Sugasm #145

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 #146? Submit a link to your best post of the weekby emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Being Civil

“They couldn’t understand what the appeal of a civil union was for us.”

Clandestine Rendezvous

“He turned around to kiss me and I melted.”

Hotel Sex

“The excitement is too much for both of us”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice

You Can’t Make This Shit Up, Part 2

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

Let’s Pretend…

Masturbaticon I

Our Peculiar Erotica

“Pay No Attention To That Man Behind The Curtain”

Taking Charge of Your Own Pleasure

Tease and Denial: In Defense of Subtlety

Things that make you go Mmmmmm

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews

Babygate Continues!

Vibrators of the Future

Sex Work

Pillow Humping Cam Pussy

BDSM & Fetish

Arms to the sky

Beads

brock’s Last Task

My surprise for Daddy

Naughty, Naughty…Nice

The New Pet (fiction)

A proper thank you

The Runaround.

Welcome to Kinky Sex Link

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio

Bare back HNT

HNT - Stripping for the Bath Brush - F/m Spanking Pic

Sasha Grey (NewNudeCity)

Erotic Writing and Experiences

8:55 - On My Way…

Asian massage parlors

Awakening

Brains in her cunt

The “Ex-Pat” Love [2nd. Revision]

Fantasy Friday: Lips Like Sugar

Hausfrau

In the Early Morning Darkness

Not Quite Poetry

On the Back of a Motorcycle

Release

Your first time with me

Front page spanking: Birching and branding

Several weeks ago A. and I were perusing old front pages of the Mirror (a British tabloid for those of you outside the UK), and we found a few that headlined a topic we -- and I imagine a few of you -- find of great interest.

This front page is from June 21, 1938. I can't really make out the story (alas, they were not much bigger than thumbnails of the front page), but that headline certainly has a lot of scope for the imagination -- both the birching AND the branding. Though I can't say any of my fantasies have combined the two...at least not yet.

Sorry to make this a short post, but I've been gobsmacked this last week. And watching the Republican Convention last night only made it worse. Good gawd Mitt Romney is a repellent individual. "A man-shaped polymer casing of a spiritual vacuum" in the words of Jon Stewart some months back. Sounds about right. (And no, I'm not a big Barack Obama fan either.)

"People we've always wanted to be": The Spanked virtual book tour continues

The Spanked virtual book tour has been winding its way through the sex blogosphere during August and now I get the pleasure of beginning the Bonus days of September (i.e. I didn't get my sick, lazy ass in gear to answer Ms. Bussel's email in a timely manner -- something experienced by many of you who have emailed me -- and all the proper days were taken by the time I did).

For those of you who haven't come across the book in question through a book review or interview on any of the thirty-one blogs before me, the tour has been promoting the recently published anthology Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica by Rachel Kramer Bussel, a long-time erotica writer, cupcake-lover extraordinaire, host of In the Flesh erotic reading series, former columnist for Village Voice, and occasional writer for publications such as Alternet and the Huffington Post ('cause sex is political whether you think it is or not). You can purchase the book at fine online bookstores like Amazon, or my local bookstore, Powells.


Yes, it's Labor Day. And many of you are at the Shadowlane Party (:::sigh::: someday...). But for those of you who are actually reading today, lemme tell ya a shocking little secret.

I've never bought any erotica before.

In fact, I haven't even really read all that much, at least not the sort that involves sex and not just spanking.

When Spanked arrived, I suddenly started thinking about practical things like, where do I put it on my book shelves? Most books I like to display with pride throughout my studio apartment, but this one, well, what if my nieces and nephew see it? Or my priest when he comes to visit and give me communion? However, eventually I put those questions on hold and actually started reading it.

What I've come to realize is that the reason I've never bought any erotica before is that I don't really like reading about other people having sex. In the words of the narrator of the first story in Spanked, "the curious paradox about spanking sex [is] that the vagina is almost an afterthought." Spanking is all about the ass for me. All about the pain. The submission. The endorphines. The negotiated infantilization. I do like sex. Its intimacy. The achy fullness and the electrical satisfaction of the orgasm. But it's just physical. It never has the power to touch so much of me like spanking does.

So the ubiquity of hard cocks and wet cunts left me rather bored at times. And as someone who lives considerably below the poverty level, I couldn't help but be conscious of class. That the characters in these stories were white, urban and mostly financially comfortable.

Yet there was a remarkable diversity among those for whom such a straightforward act -- spanking -- plays a prominent role in the expression of their sexuality. Submissive males hungry to please a mistress or just to get a spanking from a stranger -- especially if she happens to be a sexy bookstore owner. Bratty males who then turn the tables and take the formally self-righteous female over his knee. Lesbian women using a spanking to even the score or eat that forbidden fruit of hot but straight female roommate. Gay men watching a straight woman spanking a straight male. And, of course, stern boyfriends and co-workers giving spankings to naughty girls in the bedroom, or office, or kitchen.

And while I may not have connected with the explicit sexuality or socio-economic status of the characters, there was plenty I did connect with. Like body image issues, such as experienced by the spankee in Rick Roberts's story, which "just added to [her] vulnerable beauty." The sheer play of spanking in Allison Tyler's story in which a Betty Crocker-wannabe is tied up in plastic wrap and spanked with several kitchen implements (I can hardly cook or bake without A. getting handsy). What it's like to be a strong woman who is worth "waxing and washing for" such as those in Sage Vivant's story. The confusion of where the sex ends and real life begins and how dangerous that line can feel such as Andy Ohio's protagonist finds. The thrill of kink and vanilla life intersecting like we see in Elizabeth Coldwell's story. The fun of participating in Usenet spanking newsgroups, as "Pink Cheeks" knows in Fiona Locke's story and how that increases exponentially when we meet our virtual friends in the flesh. The naughtiness of sneaking a quick spank and fuck in Thomas S. Roche's story while guests wait downstairs. How disturbing our fantasies can be when they bleed into taboos like incest, as Kaitlyn realizes in Teresa Noelle Roberts's story, and the compartmentalization we engage in to cope with our discomfort. Desperately wanting to cry from a spanking, as Dee desires in Rachel Kramer Bussel's story, only to discover that you should be very careful indeed what you wish for.

"...I know what my body can do, but I want to see what we can do together, if we can take spanking somewhere it's never gone before, if we can make it propel us into a new place where we lose ourselves only to find people we've always wanted to be."

Bussel's heroine whispers this to her partner when she asks him to make her cry, but it's really what every couple who engages in spanking seeks. We spank and get spanked to go somewhere we've never gone before and find the people we've always wanted to be -- naughty school girls and cunt whores, or just raw, sex-hungry beings looking to spice things up during a hearty fuck. In Spanked we get a glimpse of those various people and places we can be and go. It may take us to places that are profoundly uncomfortable or make us people we don't even recognize. But in the end we just may arrive at a place more pleasurable than we ever imagined.

Follow the Virtual Tour tomorrow as it heads over to Kristina Wright for another Bonus day.

VibeReview Fantasy: The Iris

While my last VibeReview Fantasy was a whole-hearted endorsement, this week's toy review of the Iris is somewhat more subdued.

Now it has a number of really nice features. Unlike the Miracle Massager -- and this would be the only down side of the Miracle Massager and Attachment -- the Iris is made of phthalate-free silicone. As some of you may know, phthalate, a plasticizer, is a potential endocrine-disrupter (i.e. it fucks with your hormones and sex organs), and as someone with an endocrine system that doesn't work well already, it's nice to know that whatever I'm sticking into my cunt (or elsewhere) isn't going to make it glow.

It is also rechargeable, so no bothering with batteries (and my Iris was even charged right out of the package). It comes in an inconspicuous black box, so no one would guess that you're carrying something naughty in it. Lastly it also comes with a fancy black satin drawstring bag, so you can stick it in your suitcase or nightstand drawer in a most classy fashion.

As you can see from the picture, this is a toy primarily for vaginal penetration and in particular, G-spot titillation. After playing with the various settings, I popped it in and tried those settings out in my cunt. There are four types of vibrations: the crown, the base, intervals, and a combination of the crown and the base. To be honest, I found it difficult to change settings while it was in there. I would be trying to push down on the settings to change the vibrations but kept turning it off. Very frustrating. Then again, I never have managed to get the hang of texting on my (seldom used) cell phone.

I can't say the Iris did much for me, but then I'm realizing vaginal/G-spot stimulation doesn't do as much for me as it does for others. However there was one place I thought those pulsating vibrations just might feel pretty nice. Yes, you guessed it -- my ass (there's a reason A.'s first nickname for me was "Assgirl"). After covering the shaft with a condom to keep it clean, I lubed up (you'll have to read the fantasy to see what I used as lube) and slid it into my bummy hole. And yes, those pulsating vibrations felt very nice indeed, especially when I added my wankin' spankin' tool. I've only managed to come once from anal stimulation exclusively (ginger root and a paddle) and if used the Iris, my special lube, and the wankin' spankin' tool on the right night, I might be able to make that two.

But unless you're really into vaginal/G-spot stimulation, this toy just felt about $50 overpriced. It is a nice, quality toy, no question about it. Yet, the phthalate-free material and pulsating vibrations aside, call me a sex toy Neanderthal but it doesn't feel all that much different than my $15 vibrating dildo (which is pretty similar to The Freshman).

So how do I fantasize about this toy? Well...

I'd be a school girl in a very harsh boarding school. The buxom school matron comes into my room before I get ready for bed and tells me I'm to come with her to the headmaster's office. Grabbing me by the ear, she marches me down the corridors. Taps on the door and opens it after hearing an austere "Come in."

The headmaster is sitting at his large oak desk looking as grave and serious as a headmaster could ever look. Matron continues pulling my ear as we stand in front of that desk.

"Young lady, it has come to my attention that a certain lewd story was found in your desk." He opens a file folder, pulls out a couple of college-ruled pages defaced with blue ink and holds them up. "Did you write this?"

I gasp. I thought that I had carefully hidden it in my math book...How?...Why?...Oh, God...He read it.

I swallow hard before answering.

"Yes, Sir," barely audible before hanging my head.

"Right then. Remove your skirt and knickers and bend over the desk, please." The headmaster stands and walks over to a cupboard while I begin to unzip my skirt. As I lay it over a chair, I notice him pulling out a cane. I shiver as the cotton crotch of my knickers slide away from my cunt and down my legs. Is it because of the nighttime cold or the sounds of the cane slicing through the air as he practices his swing?

I assume my position over the desk, my breasts resting at the bottom of the file folder holding the "lewd story". Matron pulls what is left of my white blouse covering my bottom up and onto my back, then walks to the other side of the desk and holds my arms down. I purse my lips and stare at the blue button at the base of her belly in front of me, distracted for a moment when I notice a bulge in her right pocket.

"I must say, young lady," the headmaster begins, "that I have never in all my career been so disgusted by a piece of student creative writing. Not only does it contain fornication and all kinds of disgraceful acts of a sexual nature, but there is sodomy with items that should never enter a person."

I feel him align the cane with my cheeks as my face reddens from the lecture. The rattan feels smooth...for the moment.

"Tonight I intend to do my utmost to banish such shameful thoughts from your mind. I will begin with six strokes of the cane. Count them, please."

"Yes, Sir," I affirm meekly.

Did he say begin?

The first stroke comes down with full force and my mind is focused completely on the searing pain at the base of my ass. I can't help but try and tuck my pelvis in. I let out a cry and an anguished one.

My right leg comes up with the second stroke. After another wail, I spit out a two in between whimpers.

"Feet on the floor, please."

Tears and nausea accompany the third and fourth strokes. I manage to keep my feet on the floor by digging my knees into the front of the desk. Just two more to go, I tell myself. My eyes shut tight with the fifth stoke and my breathing mingles among sobs. Somehow between my queasy stomach and the awful, awful pain of six raw, angry stripes on my backside, I squeak out that finally six among my blubbering.

"Matron, please hand me the ointment you brought with you."

She releases my hands and reaches into her pocket. I lift my head up as she brings out a small container with "Cayenne Heat" on the label.

"Face down, please," the headmaster says. "Matron, please spread her cheeks."

Matron's large hands take hold of my battered cheeks, spreading them so far apart it almost hurts. I gasp and am still in shock as I feel my headmaster's finger laying a large glob of ointment on my anus. Within seconds I begin to feel the burn. The deep, seething, smoldering burn on my most intimate tissue. Buried beneath the bent-over Matron, all I can do is whimper.

"Since you like to write about having things placed in your anus, I shall indulge you."

I hear some buzzing. A couple of fingers find their way into my bummy hole. Suddenly the hard silicone shaft of the Iris is pushed inside me, radiating it's pulsations throughout my hole.

"Matron, please hold the Iris in place as I finish this young lady's punishment."

My eyes go from shut to wide in an instant. How could there possibly be more?

"To drive home my disgust of your prurient mind, I'm going to give you another twelve stokes with this tawse while the Iris makes it clear inside and out that deviant behavior such as yours will not be tolerated. You will, of course, count the strokes, please."

It all just seems too much. The buzzing and burning of my anus. The supple leather cutting into what had already been cut. The humiliation of my exposure. Of being spread and probed and entered. So many senses overloaded and spilling out into a puddle of agony and woe on the file folder beneath my face. Yet Matron's broadcloth-covered bust muffles my cries. At stroke seven the headmaster has to ask me to speak up. And I do, howling out my pain with the numbers.

When it is over, I'm allowed to dress and dismissed with yet another stern admonition to bridle my wild, carnal mind.

Of course, tonight's events have simply titillated my depraved imagination all the more...

************
Watching Barack Obama's speech reminds me that VibeReview is offering a 10% Obama coupon on all sex toys through the election.

Another reason to leave spanking for grown-ups only

A new study finds that minorities -- including Special Education students -- get paddled the most at school. My brother has Down Syndrome and the thought that any of his teachers would spank him or any of his classmates is abhorrent, as well as completely unreal.

And despite what spanking stories would have you believe, the study shows boys are three times more likely to get paddled than girls. But then, fictional school-girl spankings are so much better than real ones.

Our peculiar erotica

(Father Ted's diagram of reality vs. dreams)

It's common to read spanking stories at the soc.sexuality.spanking Usenet newsgroup. Amid the flame wars and off-topic discussions are stories where writers share their inner spanking life. Indeed now that it's summer, there is even a Short Story Contest to encourage posters and lurkers alike to write about the fetish in new and unique ways. And a good number of them do succeed in giving a fresh voice to what would seem like a fairly straightforward event.

But it struck me the other day after reading one story how very peculiar our form of erotica must be to the outside world. There was nothing about this story that was particularly extraordinary, though it certainly set off my spanko imagination. In it two girls are naughty and get spanked by their parents. The ages of the girls -- 9 and 4 -- are probably younger than the average spanking story, but certainly not unusual. The primary sex acts, if you will -- spanking and an enema -- were done to young (fictional) children.

When I look at it from that perspective, I feel like some sort of really sick fuck.

And, in fact, that is what a prosecutor from Pennsylvania thought about Karen Fletcher of Donora, Pennsylvania, who owned and operated the site, Red Rose Stories, which included fiction about rape and violence against children (hat tip to Zprymantis). Ms. Fletcher plead guilty (who was this woman's lawyer?!) to obscenity charges and is now serving a year of probation including six months of house arrest, confiscation of her computer, and a $1000 fine.

Is Debbie Ann Wertheim, the creator of Debporn, next?

While none of the stories I write include the rape of children, they do contain violence in the form of spanking. And don't even get me started on my incest fantasies. Is there all that much difference between me and Ms. Fletcher?

Fiction about children being spanked and abused can be so powerful, so erotic because so many of us began to fantasize about being spanked and abused when we were children. Sure, we didn't know what sex was -- just that it was a naughty word that made our parents turn the TV channel. But that doesn't mean we lacked sexuality. And as we grew up, our sexuality remained firmly rooted in and expressed itself though childhood.

However we never misunderstood the difference between our dreams and reality. Between real children and fictional ones.

Childhood and narrative have always been and mostly likely will remain at the core of my sex life. While every now and then my fantasies may wander to that of a Victorian prostitute or a demanding sex goddess, they always wander back to being a little girl. Even some of my topping fantasies include me as a child.

And yes, mixing children and sex is uncomfortable. But here in the real world, where the knowledge that our children are sexual beings can make our interaction with them messier, when we'd rather remain faithful to traditional taboos and constructions of sexless parents and chaste children, perhaps the best way we can help our own real and vulnerable children as they sort through their own sexuality is to help them understand the difference between fantasy and reality too.

VibeReview Fantasy: The Miracle Massager

About a month ago or so I mentioned that VibeReview, an online sex toy store, had approached me about reviewing their toys on my blog. The deal means I get to play with sex toys for free as well as a commission on toys bought by readers who go to their site through my blog (a fun way to help A. and I with his next plane ticket -- which we really need! -- if you feel too uncomfortable with all the personal information PayPal asks for -- not that you should ever worry as it always remains private).

Becoming a commercial whore does prick my conscience a bit, but I can promise that I will be truly honest regarding the toys I write about -- even if that makes you less likely to buy them and me less likely to get a commission off of them. I also promise that I will make my reviews as hot as possible by sharing a fantasy I have using whatever toy I'm reviewing.

For my inaugural review, I have chosen the Miracle Massager and it's handy Miracle Massager Attachment. I have to admit, I have not yet experienced the apparent wonder that is the Hitachi Magic Wand, but the Miracle Massager is apparently a lighter, more ergonomical-designed version. And like its 70s predecessor, it has a cord rather than batteries as its power-source. For those who are all about clitoral stimulation (:::raising my hand:::), this is definitely your toy as I don't know of anything that will vibrate your rosebud more.

But the attachment takes it to a whole new level by stimulating the clit and the G-spot at the same time without a lot of work on your part (something I love as, being as weak as I am, I often end up exhausted before I can even come). Indeed after putting the attachment on the head of the Miracle Massager, I positioned it with the base just inside my vagina (aka the G-spot) and the shorter nubbed platform on top of my clit and sat back in bed to watch the The Newshour. Yes, yes, I know. Not exactly porn (...or is it?). But I'd just received a big box of toys, and I was more curious than particularly horny. Lo and behold, fifteen minutes later I had one very nice orgasm. It was probably the least amount of work I've ever done in order to come. Except for maybe last Christmas Eve when A. gave me multiple orgasms servicing my cunt -- the only time I've ever had multiple Os. :::happy memory sigh::: Ah, yes. That was one magical night...

At any rate, while I can't say that Jim Lehrer or Gwen Eiffel do much for me (though A. has talked many times of spanking Judy Woodruff for being the worst interviewer ever), when I fantasize about the Miracle Massager and Attachment, it goes a little something like this:

I've just been spanked. A sort of pseudo-punishment spanking. A. dips his finger into my cunt. Swirls it around in a pool of arousal.

"What a naughty, dirty little slut you are," he says with that deliciously stern voice of his. "Getting wet from your punishment...disgraceful." And with that, a whole new punishment starts.

"But I didn't mean to be naughty," I pout between spanks. I love playing the good girl trying to preserve her modesty.

"Clearly you like being punished. And I bet you like showing off that naughty cunt of yours."

"No...no Sir," I shake my head. But to no avail. A. orders me up -- though I'm not to pull up my trousers and knickers. Orders me into the corner, where I stand listening to him rummaging around. It gets more and more slippery between my legs as I stare at the off-white paint.

"You may come out," he says. "Sit down on the bed." There amidst the flowers on the quilt I see the wooden spreader bar and satin restraints. "Naughty cunts like yours need to be shown off."

"No...please don't! I can't bear it. It's too embarrassing."

"Right ankle, please," is all A. says. Soon both ankles and both wrists are strapped to the bar as my back rests against the wall at the head of the bed. "Look at that view!" he exclaims.

I purse my lips together and blush as the cool air mingles with my juices, making my cunt feel even more exposed.

"I think I will give your cunt a little of what it likes so much,"A. states as he picks up his black leather belt.

They are soft strokes, but on my shaved, wet labia, the belt sticks ever so slightly after impact, exacerbating the sting. After several strokes he switches to whipping the backs of my thighs. Or is it the base of my ass? From that angle, it's difficult to tell. But one thing I do know is that it burns red hot.

"Naughty cunts need to be played with, don't they?" His question is rhetorical, but I know he wants an answer anyway.

"No, I don't want to be a bad girl," I plead.

"Oh, but I think you do," he says. He then picks up the Miracle Massager. Lifts up my shirt and yanks my right breast out of my bra. Squeezes my nipple hard. Turns the Miracle Massager on low and places the vibrating head on the nipple. My pelvic muscles instantly tighten in eager anticipation. But still I try to resist by squirming my torso.

"No...please..." I whimper.

"Stop that!" A. smacks my ass -- thighs? -- with a heavy hand, making me freeze with a yelp. He yanks out the other breast, giving it the same sort of treatment.

After a few minutes, he turns the Miracle Massager off and places the attachment on it's head. Slides it into the opening of my cunt. Turns the switch on low for a few seconds, then on high.

"This is what a naughty cunt like yours needs," he says with a smile. I can't help but smile too.

My whimpering soon turns to moaning. I can feel it coming. That wonderful, electrical burst spreading happiness to every cell of my body...

***

That's the sort of fantasy I have with this toy. Your mileage, of course, may vary.


Update: I forgot to mention that VibeReview has come out unabashedly for Barack Obama in this election and is offering a 10% off coupon though the election. And you don't have to be an Obama supporter to use it.

NSB's fourth birthday

As I stated in the last post, for this, my fourth blog birthday, I wanted to do a makeover. And so I have. It's not completely what I was anticipating it to look like, but Blogger has proved to be trickier than I thought, and my scanner just won't cooperate at all. A. drew the picture fairly plain as he thought it was going to turn out rather small once I uploaded it. But, alas, it's giant. So I'm afraid there will be further tinkering.

But let me just take this opportunity to say thank you for a wonderful four years. It's been yet another great year of spanking, with me exploring my toppy side a little more. Still lots of ups and downs health-wise (at the moment it's a little on the down side). Plenty of kinky musings and yes, even a bit of angsting here and there. I think this has been the year I've come to terms with the fact that I'm a sex blogger. I write about "fucking" and "my cunt" now in addition to spanking. And I've joined the wider sex blogosphere through Jane's Guide, as well as various top lists like Cunning Linguists.

In this next year, should you chose to continue stopping by, you'll still read about my spankings -- given and received -- as well as my thoughts on kink and life. I will be doing a bit of whoring myself out commercially (see Tuesday's post), though I promise it will be hot. And there will be more pictures, something A., having the testosterone content that he does, has long said he thought was lacking on this blog. Though neither of us were counting on the current picture on top being quite as giant as it is...

At any rate, here's to another year. Thanks so much for reading.

Update 8/11: I've removed the header picture until I can get it a bit more manageable.

One million and counting

Only five days before my four year blog anniversary, I've reached another benchmark. At 4:19 this afternoon -- Pacific Daylight Time -- someone in Copenhagen, Denmark was my one millionth visitor. He or she didn't hang around for long, at least not according to StatCounter. But a lot of you have and then came back for more. Thanks. I'm truly in awe.

And for my blog's fourth birthday, I'm going to be giving it a bit of a makeover. So be on the look out for a big change this Sunday.

'Tis the life indeed

A. is a big fan of Metafilter, a list of interesting links readers have found on the web each day. On a Saturday a few weeks back they had a link to vintage ads, including the one above for the 1944 movie This is the Life.

All I have to say to those girls salivating while awaiting their turn bent over the table (as well as the young man behind the guy with the paddle) is I'm next.

Oh and yeah, there is spanking in the movie. Richard Windsor has the clip in an assortment of spanking-in-film clips on YouTube.

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.

1. 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.
   
2. 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.
   
3. 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.
   
4. 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.
   
5. 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."
   
6. 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.
   
7. 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.
8. 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.
9. 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...
10. 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.
    

I imagine you, dear reader, might have a few unconventional spanking implements to add to the list. And you know how much I love comments...

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

Join the Sugasm

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.

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.

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!

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

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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.

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.

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.

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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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

So sorry you're vanilla...

Lately I've been catching up on my "nerd porn" as A. likes to call it. No, not videos of guys with pocket protectors rambling about cosines and Star Trek (though as a nerd myself, I find a lot of nerds are quite hot), but thoughtful writing on sexuality. Mostly posts from the newer editions of the Feminist Carnival of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy, many of which I highly recommend and hope to blog about in the not too distant future.

During my make-up reading, I also happened across an old post at a favorite political blog, Alas, a blog, which linked to an absolutely brilliant post by Trinity on what causes kinkiness -- or rather, vanilla-ness.

WHAT CAUSES VANILLA?

How long have you been vanilla?

Are you sure that you're not simply too nervous to submit or dominate because past traumas make you too nervous to relate to others on a truly intimate level?

Have you ever really examined your vanilla desires?

The vast majority of sexuality depicted in the media is vanilla. Are you sure your desires now don't stem from not seeing alternate models much in the media?

How can you experience true intimacy with someone if you're afraid to share erotic pain with them? Aren't you missing something?

It's really a shame that our screwed up vanilla-normative society ruined you like that.

Not that there's anything wrong with that -- you know, being vanilla -- but I have always thought that it lacks scope for the imagination.

But then, maybe that's just because I've never had vanilla sex.

Sexy Sadist

The apartment is littered with spanking implements at the moment. Leftovers from my spanking earlier this evening.

It started innocently enough. As I was snipping herbs at the kitchen counter for the chicken we were about to roast, I stated that I was going to take a bath. A. responded that he was going to take one first.

"I'm gonna to beat you to it," he said with a smack to my backside. And then another smack. And another. "I'm going to beat ya :::smack:: beat ya."

"You call that a beating?" I sneered.

Oh boy.

"Are you challenging me?" A. asked as he grabbed me by the shoulders, marched me to the bed, and bent me over the side. Down came my flannel jammie bottoms, as well as my flowery white knickers. Out came the spanking implements. The ping pong paddles. The riding crop. The rubber paddle. "I think I'm going to have to warm you up."

Several dozen hard, hard hand spanks ensued, which were even more stingy because I had worked up a bit of a sweat in the kitchen (thanks in part to the hormone fluctuations from the morphine). Then my glistening skin was subject to the ping pong paddle. Again they were hard spanks that had me writhing in pain (needless to say, my ass is soooo out of practice these days).

You'd think my beloved would have had mercy on his sweet, dear girl kicking and wriggling about in pain. But, alas, no. The big meanie started in on me with the rubber paddle! Lemme tell ya, rubber paddles hurt. A deep, burning hurt. Thud and sting.

But it didn't stop there. Oh no.

"I'm going to give you 24 strokes with the riding crop. Count them, please."

I almost cried out in protest at this gratuitous cruelty but remembered in time that such protest would result in additional strokes. So instead I looked back at A. with a look of shock and horror (and, okay, maybe a tiny bit of defiance). But not an ounce of sympathy. I could barely keep up with counting those agonizing strokes. And I wriggled so much I got threatened with more strokes. Eeek!

Was it over yet? Nope.

"I'm going to get the cane." As A. fetched the cane in the bathroom, I laid on the bed pouting and biting my lower lip. "How many strokes do you think would be appropriate?" he asked upon his return.

I was silent. Did he really want me to answer that question?

"Seriously, I'd like you to give me a number."

"Um...two." I thought about zero, but since he actually had the cane in hand, I figured he would insist on using it. So, ya know, two seemed like a nice, round number.

"Two? Two? Is that your answer?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You really think two is a good answer?"

"Yes, Sir," I nodded.

"Well, I was going to give you sixteen strokes, but now it's going to be twenty-four for giving such a bad answer."

See what I mean, dear reader? I gave a thoughtful reply only to have it not only disregarded but told I'm getting 12 times as many strokes just because he didn't like it!

Despite what I expected, the cane didn't hurt as much as the riding crop or rubber paddle did. I was actually able to lay on the bed during my twenty-four strokes without squirming too much. However the cane did a lot more damage. Especially as it kept landing on the exact same spot where my ass, thigh and hip meet -- right in the path of my panty line.

So now you'd think it would be over. But, sigh, no. There were still some more hard, stingy smacks with the ping pong paddle. And a handful of hand spanks.

And then, then it was over.

"You sick sadist," I jeered as A. turned his attention to his swelling member.

"Getting aroused at someone else's pain -- yep, I think that makes me a sadist alright," he said with a grin.

You see, dear reader? He's not even the least bit ashamed of his heartless behavior.

Which, okay, I have to admit, is pretty damn hot, even if a bit...um...painful.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to put some ice and arnica gel on those welts from the cane with which my beloved so wickedly beat me. And put away all the spanking implements strewn about. Especially as my caregiver comes tomorrow and it could be awfully awkward trying to explain why I have a couple of ping pong paddles but no ping pong table. Or a riding crop but no horse...

I'm still alive and still getting spanked

I just got spanked. In the kitchen in front of the large window overlooking the street. And A. wouldn't even let me put the blinds down! Granted the counter goes up past my waist so any pervs in the apartment across the street wouldn't be able to see that he'd pull down my jammy bottoms and was reddening my bottom with many hard smacks. Instead they'd just see me wincing and moving about in an effort to move my ass out of the way of A.'s oncoming right hand.

What, you ask, merited such punishment? A. claims I was being snippy. Not that I would own up to it while I was getting spanked, but looking back I concede that maybe I was being a wee bit snippy. But just a wee bit, mind you.

Today has been the first day that I've felt halfway normal for the last month and a half so I thought I'd post and let you know I'm still alive. A. has been here for a full two weeks now and Sunday I finally got my first spanking. Though it was nothing like the spanking he got last week on his birthday. Perhaps I'll write more about that later.

On an off-topic note, yesterday was ME/CFS Awareness Day. Last year I posted a bit about it, and I thought I'd post a link to the CFIDS Association Virtual Lobby Day where you can send emails to government officials in an effort to increase money for research, earning my eternal gratitude.

Update 1:20 am: In response to my bratting for it at bedtime, A. just gave me a taste of our new rubber paddle -- ouch! My favorite line from this spanking had to be him ordering me to "shut up and be submissive for once in your life!"

Medication blues

My apologies for the lack of posting lately.

A few weeks back I had to stop taking an immune supplement that was giving me more energy but eating away at my stomach. My energy level has since taken a nose dive.

Morphine has begun turning my nights into everything from vivid Alice-in-Wonderland surreal (and Lewis Carroll would know a thing or two about opiate-inspired dreams) to horrific Quentin Tarantino-esque nightmares that make me afraid to go to sleep.

Another drug, Reglan, has turned my days into stiff, achy, listless napfests. And when I am awake, I wander aimlessly through the television and Internet -- though my time online has recently been reduced the no more than three hours per day in an effort to conserve my limited energy.

I've discontinued the Reglan a few days ago, but don't have a lot of options when it comes to the morphine as without it, I'm in a great deal of pain. There probably are other drugs available, but I doubt my insurance would cover them, especially as it was a long, hard fight just to get them to cover the morphine. Indeed, I'm pretty sure Satan himself spawned health insurance companies from the blackest pit in the bottom most depths of Hell. And at the end of the day, then decided that even the most evil of Hell's inhabitants didn't deserve to suffer the fate of being HMOed.

But not all the dreams have been bad.

This afternoon I dreamt that A. and I were driving to the coast and "Little Surfer Girl" was playing in the background, except that it was "Little Ocean Girl" for some reason in my dream. And we stopped and I was bent over some sort of metal bar and he was whipping me with a switch. It was so vivid that when I woke up, I was quite surprised to be curled up in bed in my apartment.

Only more 18 days until it will be a little closer to reality.

The very first Feminist Carnival of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy

Just a quick post (a few days late, as usual) to let you all know about the first Feminist Carnival of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy that includes a staggering number of fascinating posts discussing sex-positive feminism, pornography, BDSM (including a recent post of mine), and sex work.

There's lots of good stuff amidst all the links, and I encourage you to check it out.

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.