VibeReview Fantasy: Waterproof P-spot vibe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oOo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oOo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Secret signals
“I will adore him for it”

Sugasm Editor
Not An Overnight

Editor’s Choice
The Ghost of Abuse

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

Broken power cord

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

Impish

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

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

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

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

"Yes," I sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like I said...impish.

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

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

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

(Cross-posted at the Punishment Book)

How BDSM is and is not sexist

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

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

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

Fanny-whaling on SNL

They always seem to be in the last skit.

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

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

Sugasm #160

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

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

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

This Week’s Picks

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

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

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

Sugasm Editor
Faking A Four Way

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

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

SpankingTube: Family-friendly porn?

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

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


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

The ghost of abuse

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

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

oOo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Cross-posted at the Punishment Book)

A spanko in a non-spanko world

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

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

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

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

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

VibeReview Fantasy: Lily vs. Silver Bullet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oOo

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

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

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



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

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



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

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

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

Not as perverted as it used to be

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

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

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

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

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

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

Front page spanking: Bankers Flogged

Oh how those tarts at CNN tease us.

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

All about the blows

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

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

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

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

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

More fun than spanking porn?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sugasm #157

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 #158? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom

This Week’s Picks
A 2009 Wish For Smut Writers
“Sex bloggers are on the cusp of what I see as being a new kind of sexual revolution.”

Q&A with Domina Doll
“I enjoy teaching others how to explore that aspect of themselves.”

Overtaken
“He kissed the side of my neck, sweeping my long hair out of the way, working his mouth across the side of my neck to press little bites along my collarbone.”

Sugasm Editor
Sex Work And Honesty: When The Truth Hurts

Editor’s Choice
Dictation with Davis

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Only a muddled rant about A. leaving

I was attempting to write a post threading the change in Washington that A. and I watched on Tuesday with the change happening to us that day, namely A.'s return to England the next morning. But my brain is goo. Liquidy gelatinous goo, matching my gooey limbs and gooey breathing and all around gooey ickiness.

Tuesday night before A. left was not nearly as erotic as last time. There was a little spanking (a few whacks of the ruler and the cane, respectively) and a lot less sleep (hence the current ickiness) as he had a very early flight so we just stayed up until it was time for him to leave.

This separation is probably going to be a long one thanks to the asinine vagueness of the Visa Waiver Program in which there is no rule about how many times a person can visit the US using the VWP, only that one cannot "abuse" it. And nobody from the State Department on down can say exactly what does constitute "abuse." It is solely up to the discretion of each individual border officer. So you can imagine the vicissitudes that accompany concentrating so much power into one lone bitchy bureaucrat with a small penis like the one who grudgingly let A. into the country when he arrived this last time, but only after a long lecture and final warning (implying earlier warnings that A. has no recollection of) about how A. is abusing the system by coming to visit so much. We are still trying to ascertain the nature of this "final" warning. Does this mean he can't visit anymore? Or that he needs to space the visits out more? Or...?

I can only hope that the change our new president is bringing with him will include, among other things, clearly articulated border policy. I mean, the UK manages to do it successfully. They state definitively that, say, I cannot be there more than six months out of any twelve-month period. Seems reasonable, no?

If only I was healthy enough to get on a plane for 14 hours...

Alright, enough of my rant.

My health has been really up and down lately -- and more down the last two weeks than up. My in plenum quickly vanished amid a bad reaction to a new medication that I still haven't quite recovered from. But once I do recover, I should be posting more, especially as I tend to do more writing when A. is gone.

Since this post has been short on anything remotely sexy, I'll send you over to this post I was reading a few days ago extolling the virtues of a well-arched female bottom awaiting a good hiding. Sometimes simplicity really is best.

Horror vacui

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently I did not fill it enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gotta love the bubble butt

Another link to an Alternet article, this time about butts and the changing aesthetic in favor of big booties, which I imagine will please many a spanko.

In mainstream U.S. culture, "bubble butts" have typically been associated with "lowly" subject positions or "vulgar" sexuality. Calling too much attention to one's behind is considered uncouth in polite society, a nasty reminder of forbidden or distasteful acts. A big butt is associated with "unnatural" sex, excrement or the excess and physicality identified with "darker" races. This body metaphor helps us constitute social identities and subject positions.

...In recent years, however, Americans have been enjoying a butt fling. Voluptuous female buttocks have become a valuable commodity, exploited in advertising campaigns, music videos and specialty men's magazines. This butt appeal has produced a profitable commercial market for "bootyful" women.

One of the things I found interesting -- and rather puzzling -- was a reference to the fact that many men were reticent about saying that they like women with larger asses. This was particularly interesting in light of a number of comments following the piece in which several men agreed that they like women with voluptuous derrieres, but felt the need to add a disclaimer that the woman shouldn't be fat. The knee-jerk fat-phobia, not to mention blatant objectification of women in the comments section was a bit depressing. The article itself, however, detailing the sexual freedom and ethnic and class associations with bubble butts was fascinating.

"Is it a birch? Is it a cane? No, it's..."

Part of a selection of "the most WTF comic books ever" at King-Mag.com. The bottom in me does find a delicious sort of amusement at Pa/Principal Kent's poor hand...

Knock on wood there will be a post of substance tomorrow.