Natty's Spanking Blog

Spanked to tears, but...

2011-01-22T17:35:00.000-08:00

Okay, another picture post while I'm too sick to do much writing.

Usually when you see someone post about "Daddy" and "spanked to tears," it doesn't conjure up the following image:

A. (who found it) and I have been trying to guess what's going on in this picture. Angry son who has had just about enough of his tyrannical father? Father's fantasy? Mother's fantasy?

Have you got a guess?

If you're interested in purchasing the postcard print, it's for sale on eBay here.

Jinkies you're naughty, Shaggy!

2011-01-09T21:45:00.000-08:00

Click the pic to make Velma spank Shaggy!

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

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

It is blessed to give AND receive

2010-12-18T22:32:00.000-08:00

At one point during my phone conversation today with A., the phone line became crackly.

“I’ll call you back and see if that makes it better.”

I hung up the phone and dialed the zillions of numbers that calling an international phone number entails.* Given my proclivity for transposing numbers thanks to my ME/CFS riddled brain, I have ended up calling the wrong number a couple of times this week -- particularly distressing given how late we talk (tonight it was after 1am UK time). So far, the two blokes to answer a call from me have been kindly night owls.

“Hello,” said A. in an even deeper voice than normal and a slightly posher accent.

“Oh dear, have I got the wrong number?” I played along with feigned concern.

“I believe you have.”

“I hope it’s not one of those strict English gentlemen.”

“I’m afraid it is, you naughty girl. Calling at such a late hour. I know what you American girls are like. In need of a good spanking.”

At which point, I giggled nervously but quickly began laughing. A. too began to laugh.

Eventually we returned to our spontaneous roleplay.

“I think what you need is a butt plug,” A. said, in a mixture of his normal voice and the one with which he answered the phone. “I know you American girls have them in your under-the-bed play place.”

“Oh dear!” I exclaimed in the playacting tone of before.

“I’m serious. You need to get a butt plug.” He was now in quintessential A. toppy voice.

“Really?” I pouted.

“Don’t moan. It’s only going to make it worse.”

I dug around in my naughty drawer.

“Is it okay if it’s the vibrating one? I can’t find anything else.” Plus, I much prefer that one as it actually does something (something yummy, I might add) other than just sit there.

“I guess so if that’s all we have. But don’t you dare turn it on until I say so.”

“Yes, Sir.”

All of the sparse phone play of the last few months has been with me topping, as has most of the play planning for when he returns.

“You do know,” he began, “that the universe inside that apartment will have to be evened out. You will pay for all the topping you do. It will be very Buddhist. Very Yin and Yang.”

“Would it be a very smart-ass thing to point out that Yin and Yang isn’t really Buddhist but Confucian?” I said as respectfully as I could (and incorrectly; I meant to say “Taoist” but said Confucian as that was the first word in my head after “Chinese”).

He laughed, but in that completely shocked at such impudence sort of way.

“Yes, it would be a VERY smart-ass thing to say!”

Which, of course, made me laugh.

“You are so out of practice at subbing.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am.”

“Is your butt plug in?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” Then with as cooly a dominant a voice as he could muster said, “Now, I want you to tell me the password to your eBay account.”

I gasped.

I bought part of his Christmas present on eBay last week but changed the password to my account so he wouldn’t see it before he got it, which, I admit, was an uncomfortable thing to do to the person with whom I share just about everything. And indeed he was very agitated, rather appalled, and a tad hurt. But he did acknowledge without an ounce of shame that the first thing he would do is look to see what I bought. So. You know. It was for his own good. Tough Christmas Love.

“That is a TOTAL violation of your dom privileges!” I exclaimed.

“Well...you’re in...total violation of...my eBay privileges!”

I divulged nothing.

“I hate surprises,” he muttered. The same way he has almost every day since he found out I’d suspended his access to my eBay account. I, however, love them and find the old adage that it is more blessed to give than to receive even more accurate in this situation.

The switch in roles had been rather precarious up to this point, but A. then shifted into full top gear, telling me when to turn the dial up on my anal vibe, how he was going to turn Sunday afternoons into Punishment Day, what he was going to do to me on said Punishment Day.

When A. first started sharing more about his subby fantasies a few years ago, I worried that I would have a hard time being able to think of him in a dominant sort of way again. But I quickly found out that would not be a problem. Once he’s in top mode and I’m in Natty mode, it’s hard to believe I could have ever doubted his ability to be the same dominant A. I fell in love with eight years ago.

To everything there is a time. A time to top. A time to bottom. A time to give. A time to receive. Tonight was my time to receive. And while I enjoy giving more and more as time goes by, it sure is a blessing to receive.

_________________________________________________
*Yes, I know. I need to familiarize myself with the speed dial function on my phone.

Thank you, dear reader

2010-10-21T01:51:00.000-07:00

Since I'm too sick to really get spanked much anymore and can't blog all the stuff I think about laying in bed (though I hope there will be a few posts forthcoming in the months ahead), there aren't as many lurkers here as there were in the giddy days of 2005. But there are still a couple of hundred of you who stop by each day. Some of you are new readers who have managed to stumble upon an old post. Some of you are dear, old friends who I've never had the pleasure of learning your name. But to all of you who come by, whether old or new, thank you.

There's not much to write for Love our Lurkers this year except that I miss you, dear reader. Enjoy your anonymous reading and if you feel like it, give a wave in the comments section here and/or at any of the fine spanking blogs you peruse today.

Dom Lord Something-o-ruther

2010-09-01T02:20:00.000-07:00

I've decided that ME/CFS -- actually, ANY chronic illness -- is like a really jealous, demanding top. Not the sweet but strict sort like my beloved A., but rather like those doms who call themselves Lord Something-o-ruther and refuse to use safewords and say something is for your own good but really it's just to satisfy their own abusive sociopathology. The illness dom gives you an impossible list of rules (that he may or may not tell you) and if you fuck up in any way -- or even if you don't -- the illness will punish you. Savagely. And before you know it, you're never allowed to see your friends or spend time online because you belong to Lord Something-o-ruther and he jealously takes every moment of your time, every ounce of your energy, every breath of your being. The illness locks you in and takes the key with it, leaving you to watch as the life you could have drives off in a red pick up truck.

Okay that last bit I lifted from an old, haunting story Mija wrote about a girl who suffered this fate at the hand of her abusive top. I reread the story the other day after thinking how much I was starting to feel like a ghost-girl, albeit one who has had even less choice in choosing my circumstances. It's not just that the illness makes me feel like shit all the time, but illness also includes a never ending list of bureaucratic issues - appointments to make, transportation to schedule, prescriptions to order and manage, Medicaid, Food Stamp, and Housing re-certifications with receipts and letters and bank statements to sort through, Home Care Worker to hire, Home Care Worker benefits cut due to the state budget shortage, state officials to lobby, medical clinic changes narcotic pain management policy, doctor decreases narcotic meds even though my pain has not decreased, doctor tries out other meds with varying effectiveness, surgery to have, surgery to recuperate from (successful on both accounts), Home Care Worker benefits restored (yay!), Home Care Worker to hire (but now without A.'s help), medical clinic refusing to relent on pain meds, more tinkering with meds (sleepy, nauseous), Home Care Worker hired (yay! oh please work out this time!), letters to be written to medical director and state pain commission, pain meds going down...down...pain going up...up.

For the last month and a half, the bureaucracy has been like climbing a vertical face.*

I'm probably starting to sound like Eeyore on Twitter anymore. With a brief break in the woe a week ago to celebrate -- sorta -- the recent finding that the connection to XMRV made last October has been confirmed -- sorta -- by finding retroviruses related to XMRV in another group of ME/CFS patients (aka the Alter/Lo paper). On the one hand, any hope right now that there might be real treatments for this illness besides lots of narcotics, expensive supplements, and extortionate experimental treatments is helpful. But knowing that it's still a few years away whereas this Saturday I begin tapering off the Vicodin I've been on for years now makes it all a bit...inadequate.

Kink and any energy to write about it jumped right out the window after I posted that first of a two part post that I thought I would quickly follow with a second (I just knew that was going to happen if I posted the first part without having the second definitely done!). Lord Something-o-ruther didn't even let me post anything when the six year anniversary of this blog (August 10th) came and went (can you believe it's been six years already? can you believe it's only been six years given all that's happened?). A couple of weeks ago it did let me take my post-surgical pelvis/abdomen for a spin (like any dom, it only allows me to masturbate with its permission). I wanked and came with little pain - certainly none of that horrible, feels-like-I'm-ripping-something pain I had pre-laparoscopy. So, you know, very cool! But as the horrible, feels-like-someone-is-burning-me-from-the-inside-out pain that I live with every second of every moment of every hour of every day in my arms and legs was increasing because my doctor was required to reduce my narcotic medication, Lord Something-o-ruther had tied me up and locked me in the closet again.

Until this weekend. Natty came back. Mostly because my doctor was able to switch me back to my earlier narcotic dose -- but start tapering down again -- as well as try an increase in an anti-seizure medicine I also take for pain so that my pain has been back to being quite manageable for a couple of weeks. Sure, I also wanted to sleep more. But laying in bed in a drug-induced reverie was the first moment of freedom from Dom Lord Something-o-ruther I've had for awhile. I could actually think about something besides it. I could be little again. At first Michelle was having none of it. My grown up self was still climbing the vertical face -- which is clearly not an activity for kids.

Or is it?

I've been wanting to write about the dominance of my grown-up self (the real Lord Something-o-ruther?) versus my Natty self (along with the legion of other topics I've thought about while laying in bed -- alas, the dearth of posts is never because I don't have anything to say). And I don't know that I'll get into the full analysis I've been pondering over the last few months tonight. But as I've been vomiting out all my white-knuckled frustration of the last month and a half onto this Blogger compose interface, it wasn't until I wrote the above paragraph that I remembered how much I need Natty. Many years ago my therapist told me to treasure her. But lately I've wondered how to do that. Or even if I should do that. I mean, isn't she just this way I escape reality when I can't handle it? Isn't it healthier to just learn to live with life the way it is rather than hide away in some overactive part of my imagination? You know, embrace the present, yada yada yada (which is also what that therapist said)?

And then I remembered the last bit in that first post with which I began this here blog those six years ago about rediscovering Allie (proto-Natty) when I was first getting sick and disabled ten years ago.

I realized how much I needed her back. Her emotional energy. Her willfulness. Her playfulness. Her immature selfishness. I need her to feel the feelings my intellect has long ago explained away. To temper my endless caregiving with the demands of my own needs. To stamp her foot and say, “it’s time to play.”

I actually (with tongue somewhere in cheek) list as my occupation "personal care coordinator" as that really is what I do all day when I'm not sleeping or trying to eek out a social life online. And Personal Care Coordinator Michelle needs a break. She needs Natty to help her play. Especially as the coming weeks are going to be hard. Distraction is an important pain management tool and after next Saturday I'm going to need to use every non-narcotic tool even more than I already do (meditation, yoga, qigong, physical therapy, massage therapy, acupuncture, heat/cold, supplements, non-narcotic prescriptions, warm baths, guided imagery...). My doctor has me on a list to have my case reviewed by an Opiate Review Board, but I have no idea when that will be or if it will be successful. I feel hopeful that at some point we'll get me back to an adequate narcotic dose or find some other medication to help (not that we haven't already gone through just about every anti-seizure or anti-depressant that's also used for pain that my insurance will cover) for no other reason than I can't imagine being in that much pain for an extended period of time.

So Natty plays. A. gave me my first tele-spanking in months the day before last. It was just a handful of quick strokes and yeah, my shoulder was quite sore the next day (that's why a quarter of my freezer is devoted to ice packs!) but I'm hoping we'll be able to play some more over the phone this week. And, of course, A. and my illusory Nanny are already helping me manage my activity levels since overexertion exacerbates my pain and gives Lord Something-o-ruther an excuse to lock me away in a dungeon that's anything but a playground.

Hmm...Maybe that's another way Natty helps me with illness....Oh dear, speaking of managing my activity level, I've just got so carried away with my de-facto journaling here that I totally lost track of the time. Like, wandered away from the track and the field and have been following a butterfly so far into the woods that the roads no longer have those green street signs but wooden posts with numbers...

__________________________________________
*And just to make life even more fun than it already is, I found out last Friday my apartment building is being remodeled in November requiring us all to move out for a week. They are hiring third party movers to pack and move our stuff (which is good cuz I can't do shit!), but I'll have to unpack everything once they're done. All 1200 books, etc. that took months to unpack... ::sigh::

Note: September is Pain Awareness Month. If there is anything I've realized from this experience with the change in narcotic pain management policy at my clinic is that nobody with chronic pain in this country is safe from interference with their narcotic pain medication. I always thought that because I did everything right and I had a caring, competent doctor, I was fine. But not only is the War on Drugs locking away people who don't need to be and crippling us economically, but it's also keeping sick people from getting the treatment they need. Yes, pain builds character but chronic pain also atrophies the brain and may increase your risk of death from any cause by as much 49% - up to 68% if just looking at cardiovascular-associated mortality. (I keep meaning to do a post(s) on the science of pain and spanking...) The next time you see a story about prescription narcotic addiction, remember all the people who are are not getting their pain adequately treated (or treated at all) because of the overhyped fear of narcotic addiction. Yes, addiction happens (though to less than 1-2% of those using it for pain). Yes, narcotics will kill you if you don't use them right - as does my Coumadin. But like my Coumadin, the benefit for those in pain outweighs the risk and certainly the disingenuous moralization.

::stepping off soapbox and into bed::

VibeReview Fantasy: Under-the-Bed Restraints, Pt. 1 - The Fantasy

2010-07-02T00:40:00.000-07:00

Normally with my review of VibeReview products I begin or end with a fantasy in which the product plays a starring role -- mostly to assuage my guilt over my commercial whoring by making the review as hot as possible. However, after this fantasy spent several months in my subconscious lulling me to sleep over many nights, it became so damn long I've got to post it as a story all on its own.

Please note that this is my first attempt at debporn and is a story involving the touching and punishing of genitalia of a teenage girl by her parents. If you get squicked by that sort of thing (and god knows, it is disturbing) you might want to skip this story. I want to be very clear that no real children were harmed in this story. This is a fantasy in which I imagine me - who is very much an adult - in this situation. The only possible connection to reality this might ever have would be in roleplay between me (again, an adult) and another consenting adult. I do not support the spanking of real children, and I sure as hell do not condone in any way behavior such as this from real parents.

oOo

The Fantasy: Restraints of Biblical Proportions

I suppose I’ve always known they’re a bit strange in the bedroom of a teenage girl. Whenever my friends come over, I always stuff them in between my mattress and boxsprings. Most of the time, I hardly notice them. Except at bedtime, of course.

Every night after I brush my teeth and wash my face, I lay down on my bed over a pile of fluffy pillows and Mother uses them, the Under-the-Bed Restraints, to tie me down. She pulls my nightgown up and my panties down so that I’m ready for Father and my Purity Inspection. He’s been doing them every night since I started my period. He says this way he’ll know if I’ve been thinking unclean thoughts or worse.

Most nights he inspects me by poking his gloved finger into my womanhood. Tracing his finger up to my rosebud. Back down to my womanhood. And my bottom hole.

If I’m moist, I get the strop.

And I’m always moist.

Father takes off the rubber glove and Mother hands him the coffee-brown razor strop. He always tells me how disappointed he is that I’m not keeping my mind on “whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report...” He slaps the strop down on my quivering cheeks while he continues quoting Philippians 4:8. “If there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”

Of course, the only thing I can think on at that moment is how much I hate that strop. And how helpless I am pinned to the bed in the restraints.

When he finishes with that verse, he moves on to I Corinthians 6 while whipping the well-oiled leather against my increasingly angry red bottom and thighs. “Flee fornication,” he’ll call out like he does from the pulpit. “Every sin that a man doeth is without the body; but he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body. What? know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own? For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's..”

Because of the restraints, I can’t even squirm and wiggle like I can when I’m over his or Mother’s knee. Mother always cinches them as tight as she can without pulling out a limb. The most I can manage is to rock my pelvis a bit. And cry into my pillows until it’s over.

But I’m always glad Father never inspects me afterward. I don’t understand it. I hate the strop but for some reason I’m always even more moist after my punishment. And I always want to touch myself. Touch my womanhood.

On Saturday night, after Mother has strapped me down to the bed, she holds my cheeks apart while Father more thoroughly inspects my bottom hole with his fingers to make certain I have not allowed it to be violated. When he is sure that I haven’t, he takes the tip of his belt and lashes my bottom hole. “Mortify therefore your members which are upon the earth; fornication, uncleanness, inordinate affection, evil concupiscence...”

It’s agonizing. I used to beg Father for mercy, but he only reminded me that to do so would show that he does not love me for “he that spareth his rod hateth his son...” And Father never spares the rod. Ever.

After the belt, Mother hands him the red hot water bottle connected to a long white tube and nozzle. She spreads my cheeks again and puts some Vaseline on my raw, throbbing bottom hole. Father pushes the nozzle inside my bottom and fills me up with warm, soapy water. When all the water is inside me, he plugs me up with a large rubber plug. If I have been particularly willful during the week -- talked back to Mother or was sloppy with my chores -- he plugs me with a large chunk of ginger root, its burn reminding me of the eternal fires of Hell.

While I hold the enema, Father gives me his Saturday evening sermon. Sometimes the topic is a shorter version of the sermon he’ll give on Sunday at church. Other times it’s a spontaneous one on a topic specifically for me, like resisting temptation, honoring my parents, or remaining clean and pure.

Sunday night is slightly different. Mother uses the Under-the-Bed Restraints to fasten me down on my back, my knees bent and spread apart. She holds my legs down while Father shaves my womanhood. Not only does this keep it clean, he says, but it more readily exposes any sexual immorality. Father reminds me of what a precious jewel my womanhood is, a gift from God that I will give my future husband and lord -- but only if I carefully guard my purity. “Always remember the words of Paul in first Thessalonians four, three through five: ‘For this is the will of God, even your sanctification, that ye should abstain from fornication: That every one of you should know how to possess his vessel in sanctification and honour; Not in the lust of concupiscence...”

To remind me of the eternal hellfire awaiting whores and fornicators, Father whips my freshly shorn jewel with the wooden yardstick we use during Home School. Better for me to feel a little burn now than the all consuming burn of eternal damnation. Though I can’t imagine a worse burn than this. When Father first began to discipline my womanhood, Mother had a hard time holding my legs down. But over the years she’s gotten very strong. Between her arms and the Under-the-Bed Restraints, I’m practically paralyzed. Except I can feel everything, of course.

I used to hate the restraints. I hated feeling so helpless. Vulnerable. Dependent. I hated being completely laid bare and exposed and unable to hide anything. After a while, though, the Under-the-Bed restraints began to feel...right. Almost comfortable. I mean, my parents only do this because they love me and don’t want me to go to Hell, right? In a way, it’s like the restraints make me feel loved and protected. Even safe, in a way.

Except they also make me feel...wicked. Just thinking about them or the strop makes me...moist. Clearly you can see why Father has to do Purity Inspections. Why my parents need those Under-the-Bed Restraints, along with the strop and the washing outs and the shavings. I must learn to possess my vessel “in sanctification and honour; Not in the lust of concupiscence.” It’s what good, Christian parents do, right?

oOo

I'll have Part 2, the actual review, posted by Monday.

Push-button spanking

2010-06-30T17:50:00.000-07:00

From the February 14, 1898 edition of the New York Times:

I always though spanking chairs were for sitting on while turning a miscreant over your knee -- or bending them over to spank. And talk about lazy-ass wardens. Can't even spank their naughty charges themselves!

Though I must admit, I do want to know what ever happened to this spanking chair.

Kindergarten was the first time I had ever heard of spankings at the push of a button. My teacher, Mrs. W. always threatened us with time in her mysterious, unseen spanking machine. Except she was so sweet her threats only made me slightly concerned rather than fearful. And very, very curious. Oddly enough, I always imagined it being similar to the above spanking chair, except inside a machine that looked like a hollowed-out R2-D2/over-sized vacuum cleaner.

Will be posting the first part of my newest VibeReview Fantasy tomorrow, which will be of particular interest for fans of debporn*. I say first part because the short fantasy I usually write to go with my review became a bona-fide story after spending months in my subconscious. So I'll post the story first and then the review the next day (or two...ish).

____________________________________________
*The old FAQ for the soc.sexuality.spanking Usenet group defines debporn as "a particular type of story post featuring severe, family setting discipline and/or humiliation including very raw anal/crotch spankings. May or may not include sex. Very intense." Based on the stories of Debbie Ann.

Putting Natty to bed

2010-06-15T02:59:00.000-07:00

A. was just putting me to bed.

Except after he had tucked me in, I realized I hadn't taken any Melatonin. As I got up to get a new Melatonin bottle in the hallway cupboard (I finished the last bottle yesterday), I found the new bottle of NyQuil and box of Sudafed I got for A. in my last drugstore.com order. Since I knew he needed them, I pointed them out and handed them to him before throwing away the wrapper around the lid to my Melatonin bottle along with some bits of trash on the table by my bed. While walking back into the bedroom, I noticed A. had left his beer on the other bed table. So I took it out to him in the living room.

"You could have asked me to come get it," A. said after thanking me.

I shrugged and made my way back to the bedroom. Except I noticed A. following close behind.

"Making sure I get to bed this time?" I joked.

"Yes, actually." A. stated.

"Oh." With a sheepish bite of my lower lip upon suddenly feeling like a five-year-old.

After taking the Melatonin, I grinned mischievously as I slipped under the covers. Again.

"Okay, I'm really in bed."

A. bent down and kissed me good night. Again.

"You need some serious discipline," he said, shaking his head before closing my bedroom door.

Except spanking has been unavailable as a method of serious discipline for almost two weeks now because of some serious sciatica that started in my left leg but has now settled so badly in my right leg I can barely walk -- another reason I shouldn't have been wandering about. It seems like it's a tad bit better today, so hopefully by the end of the week A. will be able to fulfill my apparent need for serious discipline.

D'oh! I just remembered: I forgot to take my probiotic before bed. Wonder what A. will do if I get up to take it?

Who's on top?

2010-06-07T23:58:00.000-07:00

By pinching my nipple A. could read my thoughts. I was laying against his chest last night, shirt up to give him access. He was fondling the creamy, abundant breasts bulging inside my black bra. Tenderly -- at first. Then he pinched my nipple, gradually crushing it between his thumb and forefinger. Instead of protesting or retaliating (his boys are much more sensitive than my girls), I simply whimpered.

"Somebody's in a subby mood," he announced.

I hadn't intended to show my cards so soon.

He had just been telling me that he was in a mood more amenable to subbing if I still wanted to top. We were going to play the night before, but he had been feeling under the weather with the cold that won't go away. And I had been far too groggy from an epic four and half hour nap (despite my normal twelve-hour slumber that night), even though I had fallen asleep while planning a night of sadistic delight.

Suddenly he was suggesting all sorts of nasty things to do to my ass: ginger, the cane, a hard punitive ass fucking (it's what dirty sluts get for being, well, dirty sluts, right?). All of which was making my cunt gush.

As is so often the case however, my cunt and the rest of my body were at total odds with each other. The sciatica in my left buttock kept throbbing, despite much icing. The muscle spasm in my right foot would not stop pulsating. My bummy hole has been rather tender of late with, um, ::cough:: hemorrhoids ::cough:: (I hate the stuff my doctor gave me to treat them). And the lower right abdominal pain that I've finally agreed to let a surgeon take a look at was as distressing as ever. Indeed for the last few months I haven't even been able to come without a sharp, violent pain there at the moment of orgasm -- hence the reason I've finally agreed to the laparoscopy after dragging my feet for three years with multiple bouts of physical therapy and every other kind of therapy you can think of.

Even as I dreamed of punishment during my rest period, of being vulnerable and violated, I knew it was not to be. Perhaps A. began the evening with the right idea in the first place. My legs could use a good massage -- and maybe even my foot and glutes.

"I'll have a bowl ice cream, please," I ordered A. after handing him the creams and oil I wanted him to use for my massage.

When he returned with my ice cream, he shook his head.

"How did we end up here tonight? What happened to me fucking you up the ass?"

You know, the question I was asking in my last post. The funny thing about switching is, you never know who's going to end up on top.

From top to bottom

2010-06-03T23:52:00.000-07:00

So, I was going to top last night.

But then A. found out his favorite sweater had been shrunk in the dryer -- the second favorite sweater to suffer such a fate -- and he was in no mood to be ordered about. So he came in, sat down on the bed next to me and suggested a nice Daddy/little girl incest scene. All while stroking my hair and calling me his little girl.

Bastard.

I tried to resist, dear reader. But...but...I really like being his little girl. Especially if there's a bath and ice cream involved -- the ice cream my reward for being such a good girl in the bath. Though, truth be told, I was too wiped out to splash him even if I really really wanted to (which I did).

There wasn't meant to be any spanking necessarily. Just lots of ~~heavy petting~~ sweet, innocent cuddling. Except at one point when he had me lay over his lap to rub my bottom (and my soaked clit), he started asking me questions about how I was doing with my schedule.

Don't ask me about how long I've been on the computer. Don't ask me how long I've been on the computer... I mouthed to the bedspread.

"And how long were you on the computer today?"

D'oh!

See, this was the deal. I woke up too early and couldn't get back to sleep. I decided to try and fix the ending of a (non-kink) story but when I became tired enough to sleep again, the next door neighbor started hammering away on the other side of my bedroom wall. I was too tired to actually do something productive, but couldn't sleep because of the hammering. So I started websurfing and reading more about the Israeli raid on the Free Gaza flotilla and before I knew it four hours had passed (in my pre-illness life I was a specialist in the Israel/Palestine conflict). This is supposed to be a light computer week for me meaning that I'm not supposed to spend more than three hours in total on my Mac.

When A. isn't here, it's been very easy in that sort of situation to simply not count those hours. And I initially intended to do that even with him here. But as the day wore on, a moral tug-of-war between me and my conscience ensued. And when he actually asked me point blank, it became a lot harder to lie than it is if I simply write a number on a piece of paper or Numbers spread sheet and, with the cushion of several days, quote that back to him.

So, I told him the truth: 4 hours before I got up, 2 1/2 intermittently afterward.

"But you told me a minute ago that you were doing fine with your schedule?"

And then I confessed how initially I wasn't going to tell him.

"Now I have to spank you," he said almost dejectedly. "And that's a stroke per minute."

Which, of course, I had completely forgotten about while I was ignoring my time limit.

Gulp.

"Well there were extenuating circumstances..." he said contemplating.

Yes! Very extenuating!

"And I wasn't actually intending to spank you tonight..."

In the end I got far short of 210 strokes -- 12 with the despised ruler and many more with his hand. A very stern warning followed: next time he would most certainly enforce the stroke-per-minute penalty, even if it was 210 strokes.

Such a merciful Daddy.

I did wake up today a bit disappointed that I'd let him bamboozle me out of my Princess Natalie night and determined that I would reassert my dominance again soon.

Of course, I also determined to be a good girl on the computer. At least for the rest of the week.

Rock of submissiveness

2010-06-02T19:12:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Why does it have to hurt so much?

2010-06-01T13:21:00.000-07:00

Do you ever find yourself, the night after a spanking, thinking that spanking really hurt. Can I have more please?

Last night I got spanked at bedtime. It was the first day of my new schedule, and I failed pretty appallingly. Instead of only being on the computer for three hours, I think it was well over five (I blame the Israeli government for that too!). Instead of taking breaks after every one of those hours, I completely disregarded them. I totally forgot to lay down for one rest period, much less for the three 15-minute periods I was supposed to. I did remember to do some yoga and physical therapy, but forgot my meditation and QiGong. And, of course, I was late to bed -- seven minutes past the grace period.

In short, I blew it.

So A. administered the ruler* after pulling down my jammie bottoms while I buried my face in my pillows. Quite severely too. At one point I thought he was going to break it. Needless to say, it hurt. A lot.

But upon waking up this morning (yes, it was really in the AM too - 11:30!), all I could think of was how much I really want a good, long spell over his knee. I just wish it didn't have to hurt so much. Except, of course, if it didn't hurt, I wouldn't feel very satisfied.

Why does it have to work like that?
_____________________________________
*This ruler is no namby-pamby love-pat stick. It's 24-inches and stings like a motherfucker.

Crashing into Natty

2010-05-19T17:47:00.000-07:00

Crashing has a way of putting me in a very Natty mood. And last Wednesday, after a long Mother's Day, a longer ME/CFS Awareness Day, and a trip to the acupuncturist, I crashed. Every noise became too loud. Every light too bright. Television was painful. My cells felt like they were shaking as their vitality drained into oblivion.

All my haughtiness and dominance of the day before melted into dependency and submission. I wanted to be taken care of. Petted. Told what to do, especially as I was too exhausted to figure it out for myself.

Obviously I needed to rest, which I did without protest that night. I woke up the next day promising to continue resting rather than pushing through the exhaustion as I usually do....just after I checked my email. But with the bed adjusted to near zero-gravity and the Mac agreeably on my lap, the temptation to check a few more things was too much. Before I knew it, A. had gone out and returned again two hours later to find me still on the computer.

He didn't say anything until bedtime when he asked if I could manage a spanking -- something I had not yet been able to tolerate since his arrival because of pain in my sacro-iliac joint and lower right abdomen.

"As long as it's a surface-y implement," I replied. "Like the belt."

"What about the ruler?" Twenty-four inches of deceptively light but terribly stingy wood.

"Yes." I swallowed a scowl. "The ruler would be okay." Even though I much prefer the feel of the belt.

I pulled down my jammie bottoms and laid down on the bed.

"I'm sorry I didn't rest this afternoon," I said as penitently as possible, hoping my apology might reduce my impending punishment.

"I'm sorry too. You needed that rest," was A.'s quiet, grave reply.

That stung almost as much as the ruler.

When I'm irritated with the limitations illness imposes, I've come to find refuge in my "Princess Natalie" mood, as A. and I have begun calling it. Relishing every wet, bawdy moment of dictating my will and dishing out pain. Feeling imperious and demanding obeisance.

But when I crash and I'm too weak to be irritated, it's all Natty. Meek. Dependent. Child-like. Craving absolution from the guilt I feel for being feeble and useless. Desperate for structure to guide me through my fatigue-induced disorientation and forgetfulness. Hungry for cuddles and sometimes even a spanking to reinforce for me that there is no shame -- and much to be gained -- in resting.

A dommey vignette

2010-05-11T15:27:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

I grinned. "Nope."

Hairbrush night

2010-03-21T20:19:00.000-07:00

I usually never watch "Til Death" on Fox, but I just turned the TV on a few minutes ago to see what was on. Within 30 seconds, Brad Garrett's character was asking Martin Mull's character to stay after he got up to leave. When Mull's character said he needed to get back to his wife, Garrett's character asked "What are you afraid of? Is she gonna spank you -- or not spank you?"

Mull's character grins sheepishly, "Well it is hairbrush night...she gets really angry if I'm late." At which point he sits back down.

Unfortunately, that seemed to be the only funny part of show. It was followed by yet another unfunny episode of The Simpsons. Thank God for Seth McFarland - who manages to do both spanking references AND comedy well.

But liked the "hairbrush night" bit. Nice touch.

Why domestic discipline is not domestic violence

2010-03-18T17:52:00.000-07:00

Last week (at least it was last week when I started this post) I read Jessica Wakeman's piece over at The Frisky about her first D/s relationship and was going to write about the similarities/differences with my own first spanking relationship. Except that within the essay was a link (that didn't work but I found eventually) to Amanda Marcotte's post at Pandagon about that article Jessica wrote for Bitch Magazine regarding domestic discipline two years ago featuring, among others, yours truly and my dear friends, Mija and Pablo (see this post for my thoughts on that article). Needless to say it rather distracted me from the post I intended to write.

I'm not sure how I missed Marcotte's post as I was reading Pandagon fairly regularly at the time (and would be now if I was awake more), but it was probably a good thing I did miss it as most likely I would have taken it quite personally ("these people are fucked the fuck up")*. Instead I shrugged off it and its comments as sort of like watching and listening to random people in a bar discuss an event they saw on TV in which you actually played an intimate part. Plus the idea of A. (or Pablo) as an ideologically-motivated pater familias or a misogynistic wife beater made me laugh.

At least, initially I shrugged it off. But...it kept bugging me. As it's been two years since her post, it seemed just a bit late to write a post in response. However the more I continued to think about it, the more I began to feel that a post addressing why domestic discipline is not domestic violence had a great deal of merit.

Definitions: domestic discipline vs. domestic violence

Domestic discipline is planned, contained, sexually-oriented acts of power exchange with regard to real life deeds that may include physical violence between two people who have explicitly consented to those acts, the violence, and the mutually-defined structure of power exchange.

Domestic violence is behavior that seeks power and control through physical and/or psychological coercion over a partner who has not consented to being controlled (staying with the partner is not consent) and frequently includes spontaneous, unrestrained emotionally-mediated outbursts of physical and/or psychological violence.

Domestic violence is about manipulation and focuses exclusively on the desires of the abusive partner, whereas domestic discipline is far more centered on the needs and desires of the submissive partner.

Within domestic discipline, both partners create a construct in which one partner gives authority (in varying degrees) to the other partner in a way that produces sexual arousal for both. Within this construct the dominant partner will speak and act in ways that would be cruel, unfair, and absolutely inappropriate outside of the construct. Nobody ever really, truly requires a partner "take them in hand." When the submissive partner says he or she "deserved" his or her punishment or the dominant partner beats the other with a rattan cane, both are fully aware that they are acting within the construct they have both chosen and actively participated in constructing.

Safe, Sane, and Consensual

I failed to see how it’s much different from domestic violence, except that the women in this situation tend to minimize the conflict through stylizing the violence and submitting to it in a tacit exchange for their partners’ agreeing to have a limit on how much beating and abuse is handed out.

The difference is quite simple and stark: consent. Just as in any BDSM relationship, the motto remains safe, sane, and consensual. Even in the "consent to non-consent" relationships, it always begins with consent. With discussions of fantasies and limits (hard and soft) and safe words.

Part of the process of breaking a victim down is slowly introducing her to this narrative in bits and pieces while depriving her of her independence...

Except that in domestic discipline, the overwhelming majority of the time it's the submissive (male or female) who is the one who introduces the domestic discipline narrative to his or her partner and pushes him or her to "be stricter." Or the two partners meet because they are both interested in the same narrative and join a spanking-fetish group of one sort or another. This is markedly different from the bullying that occurs in domestic violence where the abuser's narrative is forced onto his or her victim.

Some abusers will indeed use spanking as a form of violence, particularly when one partner is into spanking/DD and the other isn't. Such was the case in this situation I wrote about where the guy was (and may be still, alas) "disciplining" his girlfriend without any consent on her part because he thought "she needed it." No consent = abuse.

I've also seen situations where one partner wants the other to spank him or her and seeks to get him or her to do so by engaging in greater and greater deliberately provocative behavior (aka "bratting for it"). It's one thing to "brat" with someone you know is into spanking and may view it as a form of foreplay (though a lot of spankos are just as likely to find it annoying as hell). But doing so with someone who is not into spanking or DD is also a form of non-consensuality. Do note, however, this does NOT excuse the non-spanko partner from responding with violence (you have agency, asshole). Bratting for it may work in John Wayne movies and spanking stories, but it's not going to turn someone into a spanko anymore than a girl in a bikini will turn a gay guy straight.

It's all about sex

DD is not BDSM, which is a sexual game, though some DD couples do also enjoy incorporating BDSM elements into their relationships

This is absolutely false and indeed Jessica made a point of linking domestic discipline to sex in her article ("each and every one considers herself a 'spanko' whose fantasies have long revolved around being spanked."). DD is a sub-fetish of BDSM. It is why you find DD groups at places like FetLife or SpankoLife. Or why DD groups on Yahoo are considered "adult." It is true that those in the "Christian Domestic Discipline" community are probably markedly uncomfortable admitting that what they do is connected to gay leathermen. It is also true that there are some Christian DDers who have a difficult time acknowledging DD is about sex. But even evangelicals who believe in the "headship" of husbands look down on domestic discipline as a sexual fetish. At the end of the day they are simply using a traditional, religious, patriarchal narrative to make palatable what is very much sexual. And we feminists who practice DD are pretty shameless in declaring that what we do is directly related to our clitorises.

...It seems that domestic discipline is a way of thwarting conflict in your relationship by assuming that every conflict or problem in the heterosexual relationship is the woman’s fault (because she’s childish, scattered, rebellious, whatever) and that it’s up to her man to discipline her.

This sentence requires unpacking, and I'll just start at the beginning.

Her point about thwarting conflict in relationship is an important one that deserves far more discussion in the domestic discipline community than it gets. I am always disturbed when I hear couples say they are using DD to avoid arguments. Conflict is a part of ANY relationship, healthy or not. Spanking (or sex, job, exercise, etc.) should never be used as a substitute for good inter-personal communication skills. Ever.

That said, once the conflict is resolved, DD couples will use spanking in the same way that non-kinky people use intercourse to make up. It may not be the way you have sex, but it includes all the aspects of love, intimacy, and affection that one associates with sex.

It's not about gender

And I use the androgynous term partner because it could just as well be a woman as a man. Marcotte insists that one, domestic discipline only exists within hetero couples, and that two, the man is always dominant. Now based on reading Jessica's article, I can see why she thinks this. While I thought Jessica's description of domestic discipline was very perceptive on a number of levels, she made a crucial mistake in stating that female-dominant or same-sex domestic discipline is merely "theoretical." There are plenty of couples in which the wife is the one disciplining the guy (I really could have linked to a bazillion places for F/M couples). And there are also women disciplining women (if I ever find my Nanny Bea, I can add my name to that list) and men disciplining men. One very astute commenter at Pandagon pointed out that

it’s actually my impression that there’s long been more female-D/male-s than visa verse. My assumption has been that that’s because male-D/female-s overlaps with traditional gender roles, so people who like that sort of thing don’t need to go to a subculture to find it.

Indeed that's exactly been my experience as I've started switching. It took me a little while, but once I found the F/M community, I found more blogs and websites than I could ever possibly visit even if I was healthy and had all the time in the world. And I think Jessica's own male-D/female-s interest kept her from looking for that subculture, leaving the reader to falsely assume that DD is about male superiority by default.

That is not to say misogyny is lacking within the DD community, as well as in the larger BDSM community. Yes, there are men (and women) who engage in domestic discipline (and D/s)** because they believe all women are meant to submit to men (we all know that guy[s] who thinks all dominant women are just waiting for the right dominant man to submit to -- who would be him, of course!). There are men (and women) who are disturbed by feminism and find domestic discipline to be sexually, and yes, politically and religiously attractive. Add thousands of years of patriarchy and a society which is still rife with sexism, and it can make the distinction between ideology and wank fodder difficult.

My first draft of this post was snarky, sarcastic, and downright indignant. Marcotte and her commenters come across as condescending and distinctly uninterested in DD as a form of sexuality. However after more reflection, I had to acknowledge my own lingering discomfort with the language of domestic discipline -- so much so that I don't even like calling what I do "domestic discipline" because of its 1950s "Father-Knows-Best" connotation, preferring to use "punishment fetish/kink" or "What It Is We Do" instead -- even if the fantasies that make me orgasm most often involve domestic discipline. It's because of that discomfort that I almost never read fiction that includes domestic discipline, and when I do, it usually features female-dominant or same-sex couples. Or it's real-life accounts from couples where I know sexism is not the motivation. It's hard for me to not take a "sexist-until-proven-innocent" approach so I can imagine how hard it must be for people outside of our community to hear that my boyfriend spanks me when I go to bed late and not think something terribly sexist is occurring even though it really is true that gender has little to do with the disciplinary arrangement I have with A.

I agree with Marcotte that feminism is being defined too much these days as choice and not enough as empowerment, especially given the growing climate of dis-empowering women regarding their reproductive rights or equal pay. And I'm not going to suggest -- as I often see women in the BDSM community doing -- that embracing my choice to engage in DD is some grand feminist act, anymore than my eating Cheerios for breakfast is. Domestic discipline is sex and sex is...sex with all of the love, intimacy, transcendence/spirituality, and personal fulfillment that it involves. It's not feminist or misogynist. It's certainly not a movement to return male-female relationships back to the 1950s (even if it may mean that for some who practice it). It's sex.***

But I will say that making women feel bad about the kind of sex they have contributes to their disempowerment. And that is most definitely NOT a feminist act.

_______________________
*It is also quite possible that I knew about it at the time but deliberately chose not to read it because I suspected this sort of response and now, two years later, forgot that I wasn't going to read it. As you might imagine, my illness-induced poor short-term memory makes reruns far more interesting. ::grin::

**The line between DD and D/s is a murky one. The best way I would differentiate between the two off the top of my head is to say that DD includes a sort of parent-child dynamic while D/s has more of an adult master/slave dynamic - PG vs. R-rated, if you will (or perhaps Freud vs. Hegel). But, of course, there is enormous overlap between the two. Indeed in Jessica's article in Bitch, as well as in The Frisky post that originally sparked this post, she uses the terms interchangeably. But I'll save that question for a whole other post.

***I am fully aware that sex is political and among the many ways the patriarchy has traditionally sought to control women. In this case, it's other women -- not the patriarchy -- trying to control women and so while yes, DD may be political, engaging in it is not an act of sticking it to the Man. Unless, perhaps, it's a female-dominant relationship.

The Birch swings no more

2010-02-25T23:54:00.000-08:00

During our last exchange, Alex Birch and I were having a very emotional debate on the soc.sexuality.spanking Usenet newsgroup about terrorism and the requirements for a liberal society. Try as we might to stay on topic (i.e. spanking), politics is never far from the list of current discussions on the newsgroup. That particular discussion did not end with any sort of agreement between the two of us. Indeed his conclusions left me in despair. Had I known it was going to be our last conversation, I sure as hell would have talked about something far more cheerful. Far more related to spanking.

We never had the pleasure to meet in person, though I always assumed we probably would at some point. When I was better and could get on a plane and go to England finally. He and A. would talk about football and the Midlands and we'd all talk about spanking and his library of out-of-print spanking fiction.

Not that we had the lengthy, ongoing Conversation that he and Mija had. I've only been reading and posting to the newsgroup for eight years (on Saturday), making me a newbie compared to them. While I'd read plenty of his posts on SSS, we didn't really interact all that much until he was setting up his wonderful blog in 2005. As I had -- at least in his mind -- already mastered blogging on Blogger, he asked for my help, earning me far more gratitude from him than was worth my certainly earnest, if not always helpful, assistance. After that I felt more comfortable talking with him both on the newsgroup and in email, though it had dwindled over the last year or so, as have most of my other correspondences, due to illness. Meaning that I didn't know about his illness...

I can't imagine the newsgroup without him. The stories. The arguments. The jokes. The arguments. The encouragement (scolding?) each and every summer to do your part in the annual Short Story Contest. The arguments.

And where will the spankosphere get its fix of out-of-print spanking fiction and pictures of spanking models from the 1970s?

I hope he's somewhere with a sassy lass across his knee, giving her the hiding they are both enjoying.

"The naughtiest person ever"

2010-02-24T01:36:00.000-08:00

So now that the stomach flu that had me throwing up so much I broke a bunch of blood vessels in my neck is over, and whooping cough (or mycoplasma pneumonia - my doctor wasn't sure but it responded to the second antibiotic he put me on) is over, and moving into my new ginormous one bedroom, brilliant-view apartment (but not the unpacking) is over, it's time for me to do some blogging already. And I thought a nice Nurse K. anecdote might be a good way to get back into the swing of things.

As many of you know, I'm on the blood thinner Coumadin after I developed blood clots in both lungs three years ago. Because Coumadin is a rather dangerous drug, I have to get my blood tested frequently (by Nurse K) to make sure I'm not going to bleed to death or start clotting again. She (or rather a machine that she uses) measures a number called an INR, which for me should be between 2 and 3.5 (i.e. therapeutic range).

For the first two and a half years we had a hard time getting my INR to stay in the therapeutic range. But then they learned a handy trick: they had me take a daily Vitamin K supplement (if you really want to know the science behind that, email me). Once I started taking the Vitamin K, my INR stayed therapeutic for 16 months -- until last week when I broke my run of perfect INRs with an INR of 4.1 (which meant I could bleed too easily).

Why it suddenly jumped up is complicated, but most likely involved three different supplements of which I had recently changed doses (Coumadin interacts with over 180 different foods, medications, and supplements -- a real bitch), as well as the fact that I lost some weight over the last two months from being so sick. While I wasn't really bothered about the potential for bleeding (it was still unlikely), I was annoyed that I was going to have to start going in for more frequent INR checks again. As much as I love Nurse K., and as much as my entire social life at this point consists of Twitter and seeing her and my acupuncturist (yes, my life is that pathetic), it takes a lot out of me to go to the doctor's office once a week instead of once a month.

But return a week later I did. As I sat in the exam room with her yesterday, she asked me about those supplements that I was supposed to stop.

"I was a bit naughty..." I said with a wince. "I kept taking the higher dose of the CoQ10 because it's helping me so much."

"Yes, you are very naughty," Nurse K. said in a mock condemnatory tone. "You're very naughty, Michelle. You're the naughtiest person ever!"

I sat there blushing and giggling like I do when A. tells me I'm naughty. Indeed had he been there, A. would have teased me mercilessly about just how much I was blushing and giggling.

The fun ended there, however. She recorded my CoQ10 dosing. Took my INR. This time it was too low: 1.8. And that was probably a result of me being naughty for real: I took some extra Vitamin K to compensate for what I thought might be the decreased clotting time effect of the CoQ10 even after Nurse K told me not to do that last week.

I think because I was naughty for real, she stopped teasing me. "At least you're being honest -- that's the important thing." And she returned to typing in my chart.

I suppose having to return in a mere week (rather than in two) is a fair punishment for my arrogant defiance of her instructions.

And if I'm lucky, maybe Nurse K. will tell me I'm naughty again.

Story: Natty and the Confiscated MacBook

2010-01-04T01:05:00.000-08:00

(Dedicated to A. & P., whose MacBook made this story possible -- Thanks!)

“Do I have to watch you every second?”

Natty nearly dropped her MacBook at the sound of Nanny Bea’s voice

“I...I just needed to check something real quick...”

Nanny Bea set a basket of clothes down on the chair and walked over to the bed where Natty lay with with her MacBook propped up against her thighs.

“Hand it over, please.”

“But...I promise I’m going to sleep right now.” Natty promptly closed the lid in a demonstration of good faith. “I won’t go online anymore.”

“I’m not going to stand here all afternoon. Hand me the laptop now, please.”

Natty gazed up at her nanny with an expression of utter pathos sure to move even the hardest of Dickensian villains. But not Beatrice Seymour, who responded with her own steely, implacable gaze demanding submission -- which came quickly and with a grim sigh. And then a gasp when she placed the MacBook on top of the wardrobe, far out of the reach of her five foot charge.

“You can just wipe that scowl off your face right now...” Nanny said as she picked up the hairbrush on the dresser and sat down on the edge of the bed. “...And get yourself over my knee.”

This made Natty scowl even more.

“But I wasn’t on there for very long,” Natty whined with a huff and folded arms. “And besides, you took away my laptop, which is way too much punishment already.”

“‘Too much punishment’ indeed.. .” Nanny Bea grabbed Natty’s left ear lobe and yanked it hard. Natty quickly unfolded her arms, and with a deep guttural groan, laid herself across Nanny Bea’s lap.

But she was still scowling. With eyebrows deeply furrowed and lips pressed hard together, it was the scowl of defiance mustered by many a little girl in the face of such grave grown-up injustice.

The scowl, of course, gave way to yelps of pain once Nanny Bea had taken down her pajama bottoms and panties and began slapping the solid, ebony back of the hairbrush on Natty’s tender fleshy cheeks.

“When I put you down for a nap, young lady, I expect you to take a nap,” Nanny Bea scolded as she delivered two dozen smart smacks. “I do not want to find you on the computer, or reading a book, or watching television, or doing anything else but resting -- preferably, sleeping. Is that clear?”

“Ye -- oh! -- Yes!” Natty answered as she squirmed and squealed.

“And you still fail to understand that when I ask you to do something, you are to obey at once. I am not at all interested in debating the finer points of my instructions.”

With that Nanny Bea gave the back of Natty’s thighs five sharp slaps of the brush each, producing fresh sobs, blubbering apologies, and promises to be good.

“So, we’re going to try this again.” Nanny Bea set aside the hairbrush and stroked Natty’s hair. “You are going to lie down for a nap. In your bed. Without interruption. Got it?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Natty mumbled. She sniffled, crawled off Nanny Bea’s lap and back under the cotton sheet and quilt.

Nanny Bea bent down and kissed Natty on the forehead before leaving her. “Now be a good girl and get some rest.”

But Natty did not feel like being a good girl. Her repentance was a bit like her computer -- of the laptop variety. Once she was no longer over Nanny Bea’s lap, she no longer felt particularly penitent. She lay in bed sulking and pouting over the many outrages she had suffered under Nanny Bea’s tyranny. Indeed she was even plotting how she might free her beloved MacBook from its confinement high upon the wardrobe when sleep - which so readily follows a good spanking - overwhelmed her insurrectionary aspirations.

The MacBook was still in captivity when it was time for bed that night. Daddy was there to cuddle and tuck Natty in, sitting on the bed with his legs stretched out as she lay her head against his chest all wrapped up in his arms.

“And were you a good girl today?”

“Well...mostly...”

“‘Mostly?’ Go on...” In a way that was prodding, stern, and resigned all at the same time.

“I just...well...Nanny was making me take a rest. But then I remembered that I needed to check something online so I opened my MacBook real quick but then Nanny --”

“-- What exactly demanded such immediate attention?”

Natty bit her lower lip.

“Um...something on Twitter...” she mumbled, knowing well Daddy’s low opinion of Twittering.

“I see. This is not sounding good...”

“But I just needed to see something really quick. And it was only going to take me a few seconds but Nanny took my MacBook away and put it on top of the wardrobe so I couldn’t get it back, which was way too harsh a punishment but then she still punished me more and it wasn’t fair!”

“Excuse me?”

Natty pressed her lips together. Hearing the subtle stringency in Daddy’s voice, she knew she had tripped onto very treacherous ground.

“But...but it wasn’t fair...” she stammered.

“Are you complaining about Nanny Bea, young lady?”

Natty had to think about her answer. If she said no, Daddy would say she was being dishonest. But she couldn’t acknowledge she was in the wrong given how justified her grievance. It would be admitting defeat -- and if there was one thing Natty hated, it was losing.

“I’m just saying that...it was...unreasonably harsh...”

“You’re just digging yourself deeper and deeper, aren’t you?” Daddy said with a raised eyebrow. “Right. I think you need a trip over my lap.” He patted his thigh.

“Please don’t spank me, Daddy! Please! Nanny already spanked me today and --”

“-- This is a poor choice of moments to argue with me, young lady.”

Would the injustice never end?

Natty tried desperately to think of some way -- any way -- to avoid the fate before her. But after a few seconds, when she could think of no means of escape, she finally sat up on her knees and lowered herself over Daddy’s lap.

“Let’s get these down,” said Daddy as he tugged at her jammie bottoms and panties. Once Natty’s bottom was bared, he peppered her fat cheeks with crisp smacks that quickly turned a keen pink whatever wasn’t mottled with purple and red from the prior spanking.

“I’m disappointed to see that you still hesitate before doing what you’re told.”

Daddy increased the force of his spanks, eliciting whimpers and yelps from Natty.

“Anything short of immediate obedience is simply not acceptable, and I should not have to keep reminding you of this.”

He dropped his hand down to the back of Natty’s thighs but the force of his blows remained the same.

“I’m also sad to see that you never stop trying to justify yourself.”

The sharp sounds of slaps and sobs reverberated off the bedroom walls as the words “disappointed” and “sad” began melting Natty’s defiance and self-pity into a puddle of regret and contrition.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” she said during a lull in the smacking. An apology of the heavy, permanent sort.

“I should think so,” Daddy responded. He struck her blushing cheeks several more times before he stopped. “No more stalling when I tell you to do something, yes?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” Daddy petted his little girl as her sniffling and staggered breathing gradually subsided. “And no more excuses?”

“No more excuses.”

“Good girl.”

He bent his head down near Natty’s face and stroked her hair.

“Now we still need to talk about what happened with Nanny Bea...”

Natty’s shoulders fell even as she nodded stiffly.

“Would you agree that you were moaning about her even though I have specifically told you not to?”

Natty’s nodding remained awkward.

“Excuse me?” Daddy cupped his ear.

“Yes, Sir...” was Natty’s tepid response.

“And would you agree that you were being very willful toward her this afternoon?”

“Yes, Sir...” With a gulp.

“And what happens to whiny, willful little girls?”

Natty blinked the sting and wet from her eyes as she let out a little whimper with her answer.

“They...um...they get...punished...”

“That’s right.” Daddy caressed her chafed bottom and bent over so that his lips were right next to Natty’s ear. “Best go fetch the cane,” he whispered tenderly.

“Yes, Sir.” Natty’s voice cracked.

Pushing herself up off the bed, she waddled to the door where the cane hung from a hook, her panties and jammie bottoms still scrunched around her knees. By the time she had made her way back to the bed, Daddy had already placed several pillows in the middle of the bedspread.

“Right. Over the pillows, please.”

Natty obeyed. She was almost shivering as her raw, exposed bottom waited for the cane.

“I’m going to give you twelve strokes, and I want you to count them, please. I want you to think about the fact that your Nanny does nothing but try to keep you healthy. When she makes you take a rest, it’s because you really need to rest. When she took your MacBook away, she did so in order to remove what was clearly a tremendous impediment to your getting the rest you needed. And you know full well that you never just spend a ‘couple of seconds’ on the computer. Indeed had she not caught you, you may well have missed your rest time altogether.”

The puddle of regret and contrition grew as Daddy delivered the twelve cane strokes. They were not particularly severe. After all, Natty was a rather sickly and fragile little girl. The twelve angry red stripes were, however, just hard enough to leave her feeling properly punished and penitent when she climbed back into bed.

However there was yet one last punishment left for Natty.

“Once you get your MacBook back,” Daddy said as he tucked and smoothed the blankets securely around his little one. “The first thing I want you to do is write a 300-word essay about how Nanny Bea takes care of you and why what she does is important.”

And for just that moment -- but only that moment -- Natty was actually a little glad her MacBook was well out of reach.

Copyright 2009 Natty

******************
You can find the first Nanny Bea story here, as well as her guest appearance here. Casey Morgan has written her own Nanny Bea story here, which I think is far more elegantly written than mine.

2010: No More Mr. Nice A.

2010-01-01T23:55:00.000-08:00

I got my first spanking of the decade this afternoon. Laying across my bed with the phone on speaker, A. had me consider some New Year's Resolutions with a ping pong paddle and clothesbrush handy.

None of my resolutions were particularly original: take an hour-long rest each day, get to bed on time, do a better job of taking breaks from the computer.

What was novel, however, was A. setting specific and severe punishments should I forsake my resolutions. Like 60 (!) strokes with the clothesbrush for each time I neglect my daily rest period. And one stroke for each minute I'm late to bed (it's not unheard for my tardiness to exceed two hours). He has yet to decide about the computer time, but I'm expecting it to be perfectly dreadful.

Of course, he had to remind me what those strokes would feel like should (when?) I merit them. After making me warm up with the ping pong paddle, I got multiple rounds of 12 strokes with the clothesbrush, not to mention periods of simply whacking until he told me to stop. I assure you, dear reader, there was much pouting on this side of the phone line. And both my arm and bottom remain a bit tender.

With this new get-tough-on-Natty policy, I foresee a year of grave suffering for my backside. A year of arduous sitting, sojourns to the corner, and maybe even lines or worse. (I'm too embarrassed to think about A. attempting anything of a colonic nature...)

And a year for more stories. I've got a new Nanny Bea story scheduled for Monday. Fingers-crossed, my writing head will stick around for a more productive literary spell.

Kinky Santa at FetLife

2009-12-21T02:03:00.000-08:00

So I'm pimping FetLife's "Sitting on Kinky Santa's Lap Giveaway" here on the blog to get my name in the hat an extra time. Shameless, I know. Especially as it probably won't increase my chances of winning all that much given the sheer number of people at FetLife. But hey, just might get lucky.

What did I ask Santa for?

A Strapped Satin Jacquard Corset from BigGalsLingerie (who have a number of hot plus-size dresses -- including cute and sexy holiday outfits!)
An Impact Play Kit from Maui Kink
A Custom Cane Case and Canes from Maui Kink (be sure to check out their amazing and unique collection of toys, including one I've got my eye on - the Victorian Rug Beater Paddle [scroll down on the link to view])

The pickings are a bit slim for those of us who identify primarily as spankos rather than more extreme BDSMers. Though if you fancy a corset or a flogger, you're set.

I wonder if next year Kinky Santa might be able to fill his bag of toys from these vendors:

The London Tanners (been drooling over Ian's toys for years now)
Bobbies Drop Seats (I want the sailor dress...and the Emily dress...and...and)
Adam & Gillian's (who doesn't need a sjambok?)
Academy Wear (The headmaster says I need a gym slip and bottle green undies)
Medical Toys (er...just...::blush::)

I'm sure I'll think of a few more later. Feel free to add some you think are missing from Kinky Santa's toybag in the comments section.

The great spanko dorm

2009-12-17T07:59:00.000-08:00

I have been having the most surreal dreams lately. Here' s my latest addition to the REM cycle spanking file.

All us spankos lived in a sort of communal setting, like a dormitory that was somewhat rustic, as if it were a giant log cabin.

Everyone was away at a Shadow Lane party except me as I was in bed (geesh, I’m even sick in my dreams). A. was with me, as was someone else who I can’t quite name now (Nanny Bea? Casey? Indy?). I was waiting for everyone to return so I could get spanked. I was specifically waiting for sparkle, Chris, Adele Haze, Mija and Pablo, who were stuck in traffic (note that everybody rode around in hovercrafts).

The great spanko dorm was in California, I believe. But it was so cold I didn't want to pull back the covers and get out of bed.

I'm sure there was more narrative but all I can remember now having just waken up was that I thought I had found sparkle already in bed and I was feeling very disappointed that I might have missed my spanking.

Spanking the monkey?

2009-12-14T17:15:00.000-08:00

A. found this picture from Do-While's "WtF photos from Old Times" page. While this one was the most relevant to the topic of this blog, there were a few others with shades of kink.

I can't tell if she's wishing she were in the stuffed monkey's place or if she's thinking about getting this young man home and spanking him. I mean, she does kind of have a just you wait sort of look...

Kinky twitter

2009-12-13T17:06:00.000-08:00

The good folks at Tweet Cloud have made a handy list of the top words in my tweets over the last month. A nice mix of the banal and the kinky, wouldn't you say?

HNT: Birthday spanking

2009-12-09T22:45:00.000-08:00

Or all nekkid, as the case may be.

In the end, it was 37 strokes of the cane. No uniform or dress. Just rattan and my naked flesh -- which I can't believe I'm showing here -- after a warm up with the rubber paddle and his hand.

It was far more serious than I expected it to be. And I was a total baby throughout. If I ever figure out how to edit with iMovie, I'll try and post all 3:04 minutes of it.

After the spanking, my wicked A. tied me to the bed with the Under the Bed Restraints* -- though I did give him a bit of a fight. Upon subduing me, he affixed my ankles to our spreader bar with the ankle restraints, lifted my legs up and wide, and violated me with the Anal Vibe, the Silver Bullet, and the Miracle Massager.

It was one of the nicest, stingiest birthday spankings I've had and the best birthday orgasm ever.

______________________

*The Under-the-Bed Restraints will be reviewed in an upcoming post. Note that VibeReview is having their Winter Sale at the moment and gives me a little kickback if you purchase items at their site by clicking on a link from my blog.

Hang on

2009-12-08T01:30:00.000-08:00

A few days ago I was reading the (non-kink) blog of a fellow Portlander with the title "Hanging Blog Syndrome." I immediately recognized the malady. Despite having my shiny new Macbook for almost a month now (thank you again, dear friends who donated it!), you can almost hear the creaking of this poor blog as it hangs forlornly in cyberspace.

My blogging is always rather meager when A. is here -- as is his productivity also. Two people sharing a 400sq foot studio for an uninterrupted two and a half months is not particularly conducive to introspective composition.

And, of course, that chronic illness I'm always whining about makes writing* difficult when my brain has turned to cream of wheat and I'm too weak to sit up in bed, drag my fingers across a keyboard and input all the thoughts I've had during the hour upon hour of laying in bed (as has been the case off and on these last few months). You have no idea how jealous I am of those of you who can blog every day or even every week. And even more jealous of those of you who get to read all those brilliant blogs (like this new one from Queen of the commenters, Indy).

If I could write via mere thought, my hanging blog syndrome would be a thing of the past. Though the brevity and immediacy of Twitter has made reporting fresh spankings and random pervy thoughts less onerous than blogging. I suspect you will continue to find me Twittering my kinkiness more than I blog it.

But A. is leaving on Thursday. Bad for cuddles and spanking (among other things) yet more promising for blogging, as is the recent return of my writing head. Just in time to write about the birthday spanking that I'm sure to get later this evening.

My British A. is still adjusting to the whole concept of birthday spanking. He has suggested that because I didn't get my birthday spanking on my birthday last year, it didn't count and should be added to this year's spanking. But...but...hang on here. This could just get silly rather quickly. Do we add all the years I didn't get a birthday spanking? Er...maybe I shouldn't be giving him ideas.

So I appeal to you, oh sacred jury of the spankosphere, oh International Court of Correction.** Am I not right that a birthday spanking given -- regardless of whether it's on the actual birthday or not -- means I have fulfilled my birthday spanking debt to the universe?

_____________________
*Not to mention spanking and sex. We never have gotten to our Rules of the Lashes game. And I was chagrined to note last night after bathing that I think I've only been clean shaven down there twice the entire time A. has been here. So wrong.

**I have been warned that the Court of A. is a higher authority than the International Court of Correction. Though you all could help set precedent, no?

A jolly good time

2009-11-11T17:27:00.000-08:00

Geesh. It's been so long since I stopped by Blogger that the compose interface page has changed!

It's mostly Microsoft's fault. On October 14th I downloaded the ginormous security updates from Microsoft and haven't been able to open Windows on my laptop since. My dad spent two days last week working on a system restore to no avail. As you can imagine, I've been cursing Microsoft with the crudest expletives I can think of since.

It had to happen just after the most amazing research development in ME/CFS history. Not only have I been wanting to read obsessively about it and can't, but the ME/CFS group I hand-moderate went crazy. Instead of spending a combined total of 10 minutes a month moderating in the comfort of my bed, I've been sitting up in the kitchen on the broken down Averatec I'm sharing with A. for a half-hour to an hour a day approving posts and trying to keep everyone in line (with mixed results).

Unfortunately I can only handle sitting up in the kitchen for a maximum of a half-hour to an hour most days. So, you know, there wasn't much energy for anything else like, oh say, reading any of my other email. Twittering and/or blogging, of course, came to a screeching halt.

Moreover A. and I have been passing a cold of some sort back and forth. It's meant a stuffy nose and chest for him and vertigo for me as it affected my inner ear. For the last month we've been in a cycle where I'd start to feel better on Friday. We'd play gently on Saturday. I'd crash on Monday and be so sick for the rest of the week that I didn't really care that I was jonesing for Twitter and didn't have a laptop with which to get online.

Last week the vertigo finally settled down, but then I started having problems again with my sacroiliac joint and left hip slipping out of place. Sitting at the computer in the kitchen was excruciating. And spanking was out of the question.

Yep. It's been a jolly good time.

But things are starting to look up. I'm sitting and walking fairly comfortably now and the world is no longer spinning, though I think we both still have a bit of stuffiness in our lungs and noses. My moderation duties have quieted back down as our group returns to its usual tepid level of discussion.

Alas, however, blogging will have to wait for a bit. Some incredibly generous friends are donating a used MacBook but it will be another week or two before it will be in bed with me (hehe that sounds so kinky).

Usually such breaks from the computer mean I have a lot to write when I finally come back. And this break, I suspect, will be no exception. So, I'll see you all in a couple of weeks with lots of naughty thoughts and stories.

Lurk out loud 4.0

2009-10-13T02:46:00.000-07:00

Last year I promised a picture of my beaten ass had the number of lurkers commenting reached a certain number (which sadly, it did not). However this year I decided to go ahead and just post the picture first. So here is my freshly spanked bottom (a mere 30 minutes ago) along with the implements A. used.

If you look closely, you will notice that the wooden spoon is broken. I believe that is the forth wooden spoon A. has broken on my backside (and I really liked cooking with that one!). You will also note the lack of welts from the cane. Since I'm on Coumadin, A. uses the cane with light but rapid fire strokes that accumulate pain quickly (sheer agony, I tell ya!) but don't leave the deep bruises for which canes are notorious. Similar to the way Nurse Bea uses a nursery willow switch in this story that my dear friend Casey wrote just for Natty.

So dear friend, thank you for reading. Whether you leave a comment (good or bad) for this feedback whore or just lurk, I always appreciate your time and interest.

Too much wood

2009-10-08T02:16:00.000-07:00

"Oh you stupid cow," A. cried out from behind his laptop the other day.

A few weeks back, he had sent an email to a publisher along with a synopsis of the book he had just finished as well as the book itself. Two weeks later the publisher's contact replied asking if his book was similar to a couple of other books coming out on the same topic. A. responded that no, his book dealt with different material (something she would have known had she merely bothered to read his original email). After another two weeks, she replied again and asked if he could send her a synopsis.

"Her name is Michelle, so maybe I ought to spank you for her inability to read her email," A. said as he sat down on the bed next to me. "It would make me feel better."

"Don't you have enough reasons to spank me?" I asked.

There are plenty of spankings on the agenda now that he's here. There's the small matter of my past schedules that have yet to be addressed. I was also seven minutes late for my school day the other day before canceling it because I was too worn out from cramming for the test I was suppose to take (I forgot how good at procrastinating I am) -- not to mention spanking would be part of the school game anyway. I believe there is another spanking planned, but I can't think of it at the moment.

"Yes but it's a bit like firewood, isn't it?" he quipped. "You may be all sorted for the winter with a stack of wood in the garage (pronounced "GAIR-idge"), but you're always on the lookout for that next felled tree."

Yep. A girl can never get too much wood.

When play is work

2009-09-25T01:48:00.000-07:00

Sometimes play is just...hard work. An ordeal in which the forces of the Erotic and Encumbrance battle throughout. You know, the sort hyped by some over-the-top announcer. "Tonight on the Michelle's Sorry Life channel, watch a special Kink versus Illness smackdown! One horny girl. One debilitating illness. Who will win?" Except at the end of the whole thing, both sides are usually able to claim some amount of victory.

Such was the result of a phone spanking a couple of weeks ago. I had awaken even later than my normal mid-afternoon reveille and was just finishing up breakfast at 4:30 pm (yes, that's really PM) when A. called.

"Heya dear," I answered blithely.

"Oh. Did you get my email with your instructions?" he replied with a mixture of restrained formality and genuine uncertainty.

Instructions, eh? There was a familiar -- and pleasurable -- tightening of my pelvic muscles at this most obvious declaration of impending tele-erotic activity, even as the rest of my body whined with weariness.

"Actually I was just turning on my computer," I explained as I hastened to open my inbox, still a little disoriented given that I had only waken up an hour earlier and was feeling the inevitable crash following a rare day of jittery, almost euphoric energy.

"Well, then, I think you better open your email."

My face flushed not only from excitement, but also embarrassment that I wasn't prepared. He had ended our conversation the day before noting that he might be sending me instructions -- not to mention I had emailed him a fragment from my journal before going to sleep detailing my kinky fantasies of late. I also felt a twinge of annoyance at how what was going to be my first phone spanking since May was starting out rather awkwardly.

"I said in the email that I was going to call you at 4:30, but how about I give you a call at 5pm?

"Okay --er, Yes, Sir."

This, dear reader, is what I found in my inbox:

I want you to put on a little girl's dress, flowery knickers and white socks as soon as you have finished reading this email. Nothing else will be worn until I grant permission. The following items will be laid out on the bed:

1. a wooden spoon
2. a table tennis paddle
3. the long brush
4. a razor
5. shaving gel / foam
6. a box containing sex toys,* butt plugs and a nipple clamp.

At 4.30pm (your time) you will stand in the corner of the room and await my phone call.

My pelvic muscles tightened further, along with those of my abdomen. My bottom tingled with anticipation. And I couldn't help but gulp. However I quickly swallowed that anxious lump in my throat along with my giddiness and set about attending to his instructions, as well as letting those following me on Twitter know I was about to get spanked.

Except as I got up to fetch the various items and dress myself accordingly, I quickly realized there was more to my elevated heart rate than mere excitement. One of the peculiar quirks of my illness is that the more weary I am, the higher my heart rate gets both during activity and at rest. Pulling on my dress and arranging my bra-less breasts, sorting through my sock drawer, grabbing my razor, digging out implements from under the bed -- all of it, of course, was shooting my heart rate higher and higher, making me feel dizzy and icky.

Should I tell A. I can't do this? It wasn't so much that I was worried about disappointing him, but rather Natty. My alter ego had obligingly endured months of setbacks and downright neglect as a result of my ill health and A.'s work. I sighed. I am going to get spanked, goddamnit.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I did some diaphragmatic breathing, bringing my heart rate down a bit. Once the dizziness wore off, I stood and made my way to the corner where I was to await A.'s impending phone call.

How bad would the spanking hurt? It had been such a long time since my last one. The high ceilings of my apartment, which drew my gaze after I became bored with a fragment of chipped paint, made me feel particularly small and childish.

But the little feeling did not last long. My heart rate was creeping up again. I tried some more diaphragmatic breathing as I stood facing the corner -- so very un-childish -- but it just would not drop down below 120.** I absolutely had to lay down. I made my way to the bed, where I lay with the full skirt of my bubble-gum pink dress draped over my belly and legs in a less-than flattering spread when A. finally called.

"Hello, Sir."

"Hello, there. Where you standing in the corner as you were told?"

"I did stand in the corner after I was ready, Sir. But I had to lay down after a few minutes."

There was a pause as we both sought to figure out how to proceed. Should I tell him I could manage a spanking but no shaving? Was I even in any condition to consider orgasming? Would I be okay so long as I was laying down?

"Are you still laying on the bed?"

"Yes, Sir."

Please don't break the spell. Don't ask me if I'm alright. Let's just keep going. Let Natty keep going...

"What sort of knickers are you wearing?" A. asked after another moment of silence.

"Pink flowery knickers," Natty declared with vigor.

"Well, let's get them off."

With pleasure. Even if I did feel a bit dizzy standing up to take them down as well as rearrange the cord to my headset so it wouldn't interfere with spanking.

He had me start out with the ping pong paddle. It's a good thing it makes a lot of noise even when I'm not whacking that hard because I don't know that I could have made myself hit any harder given how tired I was and how much it stung.

"What's that on the pain scale?"

It was a momentary lull in the magic. Given the circumstances, I figured A. probably needed some reassurance that I wasn't dying on the other end of the phone, even if I always find giving a number to my pain level a difficult thing to do in a Natty frame of mind.

"Um...about an 8 -- 8 1/2."

While the whacking was draining me a bit, my heart rate was staying down. I just had to stay flat.

"I think it's about time you got that butt plug in. Have you got your Naughty Box there?"

"Yes ::gulp:: Sir."

Just typing the word butt plug makes me blush. Saying it out loud makes me blush even more. Hearing A. order me to take it out of its box and put it in my hole with a deep, imperious, British-accented voice not only makes me blush but gives me that piquant constriction of shame in my belly. If he ever moves on to enema bags (another word I can barely utter), I tell you, dear reader, the embarrassment alone will be both painful and orgasmic.

"We're going to have to get your bottom warmed up before I get there."

"Yes, Sir." I bit my bottom lip. Grinned demurely into the phone even as my cheeks continued to flush.

"Pick up the wooden spoon. Give yourself twelve on each cheek."

Oddly enough, the spoon didn't hurt nearly as much as it usually does. Probably because the handle is narrow and thin, making it difficult for me to grasp with ease. So A. switched me to the clothesbrush (long brush), with a nice thick handle. It made a much more satisfying sound across the trans-Atlantic phone line when it smacked against my bare skin. After a dozen or so strokes, endorphines began to take the edge off the sting. But they did not keep my arm from wearing out.

"Tell me about your cunt. Is it shaved?"

"No, Sir." I swallowed hard.

"Pick up the razor and shaving gel. I want you to shave yourself, but I only want you to shave one strip down the middle..."

The razor was cold as it scraped against the stubble covering my labia. But it did not feel as laborious to shave as it felt like it would just fifteen minutes earlier.

"I expect your cunt to be completely bald when I arrive in three weeks."

"Yes, Sir." I finished shaving my swathe smooth and patted my cunt dry.

"You may finger yourself now."

"Can I use my vibrator?" I can be such a greedy girl.

"Not yet. Just swirl your finger around first."

I led my index finger back and forth between my increasingly saturated cunt and my increasingly swelling clitoris. Around and around the slicked, sensitive tissue. Awakening nerves from their hibernation with each revolution around my rosebud.

"Now you may use your vibrator."

With giddy delight I burrowed the Silver Bullet into my vulva and set the plastic black heart knob at medium speed. After several minutes of rocking my pelvis gently, I turned the vibrator up to full speed. After several minutes more produced no orgasm, I placed it directly onto my clitoris, then pulled it off again when the stimulation was too much. After a few more minutes, after all the weariness and worry, all the whacking and whirling, all the work, there were, finally, those familiar contractions pushing endorphines, blood, and happiness out into my ear lobes and fingernails and toes. Only then did my heart rate momentarily surge again. And after that...a uniquely benevolent fatigue.

True, within half an hour the fatigue returned to its customary tyranny. The following day my muscles -- particularly my pelvic muscles -- were more cantankerous than usual. And I can't help but look back with a little bitterness that a mere spank and wank over the phone was so damn arduous.

Yet I also can't help but just be grateful that I did it. That I made it through and Natty got her spanking. Illness and poverty do that to a person. Make you appreciate every little bit of life you can grab hold of. Especially the hard bits.

_______________________
*Aka, "The Naughty Box." A wooden, rattan-covered box A. bought for me initially for its ostensible decorative value. However its size rendered it the perfect container for butt plugs, particularly as it also fits so nicely under the bed.

**One of the primary means of treating ME/CFS is pacing, including using a heart rate monitor to help patients stay below their remarkably low anaerobic thresholds (generally between 110-90 bpm). For a longer explanation of how this works, see this video (requires Quicktime; about 30 minutes) from exercise physiologists at the Pacific Fatigue Lab.

Rules of the Lashes

2009-09-20T23:06:00.000-07:00

A. finds the darnedest things while websurfing. Like this list of rules from a nineteenth-century American school -- along with the number of lashes delivered should the rule be broken -- in a manifesto about what's wrong with public education.

"We're going to play a game," he said when he first told me about the table below. "You'll have to memorize each of the rules and number of lashes. And if you get the number of lashes wrong, you will, of course, receive that number of lashes."

He's not kidding either. Once he gets here next week, he's planning a session with these rules, a cane, and me in my school uniform. I can't wait.

Except I don't know which will part of me will win out -- the Lisa Simpson in me or my spankophilia. Indeed that's always my problem when playing a schoolgirl: I can never decide if I want the "A" more or the spanking. However A. assured me this afternoon that there are always plenty of spankings for being a smarty-pants.

I wonder how many lashes Wm A. Chaffin would ascribe to that misdemeanor?

oOo

Rules of the Stokes County School, November 10, 1848
Wm A. Chaffin, Master (click on the table to see it in full)

I think the biggest shocker in this list was the penalty for playing cards. I mean, why the hell is playing cards worse than betting in any other form?

Sugasm # 172: Naughty school girls and botanical vibrators

2009-09-09T23:06:00.000-07:00

In its second pick, this week's Sugasm has something juicy and hot (as in, what you will be when you read this story) for all you spankos who love naughty school girl stories. I highly recommend it. And the editor's pick is an amusing example of creative gardening. Botanical vibrators may yet become all the rage.

While my fellow participants did not seem to agree as it was not among the top three picks, I found a phone sex operator's discussion of how she makes sound effects for her clients funny as hell. You may too.

Starting to feel better so -- fingers crossed -- there will be a new post in the next few days.

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

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 #173? 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

A Hot Fuck in a Parking Lot
“We got more daring and soon clothes were a hindrance to our insistent hands.”

I Think I’d Rather Misbehave
“I bet the secret thrill of this has your cock already climbing to attention.”

The Painter
“He says something, small talk, and I stutter something back, lost in the blue depths of his eyes.”

Sugasm Editor
Strildo?

Editor’s Choice
Yet Another Reason You Should Buy a Vibrator

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Why does Natty need a spanking?

2009-08-31T00:14:00.000-07:00

The Wooden Anniversary contest ends tonight at 11:59 pm Pacific Savings Time (give or take a few minutes). I've been getting a trickle of entries, but suspect many of you are like me and procrastinate (Natty has definitely been spanked more than once for that, lemme tell ya!). So here's your friendly reminder. Put yer thinkin' caps on and submit a clever reason to convince A. that Natty needs a spanking (ha! like he needs a reason...). Multiple submissions are totally cool.

I might even throw in some of my famous chocolate chip cookies as a prize now that I've figured out how to ship them so they stay fresh...

The perfect body for three-minute porn

2009-08-28T15:35:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your potty mouth has a point

2009-08-26T20:21:00.000-07:00

The word fuck never crossed my lips until I got sick. Until I got vertigo, to be exact. I had just started my first grown-up (i.e. non academic) job in June 2000. I even had my own cubicle and business cards. Then I woke up the day after Independence Day with everything spinning. When the doctor diagnosed me with labyrinthitis, telling me there was nothing that he could do and I just had to wait up to 6 weeks for it to leave on its own, I walked to the bus stop across the street from my clinic and let out a torrent of Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Turns out, it may have been a good coping mechanism. Indeed, this study shows that swearing actually can help reduce the intensity of pain -- something else that increased a great deal once I got sick. And needless to say, I swear like a sailor now. Though, according to the psychologist who did the study, the more you swear, the less effective it may be.

So now you have a very good excuse the next time you yell out a fuck! or a shit! during a particularly painful beating. I mean, it's scientific evidence!

A new, more substantive post about body size and kink is forthcoming. Illness and other events have conspired to limit my blogging of late, but not my thinking. Hopefully I'll be sharing some of those thoughts I've been itching to blog about in the next day or so.

And there are only a few more days left in the Natty's Spanking Blog Fifth Anniversary contest. I'd so love it if you'd stop by and help me celebrate my half a decade of blogging!

Five fantasies I'd like to forget

2009-08-17T00:54:00.000-07:00

There are some spanking fantasies that have been with me for decades and are still as powerful as the day they first emerged from my psyche.

Like a medieval monastery fantasy I dreamed up during my sophomore year in high school that is woefully inaccurate historically, but still makes an appearance some nights when the lights are out (and begs to be written down). Come to think of it, there were a number of medieval fantasies that I had during high school -- all of which I still enjoy to this day.

But there are some fantasies I had when I was younger and less politically aware that make me cringe now. Or were even embarrassing at the time but my spanko imagination couldn't help itself. Below are five fantasies I'd like to forget:

1. Binyamin Netanyahu

You have to appreciate my non-kink life to understand how embarrassing this one is. Prior to becoming ill, I was an academic who studied an aspect of the Israel/Palestine conflict and at one point in grad school protested in front of the Israeli Embassy in Washington chanting "Netanyahu hey hey hey, how many kids did you kill today?!." My politics have changed substantially from 8-9th grade when I was a good little Evangelical Republican who woke up at 6am during summer vacation to swoon over Ollie North at the Iran-Contra hearings (though, oddly enough, I don't remember having spanking fantasies about him).

The fantasy I had about Netanyahu went as follows: I'd be in Jerusalem studying...something (you must indulge me regarding specifics as this was a fantasy from over two decades ago). For reasons that are utterly lost on me now, I'd end up amnesiacal in front of the Netanyahu residence where they would take me in and I'd become their adopted daughter and he'd be the strict daddy. I have some vague memory of doing something naughty that merited a severe spanking, but I'm afraid I can't remember exactly what it was (being out late maybe?).

So there. That is my most bizarre and embarrassing fantasy ever. Ever.

2. Mu'ammar al-Qadhaafi

This one is a very close second as Qadhaafi is the kookiest damn "Leader and Guide of the Revolution" ever to grace the League of Arab States. But it was 1986 and we'd just bombed Libya and I'd heard about how his adopted daughter had been killed. The idea that he had adopted a daughter -- and was mourning her loss -- gave him a sort of "caring daddy" image. Yet I was also a devout Evangelical girl with martyr fantasies. Combine devoted patriarch with cruel Oriental sheikh and a fantasy emerged where I was captured and forced to renounce my faith. When I refused, I was beaten severely. However I was able to finally win him over with my sensitive attention to his grief. It filled many a night with warm, tingling feelings I didn't understand; I just knew I kind of liked them.

Though I wish it might have been a real Oriental sheikh rather than some loony, flamboyant, wannabe Maoist.

3. Ronald Reagan

Again this was during my Republican youth and is a bit convoluted. It starts with a story that involves a crusty, stern grandfather and generous big brother who goes off to war and dies. This story would then be bought by Hollywood and I would be cast as his errant granddaughter (who would be getting spanked, of course) and Ronald Reagan, deciding to do a bit more acting after leaving the Oval Office, as the grandfather.

Not only is this fantasy utterly ridiculous, but as a pinko commie liberal (actually I'm too left wing to even be a liberal) the idea of being spanked by a guy who beat protesters, was economically reckless, subverted the Constitution to fund death squads, and dissociated Americans from the very government they comprise (to name just a few of my problems with his presidency) makes me wince a bit now.

4. A College Group Pastor

I have fantasized about almost every single pastor I've ever had save for a few. However one of the college group pastors I had was a guy I had very little respect for as a person (he was arrogant, thick, and manipulative), and when I fantasized about him spanking me, I couldn't help but feel a bit dirty. He had small children and we were Baptists so the topic of spanking was sprinkled throughout conversation, which invariably led me to imagine him spanking me for various misdeeds. When he left his wife and kids to run off with a girl from our college group a few years later (actually both of the college pastors I had went on to do this), I felt even dirtier.

5. Professor and Skipper from "Gilligan's Island":

I couldn't have been older than six, but might have been as young as five. It's not so much that I'm terribly embarrassed about who I was fantasizing about. They aren't your typical strict daddy stereotypes, but they can certainly work in a spanking fantasy. It's that my enthusiasm for this fantasy to be realized led me to tell some kids at the playground I was actually going to be on "Gilligan's Island," which was especially difficult given that the show was no longer being filmed. It only took me another year or so before I was old enough to understand what an ass I'd made of myself with the neighbor kids.

Unusual fantasies that I'm not necessarily ashamed of but are, admittedly, weird:

Supreme Court Justice David Souter: He was a single man who spent his nights alone reading law texts when George H.W. Bush appointed him, giving him an Atticus Finch sort of aura. The fact that he moved to the left over the years with me made that aura even stronger.

Uncle Jesse from the "Dukes of Hazzard": I was seven. He threatened to give Bo and Luke a whipping. I think I even thought up a whole fantasy but can't remember it now.

John Sager: When I was in sixth grade I went through a phase where I was obsessed with all things related to Marcus and Narcissa Whitman. In reading about them, I also read a lot about the Sager orphans they adopted, the oldest of whom was John, who had to parent his younger siblings on the Oregon Trail until they reached the Whitman Mission. In one story I read, he gave one of his younger sisters a spanking when she got out of bed to play while she was sick -- not to mention was spanked himself in that book if I remember correctly (I should also note the book was so historically inaccurate it might as well have been fiction). Needless to say, I was in love, albeit with someone who had died 140 years earlier.

A father ant: In fourth grade I wrote a seven page story about a family of ants with a father who was so real in my mind that I imagined being his naughty little girl ant. I'm not even exactly sure how one ant would spank another ant.

So there you have it, dear reader. As if getting spanked isn't embarrassing enough, I've now outed my very active but remarkably strange imagination.

oOo

And don't forget the 5th blogiversary contest continues. Please come help me celebrate my half decade of blogging about spanking.

The wooden anniversary

2009-08-09T23:22:00.000-07:00

(A birthday bum)*

The traditional gift for the fifth anniversary is wood. Or something made of wood. Both of which seem entirely appropriate for the fifth anniversary of a blog about spanking.

For most of those five years A. and I have talked about having a contest on this blog but have never quite gotten around to it. However since someone should get a present being that it's a birthday -- not to mention a spanking -- we decided this would be the perfect occasion for a contest.

Why Should Natty Get A Spanking?

To enter this contest, you must complete the following sentence in 10 words or less (for a maximum total of 15 words):

"Natty needs a spanking because _______________ ."

I must warn you that A. is a curmudgeon of an editor (which I always find yummy hot) so make sure your entry is grammatically correct, spelled properly, apostrophes are in the right place, etc. Entries will be judge on creativity and general cleverness (i.e. it's totally subjective). You can submit entries either in the comments section of this post or you may email them to me at nattyspanked [at] yahoo [dot] com.

The deadline for entries is August 31st at 11:59pm, Pacific Standard Time (8 hours behind UK time; 3 hours behind the East Coast). A. arrives on September 28th so he'll be here to help me pick the winner sometime in early October and administer the prize.

And what is that prize? You get to direct A. in spanking me over Twitter with accompanying TwitPics. You get to pick the implement(s), the position(s), and the number of strokes. Note that my health issues (i.e. being on blood thinners) will present some constraints, which I will appraise the winner of before the spanking commences.

A handmade wankin' spankin' tool similar to the one pictured in this post but with a handle in your choice of cording or ribbon. It can, of course, also be used by a partner, but it will hurt more. ::grin::

AND

I'm in the process of putting together a book compiling my best posts and all of my stories, including one or two that have not been previously posted. The winner of this contest will receive the first copy, which should be out around December.

oOo

You may have noticed that I finally got around to completing what I hadn't quite finished for last year's anniversary, namely, creating a banner of my very own. It's only taken me a year to get a working scanner (though I still can't get the printer part to print black text...but I digress). The header of this blog now sports a cute drawing by A. referencing a popular pin-up girl from his youth.

Now I just have to figure out how to make my banner available for others to use (i.e. toplists)...

______________________
*Yes, that really is my bottom with a lit candle between my cheeks. I took the picture for A.'s birthday a few years ago. It seemed more appropriate for this post than a cake

VibeReview Fantasy: Anal Douche

2009-08-01T22:00:00.000-07:00

"I know a little girl who's about to have her bottom washed out and spanked."

This was Nanny Bea's traditional remedy for crankiness. Though its initial effect was to further deepen the scowl clouding Natty's face.

"No!"

"Then I suggest you eat your dinner, young lady."

"But...I had chicken soup last night. And we never have pizza."

"You're still getting over a cold and soup is better for you."

Natty glared at her soup. Folded her arms. Kicked her feet, one after the other, against the legs of the chair.

"That's it," snapped Nanny Bea. "Off to the corner, please."

"Okay, okay. I'll eat my soup!"

"Indeed you will after you've had some time in the corner and over my knee."

Natty gulped. Pursed her lips. Contorted her face into the most pathetic of pleas.

"I'm not going to ask you again, young lady," stated Nanny Bea, who was already halfway to the bathroom.

With a sigh and a whimper, a truly melancholy Natty stood slowly from her chair and shuffled over to the familiar meeting place of the north and west walls. Hearing the water running in the nearby bathroom sink made her tummy twitter and tighten, not to mention gave her bottom a rather foreboding tingle.

"Natalie Samantha, come here please." Nanny Bea was always polite, even when she was very stern.

Natty straggled over to the sofa where Nanny was sitting with a towel draped over her lap. Next to her on the end table was a hairbrush, an anal bulb syringe, two latex gloves, a slender red butt plug, and a tube of lubricant. At least it wasn't a full bag. But...it – the bulb and its contents – were still going inside her and it gave Natty a shiver.

"Take off your pajama bottoms and panties and lay over my lap, please."

Natty pouted as she slid down her red flannel bottoms and pink knickers. Even though Nanny had seen her naked many, many times, Natty always felt self-conscious when her nakedness was combined with...The Thing.

"Please don't spank me and...do...you know...I promise I'll eat my soup." It was a quiet plea accompanied by sad, imploring eyes and tight, drawn together lips.

"Over my lap, please."

With a huff and a snivel, Natty climbed onto the sofa, sat on her legs, and then lowered herself over Nanny's lap. Nanny Bea picked up the hairbrush. Smoothed and patted Natty's bottom. Delivered twenty sharp smacks to her white, fleshy cheeks leaving Natty kicking and squirming and crying.

Once Natty's crying had petered to a whimper, Nanny Bea grabbed the latex gloves next to her and put them on. Flipped open the top of the lube and squeezed a small dab onto her index finger. Spread Natty's cheeks and smeared the lubricant on and in her hole. Picked up the bulb and slid the nozzle tip inside Natty's hole.

"It's so poky," Natty whined.

"You'll survive."

It took a moment before Natty felt the water flowing inside her. And it just felt...wrong. On so many levels. It left her feeling vulnerable, helpless and little, especially being over Nanny's lap. But she did like it when Nanny stroked her hair and patted her bottom once all the water was inside and her bottom was plugged. Natty knew that the cleaning out was meant for her own good. Meant to make her feel better and cleaner and cared-for. And Nanny Bea did care for Natty a great deal.

Yet why did something that was supposed to be so good for a person feel so dreadful?

oOo

While all the other bloggers are reviewing the sexiest -- and priciest -- new vibrators out there, I have taken it upon myself to appraise the lowly but ever so utilitarian anal douche. Though I can't claim to be all that altruistic as I (and many others) find that the humble anal douche can be a lot more erotic than a fancy vibrator. For others, it is simply a way to make back door lovin' cleaner and more enjoyable. So how does VibeReview's Anal Douche measure up to these tasks?

This is as simple an anal bulb syringe as you will find. The one I received from VibeReview has a thick phthalate-free rubber bulb or reservoir, a thin white plastic tube or nozzle that goes on top (and glows in the dark!) and is held in place by a thin, white disc that acts as a washer of sorts. You put the water in the reservoir, attach the nozzle, stick the nozzle in your hole, squirt the water inside, hold it for a bit, and then visit the loo.

Aside from it's glow-in-the-dark nozzle, this douche has no frills, like, say a rounded edge on the nozzle that the Fleet enemas you buy at the grocery store have, making plenty of lube an absolute necessity as it is damn pokey (especially should one, say -- and I'm just speaking theoretically here -- suffer from the chief side effect of opiate medications...um...namely, constipation, which leads to the chief side effect of constipation...er...um...hemorrhoids). And I found the rubber bulb tough as hell to squeeze multiple times (have I mentioned what a weakling I am?) and keep compressed so the water doesn't get sucked back into the reservoir.

But if you want something cheap that does the job, the anal douche from VibeReview will suffice.

Stay tuned

2009-07-24T21:28:00.000-07:00

Good lord, has it really been a month since I last posted? It feels like it was just last week! How the time flies when you're sick and in pain and your dad's in the hospital and you've got to find a new caregiver (again). Especially when you sleep 12-15 hours a day.

At least I'm still doing better than 94% of bloggers, who, according to this month's Harper's Index, haven't updated their blogs in four months. Not that I'm competitive or anything.

My sacroiliac joint is doing a lot better, and I'm definitely spankable again, even if most of my play has been of the wankin' spankin' sort.* I've been working on a new VibeReview fantasy (though at this point it may be long enough to stand alone) that should be posted in the coming week, along with (hopefully!) a post about some spanking fantasies I'd rather forget.

Mostly I just wanted to say thanks for hanging in there with me and continuing to stop by. And stay tuned. While I may not be the sexiest of sex bloggers, I do have some upcoming posts that I think will be erotic, entertaining, and perhaps even a little enlightening.
__________________

*Don't look at me like that. You know you've done it too. And besides, I gotta toughen my ass up before A. takes a crack at it again.

And it was good

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though it's not only about spanking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My body and I were most certainly on speaking terms.

And it was very good.

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

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

A couple of reading assignments

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

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

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

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

Unspankable

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm a real piece of work.

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

Putting me in my place

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

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

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

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

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

oOo

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

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

"And how late were you?"

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

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

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

"Did you forget to set the alarm?"

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

"So you disregarded the alarm?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"--You're arguing."

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

"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir."

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

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

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

"Last week." Sigh.

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

"It was hard enough. I just -- "

"-- Are you arguing with me again?"

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

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

"Yes, Sir."

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

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

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

"They get punished."

"And how do they get punished?"

"They get spanked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

oOo

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

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

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

"No. No it doesn't."

Come to bed with ME

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

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

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

Here in bed with ME/CFS, you feel like you have the flu. Your throat hurts. Your joints burn. Your heart beats like mad and sometimes in very peculiar ways. You feel chilled, profoundly weak, slightly nauseous, light-headed, mushy-brained, and just...icky. I wish I knew a better word to replace icky (aside from the bland, non-specific, slightly psychological-sounding term "malaise"). It's almost like your blood has been replaced with poison. You feel dreadful. Vile. Horrible. Nasty.

And on top of that...

You feel as though you've got a hangover. Every smell is too strong. Every light is too bright. Every noise grates on your last nerve, as well as that throbbing in your head just behind your eyes and at the base of your skull. And you might still be a bit tipsy because your spatial perception is off (I struggle with the "touch your finger to your nose" test), not to mention you can't walk a straight line. And then there are the times the room just spins.

And on top of that...

It's as if you've got jet lag. You fall asleep at weird times and wake up at weird times and you wish you could just go to bed at a normal time and get up at a normal time, but your body runs on its own clock that, unfortunately, is not during normal business hours.

And on top of that...

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

And on top of that...

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

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

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

So what can you do?

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

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

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

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

Will you please call me Cordelia?

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

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

"Call you Cordelia! Is that your name?"

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

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

oOo

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

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The UN Spanking Court

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pleasurists #23

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

Aliciante » Blog Archive » Coisas Simples via bendmeover

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

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

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

Madame Editrix

Scarlet Lotus St.Syr

On to the reviews…

Editor’s Pick

Bebe by Beautiful Dreamer

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

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

Vibrators

LELO Elise by Scarlet Lotus St. Syr

Hitachi Magic Wand by N

LELO Mia by Marla Singer

Body Spa Vibrating Sponge by CarrieAnn

Vibrating Rabbit by Adriana

LELO Liv by Scarlet Lotus St. Syr

Rock Your World Vibrator by Adriana

OhMiBod Naughtybod by The Countess

Impulse Butterfly by Epiphora

LELO Gigi by Carnivalesq

Waterproof P-Spot Vibe by Natty

Paradise Curve by Bad Bad Girl

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

Liberte by Bad Bad Girl

Cleopatra by Thursday’s Child

Dildos

Share by Marla Singer

SinFive Pikilo by Beautiful Dreamer

Share by Erin Leone

Fun Factory Share by Sleeping Dreamer

Ten Inch Explorer by Bad Bad Girl

Toys for Cocks

LELO Bo by Scarlet Lotus St. Syr

Classix Silicone Snatch by Bill Turner

Lube/Massage Oil/Bath Stuff

Intimate Organics Massage Oil by Scarlet Lotus St. Syr

Babeland Bubble Bath by Ansley Agnello

Intimate Organics Discover G-Spot Gel by Sexorcism

ID Juicy Lube 10 Pack by Ansley Agnello

Lyriana by Domina Doll

BDSM/Fetish

Nipple pump by Panthera Pardus

Super Strap Love Ties by Alpine Subdreams

Nipple Clamps by Natt Nightly

Under the Bed Restraint System by Marla Singer

Dr. Joel Kaplan Nipple Pump System by Alpine Subdreams

Tweezer Nipple Clamps by HotMoviesForHer Sex Toy Crew

Slut Impressions Paddle by Ang

Nipple to Clit Tweezer Clamps by Bad Bad Girl

Adult Books

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

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

Adult Movies/Porn

Girls Girls Girls 2 by Epiphora

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

Raw Luck by FrzKey

ErocktaVision Volume 2 - West Coast Women by The Porn Librarian

Girls Coming by J.D. Bauchery

Perversions Of Lesbian Lust 1 by The Porn Librarian

Storage

Large Lockable Toybox by Wendy Blackheart

Miscellaneous

Corsette Harness by Marla Singer

Lil’ Pony Positional Pillow by Average Joe

pStyle by Erin Leone

Luna Pleasure Bead System by HotMoviesForHer Sex Toy Crew

Stripper Pole Kit Review by Essin’ Em

Body Tickler Ostrich Feather by Domina Doll

Sugasm #162

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sugasm Editor
Sex Work And Compassion: The Angry Family

Editor’s Choice
Heat

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

VibeReview Fantasy: Waterproof P-spot vibe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oOo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oOo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Secret signals
“I will adore him for it”

Sugasm Editor
Not An Overnight

Editor’s Choice
The Ghost of Abuse

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

Broken power cord

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

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

Impish

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," I sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like I said...impish.

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

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

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

(Cross-posted at the Punishment Book)

How BDSM is and is not sexist

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

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

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

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

Fanny-whaling on SNL

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

They always seem to be in the last skit.

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

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

Sugasm #160

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

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

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

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

This Week’s Picks

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

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

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

Sugasm Editor
Faking A Four Way

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

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

SpankingTube: Family-friendly porn?

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

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

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

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

The ghost of abuse

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

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

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

oOo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Cross-posted at the Punishment Book)

A spanko in a non-spanko world

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

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

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

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

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

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

VibeReview Fantasy: Lily vs. Silver Bullet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oOo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not as perverted as it used to be

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Front page spanking: Bankers Flogged

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

Oh how those tarts at CNN tease us.

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

All about the blows

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

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

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

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

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

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

More fun than spanking porn?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____________
* 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

2009-01-27T22:04:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-22T19:22:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-11T00:06:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-08T00:16:00.000-08:00

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..."

2009-01-06T23:14:00.000-08:00

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.

Lending power

2008-12-30T22:03:00.000-08:00

Just wanted to post a link to an article by Stacey May Fowles about BDSM at the left-of-center political site Alternet. It's actually an excerpt from a new book called Yes Means Yes: Visions of Female Sexual Power and a World Without Rape edited by writer Jaclyn Friedman and Jessica Valenti of Feministing fame. It argues that feminism and female sexual submissive fantasies can indeed comfortably co-exist.

Personally, the more I submitted sexually, the more I was able to be autonomous in my external life, the more I was able to achieve equality in my sexual and romantic partnerships, and the more genuine I felt as a human being. Regardless, I always felt that by claiming submissive status I was being highlighted as part of a social dynamic that sought to violate all women. Sadly, claims of sexual emancipation do not translate into acceptance for submissives -- the best a submissive can hope for is to be labeled and condescended to as a damaged victim choosing submission as a way of healing from or processing past trauma and abuse.

However, after several paragraphs of thinking "tell it, sister!", I was disappointed when Fowles then turn turned the frequent feminist mantra of "BDSM porn is bad". She argues that while members of the BDSM counterculture who understand the sacred BDSM rules are capable of understanding the artifice of porn,

the average young, male, heterosexual porn audience member begins to believe that forcing women into sex acts is the norm -- the imagery's constant, instant availability makes rape and sex one and the same for the mainstream viewer. Couple that private home viewing to get off with the proliferation of graphic crime shows on prime-time television and torture porn masquerading as "psychological thrillers" in theaters, and our cultural imagery screams that "women as sexual victims" is an acceptable reality.

Sigh. How many times do we have to have this discussion? Porn -- mainstream or fetish -- is NOT REAL. The majority of teenage boys know this just as well as seasoned BDSM vetrans. I mean, most teenage boys manage to watch all sorts of movies and television programs and know they are fiction. Why assume they are not capable of doing that with porn?

Now, she is right that BDSM is not a community exclusively made up of enlightened feminists. And there are plenty of those among our population who do tend to mix up reality and fiction a bit too much. But this is because the practice of BDSM gets messy. Damn messy. And that is not the fault of porn but the fault of people being fallible human beings.

It's almost as if the author, in letting go of the feminist dogma regarding mindnumbingly dull democratic sex, felt she had to latch on ever more tightly to the other part of feminist dogma that insists porn is bad. As one commenter stated, "There's the problem...You're tied up, butt in the air awaiting the crack of leather, and your mind wanders to feminist ideology. How about just having some good, consensual, kinky fun and saving the ideological crapola for the coffee house?"

Speaking of commenters, I highly recommend a read through the comments section. My particular favorite was one from someone named AMerrickanGirl:

The whole point of BDSM is not to "lose power". It is to allow someone else to borrow your power, with your enthusiastic permission.

Wanting to pleasure someone through pain is not the same as wanting to hurt them.

Sugasm #155 -- Sugasm'd again

2008-12-26T18:43:00.000-08:00

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

This Week’s Picks

I'm kind of... insatiable.
"She’s gasping already. Each breath a moan, each touch connected to the noises she makes."

The most spankable day of the year
"And for spankos, they are a high holy day to be approached with all the reverence and gaiety of a Pagan-cum Christian holiday."

Private club
"It’s that kind of club - the kind you have to know about, the kind that doesn’t even have a name."

Sugasm Editor
Sex Work And Honesty: Being Childfree

Editor's Choice
I Wonder

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

Seven things you always wanted to know about Natty

2008-12-21T22:00:00.000-08:00

Still not much spanking going on here as I was even sicker last week and am only now starting to feel better, though I think there might be some spanking tonight. I have been working on a post about spanking blogging and women, but as my brain has been a bit mushy, I thought this might be a good time to write something easy and (finally!) reply to the meme for which Nadia at Diary of a Kinky Librarian tagged me all the way back in October.

So this meme involves sharing 7 facts about myself. They include the following:

1.) I always eat my french fries (chips) first, then hamburger, fish, whatever. Can't stand cold french fries (chips).

2.) My parents received a letter from then presidential candidate George McGovern on the occasion of my birth. True, it was a form letter the Senator from South Dakota sent to all servicemen who had a child. But hey, I have a bit o' history in my baby book.

3.) I am the oldest of nine, but only grew up with four of my siblings. See this post for the explanation.

4.) George H. W. Bush sent me an invitation to his inauguration, including the inaugural ball (at least one of them). I was a High School Republican (it's true -- hey, don't look at me like that! I was young and stupid!), and I was on a list of people who worked on the campaign (though, I really hadn't). Randomly selected and sent a big envelop with fancy calligraphy. It's more than Murphy Brown got.

5.) I have ten nieces and nephews -- so far. And they're all adorable.

6.) I only like slightly green bananas. If the bananas are completely yellow -- and particularly if they have bits of brown on the peel, I won't eat them as they just make me feel kinda icky.

7.) I am 60 1/2 inches tall -- like I have been since I was 12 years old. But I was one of the tallest kids in my first grade class.

I'm supposed to tag 7 other bloggers, but I suspect a lot of bloggers have already been tagged. So if you haven't been, consider yourself tagged.

The most spankable day of the year

2008-12-08T21:09:00.000-08:00

That morning when Pa came in to breakfast he caught Laura and said he must give her a spanking.

First he explained that today was her birthday, and she would not grow properly next year unless she had a spanking. And then he spanked so gently and carefully that it did not hurt a bit.

"One-two-three-four-five-six," he counted and spanked, slowly. One spank for each year, and at the last one big spank to grow on.

-- Little House in the Big Woods

The first time I mentioned birthday spankings to A., I think he thought I was making them up even as he was willing to oblige me thirty-some spanks. Or rather, believed that in my spanking-dominated way of thinking, I was exaggerating the practice. Or confusing what happened in my pervy family with what happens in mainstream America. A quick Google search producing story after story of American co-workers suing after being spanked at work on their birthday or birthday spankings at American schools resulting in arrest persuaded him that perhaps they were real. Though I think he still views birthday spankings right up there with Santa Claus.

But, of course, birthday spankings are real. Here in America, birthdays are the most spankable day of the year. A day when even the most ardent vanilla will go for a scoop of chocolate. And for spankos, they are a high holy day to be approached with all the reverence and gaiety of a Pagan-cum Christian holiday.

While I'm sure I probably received a birthday spanking earlier -- especially given my maternal grandfather's generous distribution of them at any and every occasion -- the first one that I can really remember happened on my seventh birthday. I was in first grade at a private, fundamentalist Christian school where spanking was standard. It was customary for our teacher, before handing out the cupcakes the birthday girl or boy brought for the event, to beckon the little girl or boy to the front of the class, hold him or her by the arm and smack his or her bottom for each year of life. She would add a "pinch for an inch" in which she pinched the bottom and completed the ritual with a "hug to grow on."

As my birthday approached, I feigned apprehension about my impending spanking to my friends and family. I talked about what I should wear that would best protect my bottom. Apparently my birthday landed on a Friday because I remember settling on a pair of polyester red, white, and blue checked pants (it was the 70s) and girls at my school were only allowed to wear pants on Fridays. At one point, I even considered wearing some sort of padding.

It was all a ruse to hide the fact that the imminent spanking excited the hell out of me. I had recently discovered while reading The Story About Ping that spanking held an inexplicable appeal for me. Over the last few months I had been fantasizing about getting a spanking from my teacher, but I wasn't willing to risk my good girl status to get one. Birthday spankings were like a freebie. No getting into trouble. No looks of disappointment and guilt-ridden angst. Yet I still got the savory embarrassment of being summoned to the front of the room, bent over, and smacked like a naughty little girl.

December 8th finally arrived. My mom made yellow Betty Crocker cupcakes with chocolate frosting, placed them in a Tupperware container and dropped them off with me at the babysitter's before heading to work in the early morning darkness. As I sat on the couch before the bus came, watching Ramblin' Rod next to my plastic box filled with flour-and-egg festivity, the smell of the chocolate frosting had me craving sugar and spankings.

Class birthday parties were always in the afternoon. The long morning passed and it was time to break out the cupcakes, as well as the construction paper, crayons, and paste for birthday cards. But not before the spanking. Blushing, I made my way to the front of the class and stood next to Mrs. Leiser. She smiled, held onto my arm softly, and delivered seven gentle, careful smacks to my backside, along with the "pinch for an inch." Before I knew it, the birthday spanking was over and I was enveloped in her arms for a hug that was sure to keep me growing for years to come.

I only remember one other childhood birthday spanking after that. At my tenth birthday party, one of my friends (who were mostly boys by this point) mentioned that I hadn't had my birthday spanking yet and before I knew it, the lot of them started wrestling me down to give me my ten smacks. Laughing and blushing, I fought back without much success, especially as my stepfather decided to lend a hand. Those smacks were definitely not the "gentle, careful" smacks Pa Ingalls and Mrs. Leiser handed out. But they were not exactly disagreeable either.

A. is slowly becoming accustomed to our fine American tradition. After a painful lesson on his birthday earlier this year, he gained a better understanding of how it works and how central it is to the birthday of any spanko. Not that I have to wait until my birthday for a decent spanking anymore, but I still look forward to a drawn out, ritualized spanking each December 8th as it just wouldn't be a proper birthday without one.

Though this year the birthday spanking -- and even my birthday luvin' -- will have to wait a bit as my pelvic/abdominal pain is as bad as ever (and quite possibly exacerbated by an infection...um...down there). And A. may have to take a few pointers from Pa Ingalls and Mrs. Leiser on delivering a birthday spanking as my appointment with the urogynecologist isn't until January 9th. But in a few days, once I'm feeling a little better, I think we just might be able to work something out with a pile of pillows and a belt...

"Can Michelle's ass come out to play?"

2008-12-04T22:38:00.000-08:00

It's been very hit or miss these days on the spanking front.

The mojo has been there. It's just that about two and a half weeks ago the pain directly below and to the right of my navel became markedly worse. Which has made me a bit squeamish about getting spanked. The pain isn't very bad if there is no pressure on my belly -- which is most of the time. So it hasn't really stopped me from thinking and even talking about spanking.

As A. and I lay cuddling on the bed the other night, he asked if I was up to being spanked, mimicking a neighbor kid politely seeking the permission of his friend's mom for an afternoon of youthful frolics.

"Can Michelle's ass come out to play?"

Michelle's ass -- as most kids do -- wanted desperately to go out and play. But Michelle's body, being the cranky, over-protective old woman that she is, balked at the thought. She'd even of late been shooing away A.'s perfunctory smacks on the ass in the kitchen.

My ass, however, was undeterred. After thinking it over for a day or two, I decided that maybe the ruler would be okay. And the tip of the belt. Both are very surface-y implements without a lot of impact.

Thanksgiving night, after a day of massive carbohydrate-loaded sustenance at my mother's house (including my famous pumpkin pie and cranberry-orange relish -- though my cornbread-sausage stuffing didn't quite turn out right), A. treated me to a nice spanking and wanking with his belt and the Miracle Massager. I love the belt because it stings, but it's a sting I can get on top of. A., though, isn't as fond of this implement as he finds it a bit unwieldy -- something I've heard other tops say as well.

I seemed to handle that spanking okay. My body pissed and moaned a bit in the form of achiness the next day, though I suspect that had more to do with the wanking than the spanking. Because, you know, God forbid I have an orgasm anymore and not suffer for it...

But I digress.

Sunday is my traditional review and spanking day. When I came home from Mass, A. had my school uniform all laid out along with the ruler. And I must admit, dear reader, it did give me that delicious sense of foreboding mixed with excitement. The foreboding part took over, however, as the review ran into a problem. Namely, I hadn't even been keeping track of my bedtimes, much less actually gone to bed on time. That wasn't completely my fault. It had been a bit of a chaotic week with late night movies, as well as pie and stuffing making. Yet I had been very good about doing my daily yoga/physical therapy exercises and meditation. Indeed I had even done my meditation two days more than I had scheduled.

It had been awhile since I'd been spanked with the wooden ruler. I had forgotten just how much it stings! The spanking was only partly punitive, as well as partly a sampling of what would come should I fail to get back on track in getting to bed on time. One good side to the wooden ruler is that the sting is very temporary. At least, generally speaking, that is.

There is one way that the wooden ruler produces a sting that keeps on giving. Our wooden ruler has a little hole on one end with which to hang it up on a wall, should one so choose. On Monday night before bed, my ass was in a particularly provocative mood. Frankly, all I remember were a few pouty looks directed at A. I suspect he has another version of events. Needless to say, A. took the wooden ruler out again, with vigorous results.

It stung terribly, especially as my sadistic dear kept whacking me on the same spot. I couldn't help but squirm and jerk about. Okay, yes, there may have been the odd glare and complaint here and there. Perfectly reasonable, right? Well, A. didn't think so either. And since I seemed to be feeling well enough to brat, A. took out the evil clothesbrush and...gasp!...the rubber paddle.

To be fair, he didn't use either of them very hard. But my pain threshold was shit and they had me wailing and wriggling about in no time flat, which never bothers A. as he always says it saves his arm. He also accused me of playing up how much it hurt with all my writhing around on the bed. Which might have had some merit. Sorta. But...but...it really hurt, I tell ya.

What was odd was that it hurt a lot more on my left cheek than on the right cheek. As I rubbed my bottom afterward, I noticed a spot that was particularly stingy and sort of wet with some sort of fluid. Being on Coumadin, my first thought was that I was bleeding. A. examined it carefully and quickly concluded that there was no blood.

The next morning when I appraised my ass in the mirror, there was a particularly raw spot on my left cheek that hurt a lot more than all the bruising on my right cheek. Like, say, a popped blister. And that's when I connected it with the mysterious stingy fluid from the night before. Yes, that's right. A. actually blistered my ass. I always thought it was just a saying -- I'm going to blister your ass. I didn't think it actually happened.

It made me think of the "spank his ass raw" line from this old post.

Alas my grouchy gestapo of a body has cracked down on any further play. That pain at the base of my belly got a lot worse after that spanking, most likely from the pressure on my abdomen while laying on the bed. Two weeks earlier my doctor made me cry when he palpated the area during my pelvic exam and told me to call him back if it didn't get better. So yesterday I finally gave in and called. And he ordered another ultrasound (I had one a year ago when I fell down the stairs). Which sucked because any sort of palpation of the area hurts, so you can imagine what it felt like with a gooey joystick rolling around on it.

The lady who did mine this morning was very sweet and tried to be as gentle as possible. After she finished, I dressed while she reviewed the images.

"And I did get the spot that hurts?" she asked before I left.

"Oh yeah," I said with a rueful chuckle.

Radiology techs are generally cryptic when it comes to telling you what they see on your pictures. But I'm kinda thinking that's as close to "I didn't see nuthin'" as it gets. At least I won't have to wait too long to find out if I'm right as I see my doctor again tomorrow.

So, I guess you can say my ass is grounded for the moment. And I can't help but wonder, will Michelle's ass be able to come out to play on Monday for my birthday?

Sugasm #153

2008-12-02T18:46:00.000-08:00

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

This Week’s Picks

For tonight, we’ll forget who and what we are.
“I want to play with you all night.”

Please, please don’t
“It will hurt, but it will be fine”

Rough
“I want you on top of me.”

Sugasm Editor
Radical Vixen

Editor’s Choice
Sometimes You Find You Get What You Need

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

A riding crop conversation

2008-11-23T20:05:00.000-08:00

Some of you might remember that I'm out to my massage therapist/acupuncturist, who is a little on the kinky side herself.

Friday evening when there was a lull in conversation during my massage therapy/acupuncture session, my practitioner asked me about how my sex toy research was going. I replied that it was going well, and that I had two more toys to write about before I get the next batch (and God-willing that will be sometime this next week!).

"I've always wondered where the best place to buy a riding crop is," she pondered. Which made me giggle a little because it reminded me of where A. bought the riding crop we use.

"We have two," I said. "One I bought down at Spartacus, which we never use. The one we actually do use, A. bought at a charity shop in England. It's a real riding crop for horses."

Which made us both laugh, mostly about the charity shop bit.

"Yeah sex shops never seem to have very good ones," she said.

"I would imagine the best place to get one would be a tack shop," I suggested.

Our discussion then turned to the topic of DIY toys, as she loves the idea of being able to make your own. We both love the site Frugal Domme. I proudly described the electric cord flogger (aka the wankin' spankin' tool) and loopy toy that A. made, as well as the spreader bar I made from a dowel and screws obtained at WalMart.

She thought that was very cool.

I also described with less pride my ill-fated attempt at making wrist and ankle restraints with satin, quilt backing, and Velcro. Which, of course, was not so cool.

It was fun being able to chat so freely about kinky stuff. I love that I can tell her how that spanking on Election Day helped to loosen my perpetually-tight gluteaus medius and have her respond with "that's great! Gets the blood flowing into the area."

Makes being kinky feel a little more normal, ya know?

When Nerd Night gets nasty

2008-11-15T20:18:00.000-08:00

I must confess that one of my favorite things to do on a Friday night is to pop some popcorn and watch PBS's public affairs line-up, including Washington Week, Bill Moyers Journal, NOW, and, yes, The McLaughlin Group (though even I have to admit that Foreign Exchange is boring as hell). So loyal a viewer am I, and so geeky the topic, that A. has dubbed it "Nerd Night."

For the most part, he's fairly ambivalent (or possibly silently annoyed) about my Nerd Night television hegemony, with the exception of one show that he has long despised: The McLaughlin Group. With Eleanor Clift screeching to be heard. Pat Buchanan cutting everyone off. And the asinine addition of conservative radio talk show host and Ann-Coulter-wannabe, Monica Crowley, replacing Washington Times columnist Tony Blankley, or "Tiny Tony" as I like to call him. "Would they just stop yelling?!" A. will frequently complain. And it's true, the yelling and screeching gets old fast.

My favorite part has always been McLaughlin himself. The curmudgeon with the outrageous ties. With his questions about metaphysical possibilities. And the way he cuts off a speaker with "the answer is (whatever)! Issue two..."

However over this election I've found myself disappointed in McLaughlin. While I wasn't a big Obama fan myself (I voted for Green Party candidate Cynthia McKinney since I was in a safe state), it was disturbing that McLaughlin was so egregiously anti-Obama. During the primaries, I chalked it up to him being close with Hilary. But in the general election campaign, almost every show was devoted to the faults of Obama, to the point where it almost had a sort of racist tinge -- especially when he called Obama an "oreo." To make matters worse, most of the guest commentators who joined the main three each week had a conservative slant as well (Mort Zuckerman, Michelle Bernard) leaving poor, screeching Eleanor Clift on her own to offer a left-of-center view.

A. decided it was time to act.

Now some have used the McLaughlin Group as the basis for a drinking game. But A. decided that a spanking game would be more appropriate. And rather than make complicated rules about drinking or spanking whenever someone did or said something specific, he decided to keep it simple: whenever someone said or did something stupid, I got spanked. The choice of implement would be up to his discretion.

The Friday after A. arrived was the night we played our McLaughlin Group spanking game. I was to be laying on the bed naked, facing the television when the show started. All of the implements were lined up to the left side of me. As the multi-colored title appeared on the screen, accompanied by the dramatic drum and horn music, I tell you dear reader, my bottom had goose-bumps.

For some reason, A. decided to go out to smoke when the show began. I was completely mystified by this (he's just informed me that the thought of watching the full 30-minute show was too much for him to bear). Yet as the group descended into a yelling match rather early, I was also a bit relieved as this surely would have provoked a serious beating. About ten minutes in, A. returned, sat down on the bed next to me with all the implements at this disposal.

While we watched, he started warming me up with some hand spanks. I brought him up to speed on the discussion they were having about how Obama's press plane replaced three reporters from conservative papers with three reporters from Ebony, Essence, and Jet magazines.

I can't remember at exactly which point the spanking started (the full transcript is here). Was it during poor Joe the Plumber? I do know there was a lot of spanking -- with the riding crop, I think -- when McLaughlin mistakenly said,

"Of those 16 times [that the Democrats have sought the presidency since Harry Truman], the number of Democrats who have won the popular vote is two -- Lyndon Johnson against Barry Goldwater in '64; Jimmy Carter against Jerry Ford in '76."

While Clinton did not win more than 50% of the popular vote in 92 and 96, he did win the popular vote.

Then there was the next stupid thing McLaughlin said (and which was a perfect example of his anti-Obama bias):

"So whom do the Democrats put to break the losing streak? Answer: The number one liberal in the United States Senate, a black American whose middle name is Hussein."

Mind you, this is four days before the election when the polls were showing that Obama was going to win a decisive victory.

I think I got the clothesbrush for that.

There was a lull in the spanking for a bit while the group discussed which poll was best and how all of them had Obama ahead.

But then McLaughlin said this:

"In fact, Americans feel off-put if they think anyone is buying their vote. Obama has set a new all-time record for fund-raising, a total of $605 million in his campaign war chest. That's compared to McCain's $359 million."

That was slightly silly (where's the research suggesting one, that Americans "feel off-put if they think anyone is buying their vote" and two, that that was what Obama was doing and Americans felt that he was?), so I think I just got A.'s hand for that.

Oh but it got so much worse.

"Fifth, the company he keeps. One, Reverend Jeremiah Wright...[cut to video of Rev. Wright]."

So old news. Plus, frankly both A. and I thought Reverend Wright had a point. And even Mike Huckabee came to Obama's and Reverend Wright's defense on some level.

I think A. returned to using the riding crop. Or maybe it was the cane. And continued using it through Tony Rezko and William Ayers. When McLaughlin mentioned Rashid Khalidi, my heart sunk as A. really went at it on my ass.

"Four, Rashid Khalidi, professor of Arab studies at Columbia University, friend of Obama's from Khalidi's teaching days at the University of Chicago; former spokesman for the PLO in the '80s and '90s, when the Palestine Liberation Organization was in militant exchange with Israel's Urgun."

Ugh! The Khalidi issue was a tad bit personal for me and not only was McLaughlin participating in the Republican smear campaign, about the only thing he got right was that Khalidi and Obama were indeed friends when Khalidi was still teaching at the University of Chicago. Which meant, of course, that this merited severe punishment. Again, I think it was either the cane or the riding crop A. was beating me mercilessly with. I was kicking and screaming too much at that point to notice.

Thankfully the group began talking about the Bradley Effect and I was able to catch my breath. That is until Monica Crowley opened her big, stupid mouth.

"The 2003 tape of Rashid Khalidi's farewell party, where Barack Obama attended along with Bill Ayers and Bernadine Dohrn, is being suppressed by the Los Angeles Times. If, in fact, it wasn't a Jew-bashing event and Barack Obama has nothing to hide, then he should clear the air and demand that the Los Angeles Times release this tape. He could make this go away like that."

Oh. Dear. God. I put my head in my hands knowing what was coming next.

"I think you will agree that the "Jew-bashing" comment deserves the wooden spoon, don't you think?"

True, it was an incredibly puerile thing for Crowley to say. It did deserve some sort of chastisement. I just didn't want anymore chastisement on my ass! Especially as my ass was so so so out of practice. Yet A. slapped that wooden spoon down on each cheek over and over. Sure, he wasn't really slapping that hard. I am on anti-coagulants and have to be careful of bruising too much. Not to mention I could barely lay still enough for him to spank me.

And Crowley, along with Pat Buchanan, kept talking. Kept saying inane things like how the problems Obama has had with his associations would have sunk a Republican (yes, because George Bush had so many problems with "Kenny-boy" Lay). And how Obama couldn't close the deal because people were afraid of him (apparently they got over their fear four days later).

"Stop talking!" I cried to the television.

Yet McLaughlin then went on to Issue Three.

"If Barack Obama does win the presidency, it means total Democratic rule -- a Democratic White House, a Democratic Senate and a Democratic House of Representatives. Government unification -- good public policy? The scholars say no. Good public policy flows far more out of a disunified government than a unified government. A disunified government would mean Republican John McCain wins and the Senate and House stay Democratic. If Obama wins, it is bad for public policy.

...There's also the problem of unchecked liberalism. If Democrats gain control, they will need essentially every vote in their party to get anything passed in Congress, which means running the country from the left, with a national population that is fundamentally right of center."

I think A. went back to the cane for that one.

Yet God bless Pat Buchanan. Yep, you read that right. He does make brilliant points from time to time.

"Well, first off, say, Jack Kennedy got through the great tax cut of Kennedy with a unified government, whereas Reagan had a divided government. Lyndon Johnson's Civil Rights Act was a unified government; New Deal, unified command; Medicare, unified government; Social Security, unified government.

Divided government has done good things; I think Taft-Hartley, 1947, I believe, over Truman's veto, excellent legislation. You can have good government both ways, John. Frankly, I do believe in government responsibility and accountability. So if Barack Obama wins, maybe they ought to have the right to run the thing the way they want to, and then we can pass judgment on them."

And the spanking stop. My poor, battered ass finally had some relief. There were a few hand smacks here and there, especially with Monica Crowley's wishful thinking about split-ticket voters voting down a "liberal trifecta" or McCain winning by half a point (those poor, deluded Republicans). But with John McLaughlin's hearty "Bye BYE!" it was time to cuddle.

Don't think for a minute that A.'s itchy palm was satisfied. On Election Day, he made me bend over the bed while he quizzed me on the polls for each state to see if I had been paying attention. Despite pleas that my answers were much closer to the right answer if he used the data at fivethirtyeight.com, he used the polls at Real Clear Politics instead.

Anyway, with the election over, A. has assured me that my ass is safe from politically-motivated spankings. Though after reading this piece about the causes of the credit crunch, he's come up with a new game.

He's calling it Stock Market Correction.

***
P.S: I promise to get to all those wonderful comments for LOL day tomorrow!

Lurker luvin'

2008-11-11T12:58:00.000-08:00

Sorry to be so quiet lately. The last week and a half or so I've felt really icky and haven't been online much (it tends to happen at the end/beginning of the month because I've run out of one of my medications). Alas, that has not meant a lack of spankings. A. arrived in an uber-toppy mood and I've been spanked no less than 5 times in not quite two weeks! And if I'd been feeling better, I suspect I'd probably have gotten it just about every day. Two of those spankings were politically motivated -- and literal, not the metaphorical kind the Republicans got last week -- and (fingers-crossed) I'll have a post about them in the next few days.

But enough about me. I want to know how you're doing. This is your day. Yep, you, dear lurker. It's the third annual Love our Lurkers day. The day we honor you, the silent majority. Who lurk hard every day. Or when a new post is up. Or maybe you just lurk occassionally. You read, but never comment. Yet your presence in our StatCounter numbers keeps us bloggers blogging. And for that we salute you.

So stand up. Hit the "leave a comment" button and tell me your story. Staying silent is hard work. Take a break and spill out everything you've ever wanted to say.

Or just "hello" is cool too.

Maybe you feel too intimidated to comment (please be assured that you're very welcome).

Maybe you don't have time (it happens to all of us).

Maybe you think you don't have anything to add (oh but you do!).

Maybe you think there's nothing worth commenting on here (fair enough).

Maybe you don't read/write English well (I'd love to learn the word for spanking in your language).

A. thinks commenting on a blog is like having to write something on a group birthday card: you're in a hurry and you want to write something witty or inspiring but in the end you just end up scribbling something like "Happy Birthday." Yet in the case of a blog, you're not pressured by the group to write something so people just don't bother.

This makes bloggers sad. We love comments. All sorts of comments. Even the brief "nice post" or "this post sucks" comments. Though we hate spam. And we banish those spam comments to very depths of blogger hell.

But the best comment of all is simply an introduction. A brief (or not so brief, as the case may be) note putting a name or remark to those numbers on my StatCounter graph (Blogger allows you to remain anonymous if you choose).

I've received exactly 17 comments both years on LOL day. This year, I'd love to see that double. And if it does (they have to be 34 unique visitors), I'll post a picture of my ass after my next spanking. Which will probably be sometime later today as I've got another one coming...

That's right. The sixth in less than two weeks. You'd think A. was some kind of sick, perverted sadist. :::grin:::

How the hell did I end up here?

2008-10-28T23:09:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking over the last few weeks about what an amazing transformation I made in a mere decade.

In 1994, I was living with a family from my Baptist church while going to university. I had never had a drop of alcohol or even been kissed. I was teaching Children's Church, directing a weekly children's Bible memorization program, and leading music for my church college group in addition to my studies.

By 2004, not only had I been laid and drunk, I started writing a sex blog about spanking. Sure, I was still going to church, but I was Byzantine Catholic (and a dubious one at that by that point).

Have any of you, as you've started blogging or going to spanking parties wondered, how the hell did I end up here? Have you found that in embracing your sexuality, it has taken you places you never expected to go? Do you ever wonder who this new sexual deviant is, or asked the inverse question, who was that uptight, repressed person I used to be?

Needless to say, I've been rather pensive lately. It's probably why I haven't been posting as much. I mean, I've actually been journaling...in private.

But A. gets in tomorrow night, and I know we have at least one play session that we want to blog about coming up on Friday night (you know, health permitting), so hopefully my meditative mood will disperse and I'll have more juicy posts forthcoming.

The politics of pleasure is messy

2008-10-22T22:07:00.000-07:00

I wanted to point out a piece in Alternet excerpting a new book called Feminism and Pop Culture. What I liked about the article, aside from the fact that it gave a nice review of the rise of sex-positive feminism (aka "do me" feminism), was how ambivalent it was. That the "politics of pleasure" is complicated, with women both empowered to embrace their sexuality yet still finding their greatest value in being sexually objectified.

It made me think about the messy nature of spanking – particularly Domestic Discipline – and feminism. In the discussion on feminism and DD at the Punishment Book almost a couple of years ago (it so does not feel like that long ago), what was remarkably lacking in all the talk about choice was empowerment. Feminism requires both. You can make choices that are inherently anti-feminist when they fail to empower women. Women are empowered when they have the ability to fully embrace their sexuality, regardless of how unequal it may appear. Women are not empowered when they are subordinated to men because of their gender. Both of these occur within the DD community.

There is a great deal of feminist backlash within the DD and BDSM community, including blogs which insist that a woman is required to be submissive because she was born with a vagina or dominant women (and submissive men) who feel distinctly unwelcome in their local BDSM community (which is often run by dominant men). I think sometimes that because we're trying so hard to show that you can be a feminist and a sexual submissive, we fail to call out the sexism that exists in our community. But it's there. It's so there.

Interestingly enough, I often think that within our community the ones who suffer the most from entrenched patriarchy are submissive men. While acting out our sexuality might make us feel a bit uncomfortable with some of our feminist peers, submissive women have it easier in that respect than submissive men because society is still far more accepting of submissive women than submissive men. People grasp M/F on a primal level, but feminism has not yet brought us to the point that people feel comfortable with F/M, except in kinky pop culture references here and there (and frequent illogical dominatrix analogies).

At some point I'd like to write more about this, but my brain has been really mushy the last two weeks, so it won't be tonight. :::grin::

VibeReview Fantasy: Bendybeads

2008-10-15T17:21:00.000-07:00

You know my libido has been on vacation because until last Wednesday or so, whenever I tried to create the fantasy that follows this review using a real-life occurrence as a starting point, I got nothing. Just...blankness.

But my deviant imagination has returned, which is a good thing because Bendybeads scream out for a good pervert. Indeed my reviews so far have been a bit vagina-centric for my particular flavor of kinkiness. I mean, we are spankos, are we not? We are all about the ass. And Bendybeads too, are all about the ass.

And boy are they yummy in the ass.

Now, if you're not familiar with anal beads, they are usually plastic balls attached together by a string that are pushed into and pulled out of the anus (along with, like anything else involving the anus, lots of lube). However in more recent years there have been some innovations in the anal beads concept, such as replacing the string (which is impossible to sanitize) with jelly or plastic, or making the whole thing a bit more substantial like a butt plug. Indeed one of the early butt plugs I bought was a jelly one fashioned in graduated, bead-like fashion, similar to the Spectra Probe at VibeRevew (which is what A. used in me for real, inspiring the fantasy below).

I have to say, Bendybeads are a major improvement to Spectra-like bead-plugs. I'm more a sphincter stimulation sorta gal rather than in love with the fullness of a plug and Bendybeads are much easier to push in and pull out of the ass than a plug. They have this lovely little hook at the end which facilitates that sort of activity. The largest of the balls is comfortable enough, i.e. not painfully large, and all balls stay put even with a lot of lube. It is a bit on the long side (indeed too long for my naughty box), but I could still sit comfortably (relatively speaking) with it in. Best of all, it is made out of phtalate-free silicone, which is safer and more hygienic as it can be cleaned easier.

I used mine one night with my wankin' spankin' tool and my Silver Bullet vibrator and had one of the most amazing orgasms I have ever had. No joke. :::Happy sigh::: Ah, that was a nice night....

But when A. returns in a couple of weeks (two weeks from today to be exact), I imagine my Bendybeads being used in the following fashion:

It will be one of my good days, where I'm strong enough to reassert some sort of dominion over the kitchen by washing the dishes. As I find satisfaction in wiping every spot from the glasses and every slick of grease from the plastic containers, A. comes up behind me and begins to grope my tits. Soon his right hand slides down to my ass. He caresses and fondles my fatty cheeks before delivering several sharp blows. Slips his hand down my pajama bottoms and fondles some more. Pulls it out, wraps it around my belly, and with both hands clutching me, dry humps me from behind.

"Keep washing the dishes," he orders before disappearing. Upon returning a few minutes later, he whisks down my pajama bottoms while I hold a sudsy plate. "Let's get these down," in a voice mixing the authoritarian and the lecherous. Next I feel an oozy finger probing my hole. I look down to my right and see the Bendybeads in his hand.

"No! No! Not my bummy hole!" I exclaim with mock consternation, jolting my hand down to cover my bottom.

"Excuse me? That is not yours to decide." It's all authoritarian now. Sharp and impatient. "Spread your legs, please. Ass out."

I obey immediately, albeit with a whimper. I always whimper when my anus is involved. There's something about it being probed and entered that makes me feel so small. Naughty. Violated. Exposed. And terribly aroused.

"Continue washing the dishes, please," he states while smearing a glob of icy toothpaste on my hole. My whimpering becomes prolonged.

"Yes, Sir." I haltingly return my attention to the plate that has sunk to the bottom of the sink. Rinse it off and pick up another dirty plate, letting out a squeak as I feel the first of the Bendybeads pass through my sphincter. And another squeak with each one after that. After every red silicone bead has entered my bum, he swishes them around (making my anus burn even more from the toothpaste) and then begins to pull them out. Then back in. Then back out.

It's hard to wash dishes when your pelvis is thrusting back and forth. But thankfully, the last glass is finally dripping in the dish drainer.

"Don't move," A. orders. He snatches the hard plastic spatula from the jar on the stove and rapidly slaps the flesh on each side of the Bendybeads. I squirm about in an absurd attempt to avoid the inevitable unyielding plastic stinging my skin.

Just when I think I just can't possibly take another stroke, A. puts the spatula down. Grabs a clump of my hair and pulls me into the bed/livingroom. Pushes me down onto my stomach on the bed.

"Push your ass up."

I obey directly. He pulls out a bead or two. Pushes them back in. Picks up the electric cord flogger (aka the wankin' spankin' tool) and whips me as I scream into my pillow. After a few moments, he stops. Puts on a condom. Takes out the Bendybeads. And fucks my ass silly...

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

Probably a bit rougher than what I could manage in real life, but at the very least, it makes great wank fodder. :::grin:::

And with only three weeks left in the Election, remember that you can take an additional 10% off your order with VibeReview using this coupon.

Sugasm #150 -- Sugasm'd again!

2008-10-13T21:53:00.000-07:00

Whoo hoo! My fellow sex bloggers picked my post on pain and sex as one of the top three posts this week. Thanks so much!

And hopefully I really will get that VibeReview fantasy up tomorrow. Non-kink stuff has had my attention the last couple of days. But my libido has kicked into gear, and I'm so ready to write something hot and yummy. :::grin:::

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

This Week’s Picks

Stolen Time
“The sigh of a kiss that has been too long waiting is a wicked rush.”

Keeping things hot when everything hurts
“While it’s not as fun for him, what I love about those times is how sexy he makes me feel at a time when I probably feel the most worthless as a lover.”

Like lovers do…
“As soon as I got that groove, he felt it. His body started to tense up and tremble.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
At What Point Have You Crossed The Line?

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Politics stole my mojo!

2008-10-08T23:33:00.000-07:00

Sorry to be so quiet the last week and a half. I was surprised to discover on Monday that I hadn't posted anything for a whole week. Time goes by so quickly when you're on morphine and sleeping most of the day...

I think politics has smothered my libido of late. Instead of drifting off to sleep with visions of stern nannies, a strict daddy, and the odd subbie boy, I've been muttering to myself what Obama or McCain should have said in the latest debate. Or what that damn bailout bill should have included or discarded. Instead of reading spanking blogs, I've been faithfully following the polling projections at FiveThirtyEight and CNN, watching as the country slowly turns blue. Checking the bookies at Oddschecker while the odds shorten and lengthen as the Dow falls. A. and I have been sharing our favorite political posts at YouTube during our daily call rather than our latest spanking fantasies. Especially now that Saturday Night Live is funny again.

But my mojo is slowling returning. The other night I fell asleep to the fantasy of an uncompromising nanny taking me to task for failing to take a medication I tend to avoid as I dislike its side effects. Politics has influenced A.'s latest pretext for spanking me, involving a spreader bar and the McLaughlin Group. I suspect there will more information about that one after he arrives on October 29th.

For now, however, I'm just popping in to say that I should return to normal posting in the next few days with a new VibeReview Fantasy. And hopefully when I fall asleep in the next hour or so, the only red and blue I'll be thinking about will be in regards to my ass...

Keeping things hot when everything hurts

2008-09-30T23:32:00.000-07:00

Earlier this month I was reading in my American Pain Foundation newsletter that September is Pain Awareness Month. On the front page there was a story on "intimacy" (i.e. sex) and chronic pain, and I smiled a little as I thought of our own efforts with this issue. And with a half an hour remaining of Pain Awareness Month, here are some of my thoughts.

I remember the day after the second time A. and I had sex (indeed the second time I'd ever had sex) many years back. It had been particularly raw, physical sex, and when I awoke the next day, I hurt from my split ends to my toenails. It was that horribly stiff fibromyalgia hurt where laying in bed just makes it worse, despite the fact that I was so exhausted I could barely move. As I dragged myself downstairs to the living room, crying quietly so A. wouldn't hear me while he worked in the kitchen, I sat in horror at the thought that I might not be able to have sex often if it was going to do this to me. How would A. feel about that? Would he be mad because I couldn't have sex as often as he might want to have it?

As it turned out, he was actually quite understanding about the whole thing. For the most part we're fairly compatible as a couple, but we do have times like all couples where he's in the mood and I'm not, or I'm in the mood and he's not. And we cut each other slack accordingly.

But there are also pain/illness-specific issues for me that require some adjustment of how we might define sex. Intercourse is a lot of work and any sort of exercise can make me very ill. Plus, because of chronic pelvic pain (as well as other problems), it is painful. The result is that we rarely have it. But I would argue that doesn't mean we don't have sex. As those of us with sexual fetishes know, intercourse is often an afterthought when we think of sex. Our exploration of bondage or spanking or feet or diapers is redefining sex, which is a liberating thing for those of us who can't fuck quite so readily.

But at the end of the day, fucking is still how many of us satisfy our sexual appetites, and I find mutual masturbation to be a nice substitute. While it may lack the full, penetrative quality of intercourse, there is still a lot about it that is very intimate. Indeed, I think in many ways it's a lot more vulnerable. Requires a lot more communication. And at the end of the day, is far more equitable as it takes each of our pleasure into account.

Though it doesn't always mean an automatic orgasm. One of the downsides of medication and fatigue is that I can't always come. But I'm finding toys that can help with that. The Miracle Massager has proven to be a really great one. I cannot think of a better toy for someone like me who fatigues quickly. It's curved perfectly for clitoral stimulation. It's not too heavy. And if I use the Attachment, I can stick it in, sit back and let it do all the work. Not too mention, it's also handy for massaging my neck and shoulders (what the Hitachi Magic Wand was originally intended for before women started using it on their rosebuds!). Another low-energy toy (which will be featured in an upcoming post) is the Silver Bullet. Shaped like a skinny silver egg, I can position it on my clitoris and then easily control the level of vibrations with the hand-held controller, again allowing for an easy orgasm with minimal effort.

Then there are days when A. is very randy and, while mentally I wouldn't mind a little hanky panky, I'm simply too weak. At those times I usually tell him to grope away, just don't expect much reaction from me. While it's not as fun for him, what I love about those times is how sexy he makes me feel at a time when I probably feel the most worthless as a lover. How he hungrily fondles the enormous tits that I felt so insecure about as a kid (I was in a C cup by the time I was nine). Caresses the belly I've spent so much of my life hating. Strokes the pussy that purrs under his hand. Gropes the ass that can never get enough attention.

Yes, speaking of my ass, the irony that I'm a chronic pain patient who likes getting spanked is not lost on me (being on the blood-thinner Coumadin complicates it further). True there are some days when a nice spanking is the perfect thing to get the endorphines going. And in many ways, taking a hard spanking is sort of my ultimate "fuck you" to pain. A way I control pain instead of it controlling me.

But then there are the times when the pain has been so intense, getting spanked is about as appealing as a giant meal after Thanksgiving dinner. Those times are fewer and farther between since starting long-acting morphine last January. Though that has brought with it its own issues, the most prominent as it relates to spanking is opioid-induced hyperalgesia, in which the narcotic actually makes me more sensitive to painful stimuli. My pain threshold in terms of getting spanked varies wildly. There are some days when I'm an unquenchable pain slut whose prolonged clotting time and propensity to bruise severely limit my explorations into subspace. And then there are days when the hairbrush is coming down just a tad harder than a tap and I'm practically jumping through the roof.

Let me just take this opportunity, however, to note that addiction is not one of the issues that usually accompanies the usage of narcotics, despite what the media suggests. There is a difference between dependence on a medication and addiction. If you give a bottle of Vicodin to an addict, he or she will probably go through it in a few days like a bag of M&Ms. The pain patient, on the other hand, will take it as directed by his or her doctor. Yes, addiction is a possible side-effect, yet the chances of that happening to someone taking narcotics for pain are around 1%. Unlike constipation which happens to almost everybody who takes opiates (but hey, I have always wanted to explore those enema fantasies...).

Lastly, I think one of the big keys to a healthy sex life is imagination, and A. and I spend a lot of time sharing our fantasies with each other. It's certainly helpful when our relationship is over the phone most of the time. And while we don't end up acting out half of what we talk about, I've come to find that it's the imagining and sharing that keeps everything so...hot.

Sugasm # 148 -- I've been Sugasm'd!

2008-09-29T22:28:00.000-07:00

Whoo Hoo! My post on the elitist nature of a lot of erotica was one of this week's top picks. I'm so very pleased.

I also highly recommend that "Red, Hot Ass" post at Diary of a Gay Dad. Very yummy.

*****

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

This Week’s Picks

People I could hang out with

“But it wasn’t just a story, it was a damn sexy story.”

Red, Hot Ass

“I grunted, but held still.”

Smart Girls Make Better Lovers

“Chicks with brains can make you scream.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice

Sex Blogging and Writing for the Drawer

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

Front Page Spanking: Divine Discipline

2008-09-27T23:14:00.001-07:00

Back before tabloids focused on celebrities that nobody has heard of, they focused on the important stories like...nuns whipping boys. This front page of the Mirror from August 16, 1939 isn't very readable, but it's nice to know that while war was about to break out in Europe, the Mirror had its priorities in order.

So what sort of whipping was this? I mean, surely nuns whipping boys couldn't have been so unusual in 1939 that a run-of-the-mill thrashing merited front-page status.

I like to imagine a stern French nun with a martinet and a smart-assed early adolescent. Our impertinent boy tried to lead a revolt against mandatory Mass attendance but was deserted by his classmates to face alone the wrath of Sister Mathilde. She took down his short pants and applied that martinet with such brutality that it left his classmates fearful of ever misbehaving again. Perhaps the boy's mother was shocked at the horde of angry welts left on her son's bottom and thighs while his father thought the old nun was well within her rights to maintain order. Soon the community was divided over whether Sister Mathilde had acted appropriately or gone beyond common decency until one of the largest tabloids in the country was asking its readers to judge...

Just a thought.

Sugasm #147

2008-09-25T22:59:00.000-07:00

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.

This Week’s Picks

Amazing

““You’re lucky I’m not being mean right now.””

Cum Squirt With Me. Confession #131

“Not much research has been done on the female orgasm in general, much less this seemingly new erotic marvel.”

Jealousy, Pornography and the Boundaries of Blogging

“I search to be a sexually free, independent and satisfied woman without the stigma of slut yet with the positive implications of slut.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice

Blue Fantasy, Red Silk Rope

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

People I could hang out with

2008-09-22T19:33:00.000-07:00

My senior year of college I was invited to be part of a national student delegation to the country of Kuwait. A week or so before I received that invitation, I found out I had been accepted to graduate school at Georgetown University with a full tuition scholarship. As our delegation was meeting in Washington DC for a week of briefings before heading to Kuwait, I went a few days earlier to visit the place I assumed I would be spending the next several years of my life.

The waiting room for my graduate program was lined with cherrywood paneling and upholstered in arabesque print. I remember worrying that my wet, squishy tennis shoes would somehow dirty the place after walking in from the April rain. I stayed the night with a recent alum from my hole-in-the-wall state university, but the next day headed to a posh DC hotel where we student delegates were to stay during the Washington leg of our journey.

It was the first time I'd ever hailed a cab. And I was surprised when a guy in a uniform picked up my suitcase as I checked in. I'd never been to a hotel with a bell hop before. The nicest place I'd ever stayed before that was at a Red Lion with a bunch of girls from my church youth group when we attended a winter youth festival. The bell hop led me to the room, opened the door, set my luggage on a rack, opened the curtains, and then stood at the door awkwardly for a few seconds. Was I supposed to tip him? Or was that just something they did on television but not in real life? The bell hop had mercy on me and left quickly. I felt terribly out of place in this new, fancy world I'd found myself in. And I tell you the truth, dear reader, I broke out into tears as I sat on the immaculate bed.

That is how I feel when I read most erotica.

But I didn't realize it until I read Jacqueline Applebee's story "What I do for my pain." When blogger friend Pandora mentioned that Ms. Applebee's erotica included disabled characters, I pictured blond girls dressed in hip retro dresses sitting in specially-designed wheelchairs -- you know, people with real disabilities, as opposed to someone like me with amorphous pain disorders and controversial multi-systemic diseases.

I was so wrong.

There was no mention of stylish clothes or hip apartments in the city or parties with canapes or exotic furniture where two people with perfect bodies have perfectly aligned sex.

No, instead I was met with a character who bumps into her lover's boob in bed. Who has enough flesh that it can be kneaded. Who wants a tattoo that looks like a sunflower. And whose disability was chronic period pain.

See, I'm clumsy in bed too (among other places). And have plenty of flesh to kneed. I don't know that I can get a tattoo now that I'm on anticoagulants, but if I were to ever get one, it'd probably be something cheery like a sunflower too. And boy do I know what chronic period pain is like as everyone of my periods since I started having them when I was ten years old have been dreadful.

Sometimes it’s a constant cracking against the back of my spine, sometimes it’s a top note sung by a soprano, but held against my groin for sixteen hours. Medication doesn’t seem to help, and heaven knows I’ve tried most of the alternatives.

It sounds a bit silly, but I started crying a little when I read that bit. I just never hear anybody ever talk about the ordeal that painful periods can be -- you know, outside of pamphlets from the doctor's office. And I certainly haven't see someone validate that experience by making it the primary conflict in a story. But it wasn't just a story, it was a damn sexy story.

As I continued reading, I found that this was a character I could so see myself hanging out with. Exchanging medical horror stories or sharing the alternative that has finally worked for me (Red Raspberry leaf tea, as impossible as that may be to believe, considering how exquisite the pain).

And that, that was when it suddenly dawned on me that I don't ever imagine myself hanging out with the characters in the erotica I generally read. Part of that comes down to just how effective Ms. Applebee is in creating such realistic characters. But a lot of it is that characters in erotica intimidate the hell out of me.

I'm not stylish. I'm five feet tall and fat. The last pieces of clothing I bought were a sensible white Playtex bra on sale this month online, a red shirt and a pair of jeans on sale at Walmart about a year ago, and a t-shirt from the Goodwill several months before that. I only own three pairs of shoes (that accommodate my orthotics). So, you know, no skin tight dresses or several hundred dollar fuck me shoes here.

I do live in a studio downtown, but I live in HUD housing with seniors and the disabled which sorta takes away any sort of glamour from the whole living in the city thing. And my part of the city is where the meth freaks and pimps hang out, though personally, I like the color they add to the neighborhood.

Being on Food Stamps means that canapes are never on the menu here, though I do make the best chocolate chip cookies ever. And Two-Buck-Chuck is about the only wine you'll find in my kitchen -- and then only when A. is here because I can't really drink much wine anymore.

Erotica is all about fantasy and so it is understandable that it will reflect what is most perfect in our society. Writing -- erotica or otherwise -- requires a certain level of education to both attain the skills necessary to create worlds on paper (or computer), as well as the ability to think originally about topics, particularly ones that are mostly taboo. And most of those who get that education come from a base socio-economic level and higher. It's hard to think and write about sex when, say, you just barely finished high school and you're trying to figure out how to pay the rent on your trailer despite working four jobs (a common predicament in my family).

I remember years ago listening to essayist Richard Rodriguez on the NewsHour talk about how little poverty makes it into our literature (aside from the Bohemian sort). That we needed people to write about the experience of being poor in the same way that writers such as Toni Morrison have talked about the experience of being African-American or how he had written about being Latino.

I remember thinking at the time, hey, I could do that. I know what it's like to grow up poor. Thanks to an illness which has left me incapable of doing any job in the national economy (as the vocational expert testified at my disability hearing), I still get to know what it's like to be poor.

And if Jacqueline Applebee can write hot, sexy erotica about chronic period pain, well damnit, I should be writing hot, sexy erotica about poor, fat, sick people.

You know, people I could totally hang out with...

Bet this landlady takes no nonsense...

2008-09-18T22:34:00.000-07:00

When/if I ever make it Manchester, I totally have to go here.

Actually, we noticed someone with the nickname "Spanking Roger" in some old Guardian archives recently. Does anyone know where the term originated?

VibeReview Fantasy: Decadent Indulgence

2008-09-15T21:51:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sugasm #146

2008-09-14T23:32:00.000-07:00

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

This Week’s Picks

Nipple clamps, butt plug, Hitachi - oh my!

“Once the plug is in, I’m going to send you on a little walk.”

I discover transcendental orgasm

“It was peaceful, and like holding on to a live wire at the same time.”

When We Were Kids: Thoughts on BDSM

“The tying was always my favourite part, whether I was the one tied who had to escape, or the one who got to do the tying.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice

Like a Prayer - Part 2

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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

Erotic Writing and Experiences

Bite Me

Chess

Lunch Date

On the phone

People we’ve always wanted to be

Submitting Again: Part 3

Top

Webcam

While it rains outside…

Your Gorgeous Polish Girlfriend does not feel like having sex tonight

Sex Work

The Age of Porn: Performers, Attraction, and Age

So there I was, with a caller…

The Whore in the House Next Door

NSFW pics

Dana by Goncharov (Met Art)

Fetish Model & PornSLUTkitty Gets Her Head Tattooed

A Fully Naked HHNT

Not a masochist

Sex News, Reviews, & Interviews

The Lelo Mia

Nea: by Lelo

Njoy’s Amazing Butt Plugs - A Sex Toy Review

Sex News Roundup

BDSM & Fetish

After the Party … (part III)

Catalina loves Naughty Secretary Roleplay

Charlotte Vale And I (Mz Berlin) In Bondage Gangbang On The Training Of O

The Enigmatic Angel’s Kinky Cinematic Journey

The Pleasure Of Torment

Push Button Behavior Modification

The Sarge And Backdoor Bondage Have Great Impact Play And Hogtied Style Bondage Content

Shoes, it’s really all about the shoes.

Snap, Crackle, and Pop

Whipped Pussy Reminds You To Always Keep A Spare In The Trunk

Sex Advice

Help, my boyfriend won’t go down on me!

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

Can A Threesome Help You Find Your True Love?

Eco Sex and Green BDSM

Femme is a Noun, an Adjective, a Verb…

If You are Charming Smart, but Ugly, I Fuck You For Sure!

It’s a struggle.

Stripper Milf versus Stripper Teen: 69 points to ponder

Where The Hell Did My Boobs Go?