing). Perhaps, after responding to my concerned query yesterday about his ass that it felt fine, I'm lacking suitable sympathy.

Yet now that this tome of a meditation is coming to a close, I just might, just maybe, be ready to be his naughty little girl again...

...Or not.

The way back on top

I was reading an old post at Femdom Romance this afternoon (yes, I know I said I was feeling subby yesterday but I felt toppy when I woke up today though ended up subby and spanked by tonight when I was on the phone with A. -- it's dizzying the way I switch anymore...) about how to introduce the reticent wife or girlfriend to dominating her partner. Note the quote is originally from Ms. Rika, but the link was no longer working.

You may dislike the imagery of the words ‘dominance’ and ‘submission’, ‘Mistress’ and ‘slave’. However, you might like the idea of your partner doting on you, alert to your needs, totally turned on by you, giving you massages, pulling his weight around the house (and then some), focusing on your thoughts and ideas, in short, treating you like a Queen.

This really was the way I was able to embrace the idea of topping A. I mean, I'm five feet tall. I couldn't wear stiletto heels if my life depended on it. And leather is something I may use to whip A. with (or he may use to whip me), but I certainly don't wear it.

However the idea of being doted on, being treated like a queen (or princess as we usually construct it) was indeed very appealing. I can get a clean house and not have to hold back any criticism if it's not up to my standards. I can get a lovely foot massage. My body is worshiped (a nice antidote to always hearing what's wrong with it). Not to mention I can get a damn fine orgasm without any effort. How could anyone not like this?

It occurred to me recently that what made topping hard at first was the fear I would lose A. as a top. Would I still be able to look at him as that authoritative, stern disciplinarian I fell in love with? At its core, spanking has always been about connecting with my inner little girl. Would he still be her strict, loving daddy?

The answer was a definitive yes. I found out quickly that A. becomes more dominant than ever after being submissive. It doesn't matter how much I may have just been abasing him, the minute he gets that no-nonsense tone of voice, I'm back into sheepish little girl mode.

I suppose tonight was a good example. When he called I had just finished reading the above post and was in a domme-y disposition. As it turned out, he was in a subby mood and I took the opportunity to taunt him about his upcoming birthday spanking, as well as a domestic-sort of task I was going to make him do during his next subby session. Now the day before we had actually talked about doing some phone spanking -- on my backside, that is. But I was exhausted from acupuncture yesterday and had a throbbing headache and so we decided to put it off until tomorrow.

Something happened as we went about our conversation. Like a switch flipping (that term works on so many levels). Before I knew it, I was taunting him, but as a true brat. "You just watch your step," he told me solemnly. And I watched my step alright -- right into trouble. When the conversation shifted from Top Gear to polar bears and then to the burgeoning black bear population here in Oregon -- a problem A. believes doesn't receive nearly the attention it merits -- I couldn't keep quiet.

"You're just a 'fraidy girly bear boy,"I sneered.

"You are sorely overdue." There was that no-nonsense tone.

"Well you are!"

"But what implement to use?" A. asked himself. "The rubber paddle? The ping pong bat?"

"Bat?" I laughed heartily.

"Yes. The ping pong bat will do," he decided.

"It's not a bat, it's a ping pong paddle. You Brits use the silliest words."

"Right. You're getting five more for general defiance."

"But it's true!"

"Go ahead and keep talking..."

I stopped.

"I'm done talking now," I said softly.

"I'm going to go out for a smoke and before I call back, I want you to get the ping pong bat out and take your pants down."

"Yes, Sir."

It was a long spanking, partly because my pain threshold was at an astronomical level today. (It varies wildly. Some days you can barely tap me with a hairbrush and it's unbearable and other days you can't hit me hard enough with a riding crop.) After several rounds of eight on each cheek and one of twenty-four fast, hard strokes, he was going to have me switch to the wooden spoon. But being the very very good girl that I am, I offered (timidly) that the heavy wooden paddle is probably more severe for self-spanking (and, oddly enough, bruises less). So the wooden paddle it was. One round of eight on each cheek and a round of four on each cheek. By the end he definitely got me whimpering.

"Good. Had to get at least a wince out of you."

I smiled and suspect he was too on the other end of the line.

We lingered on the phone, aching to cuddle. Reminding ourselves that there is now less than a month until he will be here again.

"Next week we'll sit down and discuss the areas where you need some discipline," he said. Before I knew it, I was confessing that I had been neglecting my physical therapy for my finger and how I kept meaning to tell him but also kept thinking that somehow I would do better without needing his help.

We also talked about having a regular day for my discipline.

"Well, Sunday is traditional," I said.

"Yeah, Sunday..."

Before heading off to bed, he reminded me that I was to finish some restraints I've been meaning to make.

"I'm setting Friday as your deadline."

"Yes, Sir."

I lay there on the bed for a long time after we hung up. I hadn't realized how much discipline had been missing from our relationship for a good month or so. And being reminded, I realized how desperately I missed it. How much I've missed being his little girl.

And oh how much I love him.

No matter what we do and where our relationship takes us, he always finds his way back on top.

Moving slowly to the girlie side

For the last month and a half I've been in a bit of a dommey mood. Or rather, I haven't really been in much of a kinky or sexual mood at all, but if I had to be kinky, I found it easier to be the demanding goddess than a child-like submissive (and when I did feel child-like, I just wanted to be cuddled). Hormonal craziness, unresolved grief, and just plain feeling like shit left me with little inclination towards sex. But it did leave me hungry to be in control of something. And I have to say, I found it rather satisfying making my beloved happy by dressing seductively, barking orders at him, and taking out my frustrations on his backside with a riding crop. I even ended up with a foot massage to boot.

Yet as that last post of mine demonstrated, I'm starting to feel more like my bratty, little girl self. With a touch of slutty school girl thrown in for good measure (more about that in a forthcoming post). I could feel the girlie side slowly taking over the other day while I was topping. Not that it came all at once. I was enjoying my foot massage. I was relishing A.'s wincing while I whipped him. And I was loving the view from the top while we fucked.

Then A. grabbed my breasts and broke the dommey spell.

I slapped him reflexively and castigated him for touching what he knew he was not allowed to touch. He apologized and said he thought I was switching back to subby mode.

"No. I'm not done riding you yet," I said with another slap. Which, I wasn't that exact second, but within three or four minutes I was. I laid down next to him and meekly said, "okay, you can top now."

He seized my breasts.

"These are mine and I will have them whenever I want them." He pinched and pulled my nipples until I yelped.

"Yes, Sir."

"And this is my cunt that I will fuck when I want to." He grabbed my legs. "That's it -- legs up! That's the proper position for fucking."

I grinned. And spread my legs wide.

Now it had been awhile since we had had good ol' missionary position sex as during the last time few times, I would start to pass out. This time as he entered me, I hoped that everything would be fine.

Wrong.

At first it was just a little bit of nausea. Then I started shaking -- almost like shivering, except I wasn't cold. I kept telling myself to take slow, deep breaths. But this horrible, icky feeling flooded through my whole body until I could feel it from my sternum to my fingers and toes. And aside from the light shining out of the lamp next to me, the room had a darkish-tinge. I began pushing A. away and started crying.

"I have to stop! I can't...have to stop..."

Immediately he was beside me, pulling me to himself.

"Hey...oh, baby..."

I cried softly for a few minutes until the icky feeling subsided and I could speak normally. We talked about what had happened. Tried to figure out why (we didn't -- and still can't). And cuddled a lot. Needless to say, the cuddling made me feel like his cherished little girl.

As I mentioned, this always seems to happen when we do it while I'm on my back. It never seems to happen in any other position. However, when I orgasm -- usually from wanking on my back -- I do get this sort of full-body twitching thing going on. Again, almost like shivering, except I'm not cold.

But last night when A. was wanking me off, it was a lot like what happened the other night. I didn't feel so much like I was going to pass out. At first I thought I was just too tired to come -- my clitoris got too sensitive before I could orgasm. Then the twitchy thing started and I thought maybe I was coming, except within a minute or two, that horrible icky feeling started again and I couldn't speak much. And again I cried a bit and we cuddled. And I wondered, am I going to be able to come again anytime soon?

I have no answer to that question (and if you have any idea what's happening to me, feel free to comment), but for the meantime, I think we're going to stick to spanking -- spanking me, that is. Indeed, I'm off to put my school uniform on. I'm feeling like a cheeky schoolgirl tonight.

Flipped switch

Wow. Hottest post I've read in a long time. Best orgasm I've had in a long time.

Omg -- I'm becoming a guy! Reading other people's blogs and wanking on a Saturday night!

Seriously, though, while reading that post I was thinking about fucking and being fucked at the same time. Probing and being probed. Whipping and being whipped. Two seemingly contradictory turn-ons simultaneously. I mean, being dominated -- particularly if it involves my ass -- has long been a powerful turn-on. More recently the idea of imposing myself, my raw, rapacious desire and will on another body, is also damn titillating. But to feel them both at the same time...wow. Just wow.

This switching thing is so disorienting, though. I was always so comfortable as the naughty little girl. The emotional terrain familiar. I didn't have to think much about what I felt. Everything was just second nature.

Well, I guess now I'm learning a third. ::grin::

The other side

I think I have discovered a cure for my tentative spanking mojo: topping.

As we usually do when A.'s arrival is imminent, we start sharing fantasies that we'd like to act out when he gets here. Granted, half of it we never actually get around to doing, but the planning itself is quite fun. The other day as I was laying in bed and thinking about evil things to do to A., I found myself getting rather aroused as I imagined whipping him. Indeed picturing a bunch of rosey-purple marks welling up on his pasty ass and thighs made me positively wet.

So this is what it's like on the other side.

To be honest, while I have wondered in the past what motivates someone to inflict pain on another, my curiosity rarely extended to a desire to see the view from the other side of the paddle, strap, or cane. Despite a friend's view some years back that the exclusive nature of my role as bottom was "selfish," I've always seen it as a matter of sexual orientation. I've fantasized about getting spanked just about every day of my life since I was six or so. But in all those years I don't think I've ever really fantasized about spanking someone else.

However, as I mentioned back in April, the collusion of chronic illness and A.'s subby moods has brought out an inner domme in me that had not previously existed. And as you can see, now that she's out, she is starting to quite enjoy herself.

For the moment, I may yet wince at the thought of me getting spanked, but I still like the idea of spanking in a general, abstract way. What I've found is that the thought of spanking my partner gives me a personal connection to spanking. Allows me to fantasize about it by proxy as I imagine being the one getting spanked -- sort of like how reading a spanking story works -- without the immediate threat of personally feeling pain. If that makes any sense at all.

I've even figured out how to feed my inner little girl as a top. It started last winter when A. and I had our own Christmas together. I wore a velvet-satin Christmas dress that I made in the early nineties that is not really in style much these days, but always makes me feel very girly. After dinner, when A. said he was feeling subby, I worried that my little girl mood and his subby mood were totally going to clash. However, before I knew it, I started slipping into this demanding, selfish, spoiled little princess. Voila! Princess Natalie was born. And lemme tell ya, she's downright despotic. Perfect for any aspiring masochist.

Maybe it's just the whole yin and yang thing. Maybe it's just that the thought of someone else being spanked is whetting my appetite. But I tell you dear friends, my spanking mojo is becoming less and less tentative. I might -- just might -- even try a little wakin' spankin' tonight before I go to sleep. You could say it's the one way to get a simultaneous view of both sides.

My Marks

Last spring, before Tarte had to take an apparent hiatus from blogging, I made some comment on one of her posts about finding that there is a dommey side to me but that it has usually expressed itself outside the bedroom. At the time she wanted me to expand on that but I think illness and other activities got in the way and I never quite got back to it.

At the time I had just taken over the moderator position of a (non-kink) online group and my job was basically to crack the whip with certain members and maintain order for the good of everyone else. What I found surprising was how much I enjoyed it. I liked creating order. I liked politely but firmly enforcing the boundaries.

In the past, teaching was the normal outlet for my toppish side. Students sometimes whined that I was hard, but they always agreed that I was just. Indeed, they really would describe me with that phrase that seems so cliched to us in the spanking world -- "tough, but fair." But, of course, I'm no longer teaching and, in fact, spend a great deal of my life now in a sort of subordinate position as a patient. Not only do doctors and nurses tell you what to do, but everybody else always seems to jump in and tell you what to do as well -- what to eat, what to take, even what to think. And, well, what can I say? It gets a bit old after awhile.

Now, on at least one occasion I've mentioned that A. gets into a sort of subby mood at times and the more we switch, the more I'm finding that there is definitely a domme inside of me. Granted it's taken some coaxing from A. on occasion to bring her out, mostly involving threats of punishment and administering of said punishment when I've failed to be brutal enough. But my as-yet-unnamed top is floating around somewhere inside of me along with Natty, though sometimes she might be more of a sort of spoiled, cruel version of Natty.

So one night in February A. was in one of his rare subby/masochistic moods and asked if I was up to topping. Often the problem is more a physical one as it takes a lot of energy to thrash someone, but that night I felt like giving it a go. However, as I always end up on the business end of the cane later on for not hitting him hard enough, I decided he was going to get it good this time. Believe it or not, I'd even practiced with the cane a little bit during his last time away.

And, I'm pleased to say, it showed. Yep, this time I whipped his ass good. Lemme tell ya, I was in real top mode too. I relished each wince, each cry, each flinch. And when the loopy toy made these brilliant purple loops on his pasty limey legs, I couldn't help but think of a line from Paul's (Pablo) beautiful essay regarding topping about appreciating the "warm body beside us carrying marks that we've put on its skin." For the first time I was so proud of the marks I'd made. My marks. Different somewhat from the way that Paul was talking about because what we were doing had nothing at all to do with discipline or punishment. For me it was more like visible marks of both domination and adoration. That and, well, they just looked wicked cool. ;)

Oh, and this time I finally avoided a beating afterwards. ::grin::

So, go figure. While I don't see myself wearing stiletto heels anytime soon (or ever given my weak ankles and horrible lack of balance), I am finding myself a bit more comfortable on the other side of the cane enjoying the weals I put on the warm body next to me.

A somewhat sort of night

Whiskey makes A. somewhat subby. Somewhat.

And last night he drank enough to get him into that somewhat subby mood. Enough to make me very...er... pleasured.

Being dommey isn't my natural instinct, but for those rare occasions when it's requested, I'm getting a little better at it. Last night when I accidentally whacked him on the balls with the riding crop, I felt bad like I often do. But only somewhat. Certainly not enough to stop whipping his ass.

Though the problem I usually have is that the whiskey so desensitizes him to pain that I have to whack him so much that it makes me more sore than him. The most extreme case was once last year when I had an hour to get him to give in or I would get thrashed. After an hour of wrestling him down, handcuffing him to the fireplace railing and whipping him with every painful implement I could think of, the bastard never gave in. The next morning he was all "hmm...I'm hardly sore at all" while I was aching over every inch of my body.

Last night it was just my shoulder that was so achy. I need to figure out an implement that will hurt him but will save my arm.

A tazer perhaps?

But as I said, he's only somewhat subby. It lasts for a very finite period. And when it was over last night, I was the one on the business end of a cane. And a ruler. And his hand -- which let me just say, is getting harder and harder.

Though he had way more marks on his backside than I did when we went to bed. ::evil giggle::