- Leek. This one definitely gets the first prize. I mean, how many spanking stories have you read with a bratty girl or boy on the business end of a leek? It was so unusual it even inspired poetry.
- The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Vol. 2: Histories. The power of words took on a whole new meaning when a spanko friend years back looked up to my book shelf, saw this and decided to use it on my backside. Very thuddy, as you might imagine.
- Frying pan. For awhile there, my post about A. spanking me with a frying pan was routinely ranked among the top ten sites on Google about Domestic Discipline. Go figure.
- Dog lead/leash. Ah, when young (or not so young) spanko lovers first meet, they have a tendency to start viewing just about anything as a possible implement. Like A. and I during our very first time together in England. While walking his brother's dogs one day at the park, A. got bored with throwing the ball to the dogs and decided to see what their rope leashes would be like on my bottom. You know, out in public. Shameless, I tell ya.
- Sjambok. You can buy them at Adam and Gillian's so they are actual bona fide spanking implements. But even they list them under "unusual."
- Fly swatter. The business end of a fly swatter makes some spanking sense, but many years ago a friend also decided to try the wire handle. Ouch! It left me with some nice black and blue welts. More recently, A. also tried out a completely plastic one I bought at the grocery store on my ass. Pieces broke off the top of it with the very first swat.
- Wire hanger. Joan Crawford made them a famous, albeit unorthodox spanking implement and my bottom has not been spared their use. The first spanko guy I dated gave me a dose of wire when I started laughing after he fell out of his chair. Alas, it didn't stop the giggles in me.
- Remote Control. I've heard of other spankos experimenting with remote controls also. I mean, you're on the couch with your naughty boy or girl. The remote is on the table in front of you. It's sorta flat... Though having been spanked with one, I can't say they're all that impressive as implements go.
- Sandal. The British have a long tradition of hitting kids with slippers or gym shoes (A. would know). So why not a sandal? They're flat and whippy...
- Cutting board. What can I say? It was paddle-shaped. A. had to spank me with it. Unfortunately it wasn't exactly made to strike nice big bottoms and broke after a swat or two. It comes in at number ten because it's probably been the first spanking implement bought at Wal-Mart by many a spanko, just behind electrical cords -- which I've also been spanked with.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
A top ten most unconventional spanking implements list
Watching Rachel Kramer Bussel's video trailer for her new anthology, Spanked, inspired me to make a list of the top ten most unusual implements with which I've been spanked. For the comprehensive list of what I've been spanked with, see this post.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Sugasm #143
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 #143? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Interludes - part 3
“He winds the rope around his hands, smoothing the kinks, and I stand there, breathing a little faster, conscious of all those eyes upon me.”
Hurts So Good
“I want you to wear the badges of sweet distress for days.”
Shower fantasy
“You don’t want to admit it, but you want me.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank
Editor’s Choice
Why I haven’t blogged about the Mosley case
More Sugasm
Friday, July 25, 2008
Fat girls are kinky too
Not quite two weeks ago while I was shaving, I smiled to myself as I thought about a post from Mija several weeks back where she talked about how she scheduled brazil waxes around pelvic exams "in case the lack of hair caused questions." I smiled because I normally do the same thing too (though not necessarily for the same reasons). But as I finished shaving my labia, I suddenly remembered that in a couple of days I was going to have a colonoscopy. Shit! It wasn't a pelvic exam, but it was down there. Would they notice?
I continued thinking about it as I got out of the tub. So why does it matter? Given the current fashion for bare twat, I couldn't possibly be the only patient they will ever see with a hairless snatch. So what was bothering me? What was I really worried about?
I'm fat (something I talked about on my non-kink blog yesterday). And fat girls aren't supposed to be kinky. They're not even supposed to be sexual. We're thick, sweaty, lazy, lonely, depressed blobs who do nothing but eat and watch television. Fat girls who try to be sexual -- think of fat Monica on Friends -- are silly at best, repulsive at worse.
Would the doctors be grossed out by my smooth but pudgy pussy? Would I be the one they talked about later on in the break room? You should have seen this three hundred pound girl we worked on today. She actually had a bare beaver. I mean, I've seen them on the hot girls...but her? Ewww...
Of course, why the hell should I care if they are or not? At least that's what I told myself. And keep telling myself.
And I'll keep telling myself that until I no longer give a second thought about when my next pelvic exam is while I'm shaving my flabby but sexy, worshiped, busy cunt.
In the meantime, I think I'm going to buck up my courage after that awful experience three and a half years ago, and show that picture of my ass at the Grand Canyon off a bit more. See the left sidebar -- if you haven't already.
I continued thinking about it as I got out of the tub. So why does it matter? Given the current fashion for bare twat, I couldn't possibly be the only patient they will ever see with a hairless snatch. So what was bothering me? What was I really worried about?
I'm fat (something I talked about on my non-kink blog yesterday). And fat girls aren't supposed to be kinky. They're not even supposed to be sexual. We're thick, sweaty, lazy, lonely, depressed blobs who do nothing but eat and watch television. Fat girls who try to be sexual -- think of fat Monica on Friends -- are silly at best, repulsive at worse.
Would the doctors be grossed out by my smooth but pudgy pussy? Would I be the one they talked about later on in the break room? You should have seen this three hundred pound girl we worked on today. She actually had a bare beaver. I mean, I've seen them on the hot girls...but her? Ewww...
Of course, why the hell should I care if they are or not? At least that's what I told myself. And keep telling myself.
And I'll keep telling myself that until I no longer give a second thought about when my next pelvic exam is while I'm shaving my flabby but sexy, worshiped, busy cunt.
In the meantime, I think I'm going to buck up my courage after that awful experience three and a half years ago, and show that picture of my ass at the Grand Canyon off a bit more. See the left sidebar -- if you haven't already.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Flower rewards and chocolate thoughtfulness
Being better means I get to finally catch up (sorta) on some blog reading (at last!). I was just reading Constance's post at My Dabble in the Middle End about getting flowers today from her top for "being good." It makes sense to me. A. and I have talked about how, if I'm going to have a punishment book listing all the naughty things I've done, I should have a reward book listing all the good things I do. And I think flowers are as good a reward as any.
In a follow up to my rather melancholy post from Monday, I should note that when I put my Meals on Wheels into the fridge this afternoon to eat later, it bumped up against something when I tried to slide it onto the bottom shelf. I pulled it out and found a box of chocolate truffles my dear had gotten for me on his last trip to Trader Joe's the day before he left that I had forgotten all about.
Chocolate truffles are as nice a reminder of my beloved's thoughtfulness as any.
In a follow up to my rather melancholy post from Monday, I should note that when I put my Meals on Wheels into the fridge this afternoon to eat later, it bumped up against something when I tried to slide it onto the bottom shelf. I pulled it out and found a box of chocolate truffles my dear had gotten for me on his last trip to Trader Joe's the day before he left that I had forgotten all about.
Chocolate truffles are as nice a reminder of my beloved's thoughtfulness as any.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Sugasm #141 or my first
Note: I've been reluctant to join Sugasm as I wasn't really healthy enough for the commitment. So consider my enrollment a sign of optimism regarding my energy level and forthcoming enhanced posting schedule. And hopefully I'm not jinxing the whole thing!
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 #142? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Comedy vs. Tragedy
“Are you on your period? What? Did he just say…”
Ian, or, Sometimes Sex is Hilarious
“In short, it isn’t sex blogger sex.”
A Wish
“I wish that you could know the indescribable pleasure of being enfolded in your warm, gentle wetness.”
Editor’s Choice
Road Rage
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
Sugasm #141
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 #142? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Comedy vs. Tragedy
“Are you on your period? What? Did he just say…”
Ian, or, Sometimes Sex is Hilarious
“In short, it isn’t sex blogger sex.”
A Wish
“I wish that you could know the indescribable pleasure of being enfolded in your warm, gentle wetness.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank
Editor’s Choice
Road Rage
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
Monday, July 21, 2008
The night before
So, he's leaving tomorrow.
I've been mentally preparing myself for it during the last couple of weeks but it still doesn't seem easier than last time. My mind is heavy with the knowledge of how quiet it will be. The dearth of cuddling that will ensue. The forthcoming woefully inadequate phone spankings. The return to me and I instead of we and us.
I despise nationalism. With its border fetish. Its obsession with visas. Its fixation on citizenship requirements that even lawyers find dizzying. And don't even get me started on the bureaucracy that surrounds being ill. Policy and purse have long conspired to keep our relationship revolving around these quarterly sojourns, even as I know that someday -- really, truly -- the sojourns will turn into permanent togetherness. I've kept the faith this long, I can continue on.
We spent the day looking at furniture porn (me) or the implements of porn (him) but soon settled down to sorting out our less than meager finances utilizing one card with a bit of money to pay one bill, and a penny jar and another card with a bit less to pay for groceries. While my mind was still fretting over how to make that stretch until August 1st, A. was putting away the wallet.
"It's time to attend to your ass," he said with a grin.
I bit my lower lip. Half-smiled with a quick dash of demure. But my brow remained furrowed.
"I'm going into the bathroom to finish washing my sweater," he began, "and while I'm in there I want you to clear away these catalogues, please. Get out the ping pong paddle, both brushes, and...the rubber paddle. Oh and the riding crop....And the strap. I haven't decided what I'm going to use yet."
I closed up my laptop and began picking up the catalogues, trying to put myself into a kinky frame of mind.
"Is there a particular sort of dress you want for me?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said with gleaming eyes.
Upon his return, attending to my ass began with me draped naked over his lap. His hand preparing with gusto my fat cheeks for the as yet undecided upon implements to come. When he grabbed the ping pong paddle, he began to question me about the schedule I had agreed to the week before, the memory of which was rather hazy at that moment. I had successfully done the reading I agreed to. Done the exercises and yoga when I felt well enough. Bedtime was a mixed bag because we'd been fooling around a lot more at night due to his impending departure. But meditation, which I'm normally very good at doing daily, was a complete miss as A.'s and my bedtime and waking schedules had totally switched, leaving me floundering as to when to do it since I usually do it in the morning while he's still asleep (it's a small studio apartment).
"You could have simply asked me to leave you alone for a bit to do it," he so helpfully pointed out.
True. But I didn't think of that. I'd get distracted when I woke up and then, since I had not done it at the usual time, I didn't think about it. Except one night before bed. But meditation is hard to do when you're sleepy.
I felt like I had, if not a good excuse, then at least extenuating circumstances. A. was less convinced. And the thing was, even if I disagreed with him about the severity of the crime, there have been a zillion other times before where life for both of us would have been a lot easier had I just opened my mouth and talked to him. So I figured that on the larger point, he, um, well, had a point. I just didn't want to admit that while he had the ping pong paddle in his hand.
My lack of external contrition (or perhaps, because of) did not stop him from using that ping pong paddle over just about every square inch of my ass, as well as repeatedly on certain square inches. With my mind still not quite in a kinky or punishment frame of mind, and still somewhat indifferent about my meditation misdeed, and still grief-stricken about being alone for (hopefully only) the next three months, I thought I just might cry. I could feel that familiar lump coming to rest near the spot my tonsils once were.
Before I could cry, the punishment part was over and the kinky/for-your -own-good-while-I'm-away spanking began. There was the clothesbrush. And the rubber paddle, which, mixed with my mental state brought me once more to the brink of crying. After a lot of kicking and squirming, he switched to the cane. It's really a deceitful implement, that cane. To avoid bruising me too deeply, A. will often use it lighter than it would be otherwise. And that will seem, at first, not that painful. But it's the cumulative effect that gets me clenching and jerking about, to the point that he had to hold my legs down. He then ended this beating with a half dozen strokes of the riding crop.
It was after the spanking that I started to cry. When I was laying on my stomach against his chest, and the wind was caressing the marks on my naked ass.
I just want to stay here. Naked. On my belly. In the temperate summer afternoon with the wind cooling the sting on my left cheek. With A. here in his blue striped shirt that still smells faintly of the sweat he worked up walking to Trader Joe's.
But forever ended a half an hour later when a friend of my mom's arrived to cut our hair. As I stood watching while she snipped A.'s hair ever so delicately, I realized that even if my mind had been grasping for its kinky frame, my body had been in full blown kink mode.
"I'm wet," I said sheepishly to A. after my mom's friend left.
"I bet you are after that spray bottle."
"No, I'm wet," I stated again.
"Oh, that wet."
At first I thought of switching and having him service my cunt. But he was still all top. In the end, we played a pseudo rape scene.
"Let's sleep together tonight," he said as we both lay back in that yummy, lethargic post-fucking way. After a few years of awkward nights together in my double bed, we finally broke down and got a separate futon last year and have slept separately every since.
"Yeah," I said dreamily after making certain he'd want to risk a poor night's sleep before such a long flight.
I'm going to love every minute of those gawky five hours before he has to go.
I've been mentally preparing myself for it during the last couple of weeks but it still doesn't seem easier than last time. My mind is heavy with the knowledge of how quiet it will be. The dearth of cuddling that will ensue. The forthcoming woefully inadequate phone spankings. The return to me and I instead of we and us.
I despise nationalism. With its border fetish. Its obsession with visas. Its fixation on citizenship requirements that even lawyers find dizzying. And don't even get me started on the bureaucracy that surrounds being ill. Policy and purse have long conspired to keep our relationship revolving around these quarterly sojourns, even as I know that someday -- really, truly -- the sojourns will turn into permanent togetherness. I've kept the faith this long, I can continue on.
We spent the day looking at furniture porn (me) or the implements of porn (him) but soon settled down to sorting out our less than meager finances utilizing one card with a bit of money to pay one bill, and a penny jar and another card with a bit less to pay for groceries. While my mind was still fretting over how to make that stretch until August 1st, A. was putting away the wallet.
"It's time to attend to your ass," he said with a grin.
I bit my lower lip. Half-smiled with a quick dash of demure. But my brow remained furrowed.
"I'm going into the bathroom to finish washing my sweater," he began, "and while I'm in there I want you to clear away these catalogues, please. Get out the ping pong paddle, both brushes, and...the rubber paddle. Oh and the riding crop....And the strap. I haven't decided what I'm going to use yet."
I closed up my laptop and began picking up the catalogues, trying to put myself into a kinky frame of mind.
"Is there a particular sort of dress you want for me?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said with gleaming eyes.
Upon his return, attending to my ass began with me draped naked over his lap. His hand preparing with gusto my fat cheeks for the as yet undecided upon implements to come. When he grabbed the ping pong paddle, he began to question me about the schedule I had agreed to the week before, the memory of which was rather hazy at that moment. I had successfully done the reading I agreed to. Done the exercises and yoga when I felt well enough. Bedtime was a mixed bag because we'd been fooling around a lot more at night due to his impending departure. But meditation, which I'm normally very good at doing daily, was a complete miss as A.'s and my bedtime and waking schedules had totally switched, leaving me floundering as to when to do it since I usually do it in the morning while he's still asleep (it's a small studio apartment).
"You could have simply asked me to leave you alone for a bit to do it," he so helpfully pointed out.
True. But I didn't think of that. I'd get distracted when I woke up and then, since I had not done it at the usual time, I didn't think about it. Except one night before bed. But meditation is hard to do when you're sleepy.
I felt like I had, if not a good excuse, then at least extenuating circumstances. A. was less convinced. And the thing was, even if I disagreed with him about the severity of the crime, there have been a zillion other times before where life for both of us would have been a lot easier had I just opened my mouth and talked to him. So I figured that on the larger point, he, um, well, had a point. I just didn't want to admit that while he had the ping pong paddle in his hand.
My lack of external contrition (or perhaps, because of) did not stop him from using that ping pong paddle over just about every square inch of my ass, as well as repeatedly on certain square inches. With my mind still not quite in a kinky or punishment frame of mind, and still somewhat indifferent about my meditation misdeed, and still grief-stricken about being alone for (hopefully only) the next three months, I thought I just might cry. I could feel that familiar lump coming to rest near the spot my tonsils once were.
Before I could cry, the punishment part was over and the kinky/for-your -own-good-while-I'm-away spanking began. There was the clothesbrush. And the rubber paddle, which, mixed with my mental state brought me once more to the brink of crying. After a lot of kicking and squirming, he switched to the cane. It's really a deceitful implement, that cane. To avoid bruising me too deeply, A. will often use it lighter than it would be otherwise. And that will seem, at first, not that painful. But it's the cumulative effect that gets me clenching and jerking about, to the point that he had to hold my legs down. He then ended this beating with a half dozen strokes of the riding crop.
It was after the spanking that I started to cry. When I was laying on my stomach against his chest, and the wind was caressing the marks on my naked ass.
I just want to stay here. Naked. On my belly. In the temperate summer afternoon with the wind cooling the sting on my left cheek. With A. here in his blue striped shirt that still smells faintly of the sweat he worked up walking to Trader Joe's.
But forever ended a half an hour later when a friend of my mom's arrived to cut our hair. As I stood watching while she snipped A.'s hair ever so delicately, I realized that even if my mind had been grasping for its kinky frame, my body had been in full blown kink mode.
"I'm wet," I said sheepishly to A. after my mom's friend left.
"I bet you are after that spray bottle."
"No, I'm wet," I stated again.
"Oh, that wet."
At first I thought of switching and having him service my cunt. But he was still all top. In the end, we played a pseudo rape scene.
"Let's sleep together tonight," he said as we both lay back in that yummy, lethargic post-fucking way. After a few years of awkward nights together in my double bed, we finally broke down and got a separate futon last year and have slept separately every since.
"Yeah," I said dreamily after making certain he'd want to risk a poor night's sleep before such a long flight.
I'm going to love every minute of those gawky five hours before he has to go.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
My inner pain slut makes an appearance
I have a new hypothesis about what has been causing my pathetic spanking pain thresholds of late: Coumadin.
As those of you who read this blog regularly may know, I take this anticoagulant (or "blood thinner") after inexplicably developing blood clots in my lungs two years ago. However last Sunday night I had to stop taking it for a few days in preparation for a colonoscopy to see why I keep getting the "stomach flu." The colonoscopy didn't really solve that puzzle, but the lack of Coumadin means I clot a bit faster than I have been and bruise less. Even though I resumed Coumadin on Tuesday after the colonoscopy, my INR (a measure of how quickly or slowly my blood is clotting) is still quite low. When my nurse checked it today, it was 1.2 whereas it's supposed to be -- and normally is -- between 2 and 3.
Prior to leaving for my appointment this afternoon, A. decided to take me over his knee. After a few smacks, he asked how I did on my schedule of goals for last week. Alas, I had missed a few bedtimes and forgotten about some reading I had planned to do. And we all know the remedy for missed bedtimes and forgotten tasks is a good spanking. So he started in on my poor bottom with his hand. I tensed up expecting the scalding pain of the last few spankings. Except it didn't really scald. Hurt? Sure. But I wasn't squirming and whimpering like I have been.
My lack of noise and movement prompted A. to fish out the ping pong paddle in the box beneath the bed. Then, my dear friends, there was scalding. Especially when he kept hitting my right thigh with the damn thing. When he finally finished, I made the mistake of noting this with what was probably just a tad bit of annoyance.
"You don't look very contrite," A. said to me as he brushed back my hair.
"Oh I'm contrite," I offered up enthusiastically. "Very contrite. I'm penitent. Repentant." Though it was true that I wasn't very broken. While there had indeed been scalding, it wasn't necessarily unbearable scalding.
"No, you have a defiant look in your eye."
"Nooo, not defiant. I'm penitent," I pleaded. But to no avail. A. reached back down into the toy box and took out the black rubber paddle.
If I wasn't feeling contrite before, I was certainly feeling so when I saw that black rubber evil. I tensed up once more expecting intolerable pain.
Yet again it hurt. I whimpered more. And squirmed more. But it was like I finally had endorphines where before I had none. However after a few minutes A. decided to stop because I was really starting to mark, even though I still had a tiny hankering for the cane.
I should note, though, now that the endorphines are gone, I'm blogging on a very sore bottom.
It makes me wonder if having a lower INR so that I bruise less easily makes spanking a lot more bearable. Then again, my INR has been at its normal therapeutic level when my inner pain slut has made appearances in the past, so maybe it's just a fluke.
Oh and speaking of bruising and colonoscopies, I was very worried earlier this week when my ass was deeply bruised while I had an impending medical procedure in which my ass was going to be most prominent. However after a lot of arnica gel, ice, and then heat 48 hours after my spanking on Friday, I managed to make most of the bruising disappear by Tuesday morning. Just thought I'd share that with you, dear friends, in case you ever find yourself in a similar position.
As those of you who read this blog regularly may know, I take this anticoagulant (or "blood thinner") after inexplicably developing blood clots in my lungs two years ago. However last Sunday night I had to stop taking it for a few days in preparation for a colonoscopy to see why I keep getting the "stomach flu." The colonoscopy didn't really solve that puzzle, but the lack of Coumadin means I clot a bit faster than I have been and bruise less. Even though I resumed Coumadin on Tuesday after the colonoscopy, my INR (a measure of how quickly or slowly my blood is clotting) is still quite low. When my nurse checked it today, it was 1.2 whereas it's supposed to be -- and normally is -- between 2 and 3.
Prior to leaving for my appointment this afternoon, A. decided to take me over his knee. After a few smacks, he asked how I did on my schedule of goals for last week. Alas, I had missed a few bedtimes and forgotten about some reading I had planned to do. And we all know the remedy for missed bedtimes and forgotten tasks is a good spanking. So he started in on my poor bottom with his hand. I tensed up expecting the scalding pain of the last few spankings. Except it didn't really scald. Hurt? Sure. But I wasn't squirming and whimpering like I have been.
My lack of noise and movement prompted A. to fish out the ping pong paddle in the box beneath the bed. Then, my dear friends, there was scalding. Especially when he kept hitting my right thigh with the damn thing. When he finally finished, I made the mistake of noting this with what was probably just a tad bit of annoyance.
"You don't look very contrite," A. said to me as he brushed back my hair.
"Oh I'm contrite," I offered up enthusiastically. "Very contrite. I'm penitent. Repentant." Though it was true that I wasn't very broken. While there had indeed been scalding, it wasn't necessarily unbearable scalding.
"No, you have a defiant look in your eye."
"Nooo, not defiant. I'm penitent," I pleaded. But to no avail. A. reached back down into the toy box and took out the black rubber paddle.
If I wasn't feeling contrite before, I was certainly feeling so when I saw that black rubber evil. I tensed up once more expecting intolerable pain.
Yet again it hurt. I whimpered more. And squirmed more. But it was like I finally had endorphines where before I had none. However after a few minutes A. decided to stop because I was really starting to mark, even though I still had a tiny hankering for the cane.
I should note, though, now that the endorphines are gone, I'm blogging on a very sore bottom.
It makes me wonder if having a lower INR so that I bruise less easily makes spanking a lot more bearable. Then again, my INR has been at its normal therapeutic level when my inner pain slut has made appearances in the past, so maybe it's just a fluke.
Oh and speaking of bruising and colonoscopies, I was very worried earlier this week when my ass was deeply bruised while I had an impending medical procedure in which my ass was going to be most prominent. However after a lot of arnica gel, ice, and then heat 48 hours after my spanking on Friday, I managed to make most of the bruising disappear by Tuesday morning. Just thought I'd share that with you, dear friends, in case you ever find yourself in a similar position.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Nothing more British
The current Max Mosley case in Britain has brought with it a lot of attention to the BDSM community, including this interesting piece in the BBC Magazine. I thought it did a decent job of explaining BDSM to those not familiar with how it works, or are only familiar with lurid cases when it doesn't (or funny cases, as it may be -- hat tip to Tom). I think my only real criticism of the piece is that I have no idea how they managed to leave out of a discussion regarding how much spanking is part of British culture without mentioning that the French actually called it "le vice Anglais" -- the English vice.
For whatever other derelictions the piece had, the comments more than made up for. My favorite is from a James Rigby of Wickford, Essex who states, "There's nothing more British than a right royal spanking followed by a nice cup of tea. It helped build the Empire."
Quite.
*******************
Update: Pandora has a thoughtful post about the Mosley case, as well as the disturbing legislation targeting kinky sex in the UK. Nikki also talks about the case and how Northern Spanking got -- wrongly -- implicated with disastrous results for the owners of NS. You can help them out by becoming a member of Northern Spanking, giving you a warm fuzzy feeling both in your heart and down south.
For whatever other derelictions the piece had, the comments more than made up for. My favorite is from a James Rigby of Wickford, Essex who states, "There's nothing more British than a right royal spanking followed by a nice cup of tea. It helped build the Empire."
Quite.
*******************
Update: Pandora has a thoughtful post about the Mosley case, as well as the disturbing legislation targeting kinky sex in the UK. Nikki also talks about the case and how Northern Spanking got -- wrongly -- implicated with disastrous results for the owners of NS. You can help them out by becoming a member of Northern Spanking, giving you a warm fuzzy feeling both in your heart and down south.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Spanking and the spiritual imagination
Last week (when I started this post) I had a couple of comments from individuals of a spiritual nature. It's made me think about how much I've talked about my own faith over the years here. Indeed, when I did a search for the word "church" on this blog, I was surprised at how many posts came up. And how many of them were some of the most personal posts I've written.
My spiritual life began early. I grew up Conservative Baptist. Accepted Jesus into my heart when I was four years old. Later I participated in AWANA, where I wowed adults and kids alike with my Bible memorization prowess (I still own my gray uniform with all the patches and trinkets on it that, if it only still fit, would make a perfect outfit in which to be spanked). In junior high I was crowned Miss CBA -- a title I won based on my biblical knowledge and public speaking skills rather than my looks -- and my duties in that role included going to girls' retreats where I shared what Jesus had done for me. At 14 years old I certainly didn't have a testimony about a life steeped in sin and debauchery, but I was quite honest when I talked about how the Jesus in my heart and my mind was with me through my mother's divorce, dating, and remarriage, as well as life with my new, abusive stepfather.
Spanking, of course, was also in my heart and head. Being among Baptists meant my imagination was frequently fed with tales about daddys' belts and paddles with Bible verses on them from friends, youth leaders, and pastors. And even though I was about as good a girl as it gets (to the point that every now and then -- to my great chagrin -- parents would ask my friends why they couldn't "act more like Michelle"), I spent a lot of time wishing for and imagining some sort of strict but loving father figure, such as the angel in this story. Though that fantasy was not yet in its Byzantine incarnation.
The Byzantine part came in graduate school. While I remained a devout Christian all through college (I even went to an Evangelical university -- at least for my freshman year until I couldn't afford it any longer and had to transfer to a state school), I became an increasingly uncomfortable Evangelical. A great deal of that had to do with the fact that I was studying the history of Evangelicalism as part of my research, which is sorta like seeing how sausage is made. I think I was also bored with the liturgical aspects of Evangelicalism -- or rather, the lack thereof. I've always craved ritual. As a teenager during Holy Week I would try diligently each day to follow the events of the week in the Gospels. And in college I put together a mixed tape of contemporary Christian music that had to do with Easter. But it felt so woefully inadequate.
When I finally started attending an Orthodox church, the priest's wife -- who was herself a former Evangelical -- welcomed me to "Easter on steroids." I loved it. As well as the Divine Liturgy -- the equivalent of Mass. It felt so other-worldly. So vertical. So connected with my spiritual imagination and my hunger for ritual. There was an aesthetic about it that my very cells relished. Though I became an Orthodox catechumen, at the end of the day I ended up Catholic for theological reasons that seemed very important to me at the time but seem less important now. And thankfully there was an Orthodox liturgical equivalent in the Catholic Church -- the Byzantine or Greek rite.
Around the same time as my chrismation (or confirmation) I began to explore my spanking kink, and I feel certain that connecting with ritual and my imagination on a spiritual level prompted me to connect to ritual and my imagination on a sexual level. Indeed one of the things I loved about my new faith was how sensual it was. How the Byzantine church seeks to utilize each one of the five senses in worship.
I certainly don't believe sex and spirituality are contradictory -- at least not now. At the time, however, they seemed as diametrical as they come, and I had no idea how to reconcile them. And so, like all good Catholics -- and, I would argue, good Baptists -- I simply dog-paddled about in guilt. I mean, what kind of good Christian girl posts to a newsgroup called soc.sexuality.spanking? Or talks to strange men on the Internet in spanking chatrooms?
Yet the Bible never says you shouldn't spank or be spanked. Indeed one could argue there are a fair number of verses to suggest it almost encourages it. But I couldn't deny a link between my spanking kink and sex. And sex -- and everything that goes with it -- was certainly bad. Or at least felt like it was. After a night of heavy petting and spanking play with a guy I was going out with, I quickly sought out my priest for confession. He counseled me that the only thing the Bible prohibited was sexual intercourse outside of marriage and for everything else, I was going to have to decide where I wanted to set the boundaries.
Clearly spanking was going to be well within the boundaries upon which I decided. But eventually as I became an increasingly uncomfortable Catholic and no longer took the Bible (or the Magisterium) as literally as I had before, fornication also moved to well within my boundaries. As has embracing the sexualities of others including not just homosexuality or BDSM, but polyamory and sex work. I don't doubt that my inability to attend Divine Liturgy on a regular basis (it's been two years since I was last able to go, though I hope my improving health will change that) hastened my changing faith. Or rather, made its evolution feel a bit less dissonant and guilt-ridden.
But as I said above, kink and faith are not necessarily dissonant. I think my favorite example of this is the story Raven shared in this comment about coming out to her spiritual director. "...[H]e reassured me that he didn't find it to be problematic or strange and thought it was a wonderful gift that God had given to me." Isn't it just? I responded to her comment at the time by mentioning something my priest had once said about how, because we are made in the image of God, when we hide who we really are to the world, we hide some aspect of God. I can't say that I understand the Divine well enough to know exactly what aspect of being kinky is part of being made in the image of God. But I know it is, and that knowledge that God not only accepts me but wants me to be the person made in the image of God that I am -- kinky and all -- is a powerful and liberating thing.
I think it's when I'm getting a particularly hard or specifically disciplinary spanking that I feel spanking intersect with the spiritual the most. It's like communion in a way. Instead of the Eucharist binding us together, it's a hairbrush or ping pong paddle. There is sacrifice, suffering, and redemption. Something transcendent that binds the two of us together into one whole, if only for a few minutes.
And in those few minutes, I'm so grateful to be a spanko. So savor the spiritual. Am so at peace with myself.
*******************
Note: I found an old freewrite this afternoon when I was working on the last paragraphs of this post that I published over at the Punishment Book.
My spiritual life began early. I grew up Conservative Baptist. Accepted Jesus into my heart when I was four years old. Later I participated in AWANA, where I wowed adults and kids alike with my Bible memorization prowess (I still own my gray uniform with all the patches and trinkets on it that, if it only still fit, would make a perfect outfit in which to be spanked). In junior high I was crowned Miss CBA -- a title I won based on my biblical knowledge and public speaking skills rather than my looks -- and my duties in that role included going to girls' retreats where I shared what Jesus had done for me. At 14 years old I certainly didn't have a testimony about a life steeped in sin and debauchery, but I was quite honest when I talked about how the Jesus in my heart and my mind was with me through my mother's divorce, dating, and remarriage, as well as life with my new, abusive stepfather.
Spanking, of course, was also in my heart and head. Being among Baptists meant my imagination was frequently fed with tales about daddys' belts and paddles with Bible verses on them from friends, youth leaders, and pastors. And even though I was about as good a girl as it gets (to the point that every now and then -- to my great chagrin -- parents would ask my friends why they couldn't "act more like Michelle"), I spent a lot of time wishing for and imagining some sort of strict but loving father figure, such as the angel in this story. Though that fantasy was not yet in its Byzantine incarnation.
The Byzantine part came in graduate school. While I remained a devout Christian all through college (I even went to an Evangelical university -- at least for my freshman year until I couldn't afford it any longer and had to transfer to a state school), I became an increasingly uncomfortable Evangelical. A great deal of that had to do with the fact that I was studying the history of Evangelicalism as part of my research, which is sorta like seeing how sausage is made. I think I was also bored with the liturgical aspects of Evangelicalism -- or rather, the lack thereof. I've always craved ritual. As a teenager during Holy Week I would try diligently each day to follow the events of the week in the Gospels. And in college I put together a mixed tape of contemporary Christian music that had to do with Easter. But it felt so woefully inadequate.
When I finally started attending an Orthodox church, the priest's wife -- who was herself a former Evangelical -- welcomed me to "Easter on steroids." I loved it. As well as the Divine Liturgy -- the equivalent of Mass. It felt so other-worldly. So vertical. So connected with my spiritual imagination and my hunger for ritual. There was an aesthetic about it that my very cells relished. Though I became an Orthodox catechumen, at the end of the day I ended up Catholic for theological reasons that seemed very important to me at the time but seem less important now. And thankfully there was an Orthodox liturgical equivalent in the Catholic Church -- the Byzantine or Greek rite.
Around the same time as my chrismation (or confirmation) I began to explore my spanking kink, and I feel certain that connecting with ritual and my imagination on a spiritual level prompted me to connect to ritual and my imagination on a sexual level. Indeed one of the things I loved about my new faith was how sensual it was. How the Byzantine church seeks to utilize each one of the five senses in worship.
I certainly don't believe sex and spirituality are contradictory -- at least not now. At the time, however, they seemed as diametrical as they come, and I had no idea how to reconcile them. And so, like all good Catholics -- and, I would argue, good Baptists -- I simply dog-paddled about in guilt. I mean, what kind of good Christian girl posts to a newsgroup called soc.sexuality.spanking? Or talks to strange men on the Internet in spanking chatrooms?
Yet the Bible never says you shouldn't spank or be spanked. Indeed one could argue there are a fair number of verses to suggest it almost encourages it. But I couldn't deny a link between my spanking kink and sex. And sex -- and everything that goes with it -- was certainly bad. Or at least felt like it was. After a night of heavy petting and spanking play with a guy I was going out with, I quickly sought out my priest for confession. He counseled me that the only thing the Bible prohibited was sexual intercourse outside of marriage and for everything else, I was going to have to decide where I wanted to set the boundaries.
Clearly spanking was going to be well within the boundaries upon which I decided. But eventually as I became an increasingly uncomfortable Catholic and no longer took the Bible (or the Magisterium) as literally as I had before, fornication also moved to well within my boundaries. As has embracing the sexualities of others including not just homosexuality or BDSM, but polyamory and sex work. I don't doubt that my inability to attend Divine Liturgy on a regular basis (it's been two years since I was last able to go, though I hope my improving health will change that) hastened my changing faith. Or rather, made its evolution feel a bit less dissonant and guilt-ridden.
But as I said above, kink and faith are not necessarily dissonant. I think my favorite example of this is the story Raven shared in this comment about coming out to her spiritual director. "...[H]e reassured me that he didn't find it to be problematic or strange and thought it was a wonderful gift that God had given to me." Isn't it just? I responded to her comment at the time by mentioning something my priest had once said about how, because we are made in the image of God, when we hide who we really are to the world, we hide some aspect of God. I can't say that I understand the Divine well enough to know exactly what aspect of being kinky is part of being made in the image of God. But I know it is, and that knowledge that God not only accepts me but wants me to be the person made in the image of God that I am -- kinky and all -- is a powerful and liberating thing.
I think it's when I'm getting a particularly hard or specifically disciplinary spanking that I feel spanking intersect with the spiritual the most. It's like communion in a way. Instead of the Eucharist binding us together, it's a hairbrush or ping pong paddle. There is sacrifice, suffering, and redemption. Something transcendent that binds the two of us together into one whole, if only for a few minutes.
And in those few minutes, I'm so grateful to be a spanko. So savor the spiritual. Am so at peace with myself.
*******************
Note: I found an old freewrite this afternoon when I was working on the last paragraphs of this post that I published over at the Punishment Book.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
New updates on the blog and me
I've been doing a lot of fiddling with my blog the last couple of days. If you tried to access this blog yesterday with Internet Explorer, you may well have encountered a page that was mostly unreadable.
However, I've finally switched over to Blogger's new (or new to me) easy-to-use layout function when I became completely exasperated this afternoon pretending I actually know how to use HTML and fucked up the entire blog when I accidentally hit "tab" and "space." After spending a few hours recreating what I had with the layout function, as well as adding the bits I was trying to add earlier, I'm content for the time being. Even if the new layout function has some annoying quirks in it that limit my creativity. Well, hell, let's be honest. It's not my creativity but my anal-retentiveness it's impinging upon. But it will have to do for now. And it will make reading this blog easier on IE.
The added bits include the very first advertisement ever on NSB. Yes, I know. I'm a total whore. Vibe Review, a sex toy store that includes educational articles and toy reviews, approached me about becoming an editorial reviewer for their site. The deal means I get to play with sex toys for free, not to mention get a relatively generous commission on toys purchased by readers of this blog who follow the link from this blog to their site. What can I say? I've sold my blogging soul for free toys. But the ad was tasteful with nothing flashing (which I can't say for a few other spanking-related places I'd like to be an affiliate for), a lot of the toys are phthalate-free, and they have a very woman-friendly feel. Now I have told them quite frankly that their BDSM section sucks, and they are apparently working on that. But a good vibrator still comes in handy when you've spent a long night reading all those spanking blogs out there, right?
There will be another addition to the blog coming in the next week or so (hopefully by the time A. leaves). My dearest (who is quite the artist) has drawn a kick-ass picture that will serve as a logo for me and the blog. It's only in the doodle phase at the moment but I'm really looking forward to sharing it with you all.
And there should be a return to more frequent blogging (if I'm not jinxing it by saying so -- I do have a colonoscopy scheduled for Tuesday, eep!). The last few weeks I've been feeling better than I have in well over a year, so much so that I've been out of the apartment enjoying the summer in my limited way. But I'm slowly developing a routine with my new found energy, and hopefully that should mean more posts, including one tomorrow or Monday about spanking and my spiritual life that I've been working on for the last week or so, as well as some forthcoming posts for the Punishment Book.
So that's it folks. Welcome to the newly updated Natty's Spanking Blog.
However, I've finally switched over to Blogger's new (or new to me) easy-to-use layout function when I became completely exasperated this afternoon pretending I actually know how to use HTML and fucked up the entire blog when I accidentally hit "tab" and "space." After spending a few hours recreating what I had with the layout function, as well as adding the bits I was trying to add earlier, I'm content for the time being. Even if the new layout function has some annoying quirks in it that limit my creativity. Well, hell, let's be honest. It's not my creativity but my anal-retentiveness it's impinging upon. But it will have to do for now. And it will make reading this blog easier on IE.
The added bits include the very first advertisement ever on NSB. Yes, I know. I'm a total whore. Vibe Review, a sex toy store that includes educational articles and toy reviews, approached me about becoming an editorial reviewer for their site. The deal means I get to play with sex toys for free, not to mention get a relatively generous commission on toys purchased by readers of this blog who follow the link from this blog to their site. What can I say? I've sold my blogging soul for free toys. But the ad was tasteful with nothing flashing (which I can't say for a few other spanking-related places I'd like to be an affiliate for), a lot of the toys are phthalate-free, and they have a very woman-friendly feel. Now I have told them quite frankly that their BDSM section sucks, and they are apparently working on that. But a good vibrator still comes in handy when you've spent a long night reading all those spanking blogs out there, right?
There will be another addition to the blog coming in the next week or so (hopefully by the time A. leaves). My dearest (who is quite the artist) has drawn a kick-ass picture that will serve as a logo for me and the blog. It's only in the doodle phase at the moment but I'm really looking forward to sharing it with you all.
And there should be a return to more frequent blogging (if I'm not jinxing it by saying so -- I do have a colonoscopy scheduled for Tuesday, eep!). The last few weeks I've been feeling better than I have in well over a year, so much so that I've been out of the apartment enjoying the summer in my limited way. But I'm slowly developing a routine with my new found energy, and hopefully that should mean more posts, including one tomorrow or Monday about spanking and my spiritual life that I've been working on for the last week or so, as well as some forthcoming posts for the Punishment Book.
So that's it folks. Welcome to the newly updated Natty's Spanking Blog.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
An all natural spanking
Lately my pain threshold has been very low, perhaps due to daily morphine causing a bit of opioid-induced hyperalgesia. What it means in spanking terms is that even the lowliest hand spanking hurts.
After my spanking last night for staying up past my bedtime a few nights in a row (PB post forthcoming) -- a spanking which only involved A.'s hand -- A. grinned and called it an "all natural spanking" containing no implements or knickers. Just hand on bare ass, like nature intended. Or something like that.
And while there weren't any implements, it still felt like he scalded my poor cheeks. I was laying over his lap, yelping and kicking, knowing that he wasn't really spanking me all that hard. And I must say, it's rather disappointing on a couple of levels. Disappointing because I feel like I should be less of a wuss and take a lot more. Disappointing because the sting wears off about the time my endorphines kick in, meaning by that point I actually sorta wish I was getting more.
A., however, doesn't mind at all. "It's just less work for me."
After my spanking last night for staying up past my bedtime a few nights in a row (PB post forthcoming) -- a spanking which only involved A.'s hand -- A. grinned and called it an "all natural spanking" containing no implements or knickers. Just hand on bare ass, like nature intended. Or something like that.
And while there weren't any implements, it still felt like he scalded my poor cheeks. I was laying over his lap, yelping and kicking, knowing that he wasn't really spanking me all that hard. And I must say, it's rather disappointing on a couple of levels. Disappointing because I feel like I should be less of a wuss and take a lot more. Disappointing because the sting wears off about the time my endorphines kick in, meaning by that point I actually sorta wish I was getting more.
A., however, doesn't mind at all. "It's just less work for me."
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