Miss Montana's academy

I don't know if any of you have read Exit to Eden by Anne Rampling? (one of Anne Rice's many pseuodonyms for her erotic fiction). It's one of her better works, far superior to the silly and overblown Sleeping Beauty trilogy. Or perhaps I'm just biased - it was one of the very first works of spanking erotica I read, aged about 15, and it affected me deeply. It's a tender, intelligent romance set in a high-class BDSM club, which is established by Lisa, the main protagonist. The story is about her love affair with rebellious, thrill-hungry slave Elliot, and their road trip across America - on the run from the culture Lisa created herself - styles itself on Kerouac's bohemian classic On the Road.

I don't agree with a lot of Rampling's ideas about the psychology of BDSM - she's overly fascinated with the question "why are we like this?" - which (like the same question applied to bi- or homosexuality) always reeks to me of an attempt to explain the abnormal, to categorise and justify it. Kink doesn't need explaining, in my opinion; I have no interest in finding my "route". I'm happy to accept it in the present and explore it in the future, without any need for insecure Freudian analysis of the past. Nonetheless, Exit to Eden provided a valuable discourse to my teenage self, as it used the characters' dialogue to explore the philosophy and psychology of kink, to question how it fits into our personal narratives. It stayed with me, and a lot of my fantasies were influenced by the scenarios in the novel.

One of those scenarios is the concept of the slave training house. Before Elliot's acceptance into Lisa's prestigious Club, both Elliot and Lisa sign contracts committing themselves to private establishments as a method of exploring their own sexuality. Lisa endures a stint as the private slave of a rich gentleman; Elliot joins the house of a man called Martin, who takes a personal interest in his training. I've always loved the idea of joining such a household (and if I wasn't already owned by two beautiful men, I might well consider it); of signing away one's rights to elegant strangers for a period of time.

When English Spankers asked me to write my own plot for a shoot with them and Zoe Montana, I found myself coming back to this fantasy. The location had a beautiful, well-equipped private dungeon - not normally a comfortable setting for spanking films, but English Spankers expressed an interest in pursuing darker themes, and as you all know, my primary passion is not so much spanking as D/s. I decided to set the story in Miss Montana's Academy, a training house for willing submissives. My character is a kinky girl who, unlike me, has not had the fortune to find safe dominant partners. She hasn't had the chance to fully explore her sexuality and decides to apply to an advert offering training to interested subs. She has no idea what to expect when she arrives at the house, and once there, she signs consent forms allowing Miss Montana and the house doms full privileges during her stay.

The story follows her progress from her arrival, to her training and eventual use as a session submissive by Miss Montana's gentlemen friends and clients. I filmed a video diary chronicling my character's thoughts throughout, as she's taken deeper and deeper into her own desires.

The first photoset, covering my arrival at the academy and my induction by Miss Montana, is now online at English Spankers, and the film accompanying it will be going up on Friday. It's a three-part series, and we have plans for a three-part sequel chronicling the character's evolving relationship with one of the clients, which I'll be shooting with my own Dom, Mr Cameron, a week on Monday. We've been emailling each other story ideas all day and I'm very excited - it should be very personal and extremely hot. (We're also considering getting a bit more horny on camera than normal - but I don't know whether you lot would think that was all a bit much! Any thoughts?)

I've really enjoyed looking back through the photos and remembering the shoot - Miss Montana is a subtle (and gorgeous) switch as well as an ace spankee, and it was great fun working with her. English Spankers have uploaded a couple of free video clips from this series to whet your appetite - take a look and let me know what you think!

the school scene paradox

A couple more schoolroom pics for you. These seem to be much more "modern" - no Victorian costumes or props here. I love the girl's fashionable pre-war hairstyle. It's not a look you see often in spanking photos, unless you count the many spanking scenes in old movies, and I think it works well here. The schoolgirl's heightened femininity works simultaneously to make her more sexual (she's not wearing a uniform, but stockings and a summer frock) and more vulnerable.





Vulnerability is the key theme in these images: the girl holding her dress up neatly at the back in anticipation of the consequences of error. She hasn't been punished yet, but she's on a last warning, and she's made acutely aware of that fact. Perhaps she failed a test or handed in a particularly atrocious piece of homework. She's summoned for a private detention, by which time she's expected to have brushed up on the material. The teacher goes through it with her painstakingly, gesturing relevant points with a lifted cane. The lifted dress serves to focus her mind. Any error in her presentation and his hovering cane will lash down across her exposed cheeks.

Which it does, sure enough. And there's a strange intimacy in the image of her punishment. The position is most likely intended to show as much as possible to the camera, but a consequence of it is that teacher and pupil become wrapped around one another, her kneeling at his feet, burying her face and hands in his lap while he wraps an arm around her waist and holds her skirt up for her.

The fear and vulnerability of her body language is contradicted by the sexual overtones in the way they're holding each other. She is simultaneously girl and woman. He is merciless, scathing, aloof - and at the same time taking advantage of her, seeking an inappropriate intimacy.

It's a familiar paradox.

Sharpe's punishment

I've been watching Sharpe recently, which as well as being a finely made show provides a wealth of material for an imaginative spanko. The Napoleonic war is one of my favourite historical settings - I love the European context, the espionage, the uniforms, the songs, the society. The Sharpe films are gritty, thought-provoking, swash-buckling, full of military discipline, floggings, English traditional folk music and Sean Bean being the hottest thing I've ever seen in uniform. Ho yus. This is my kind of television.

Imagine my glee, then, when the episode I was watching last night turned out to include some pretty explicit CP references. The first glimpse we get of our favourite pastime is in a scene between Jane Gibbons, the spirited but low-born ward of Sir Henry, and Sir Henry himself, the vicious, greedy villain of the piece. Jane has run away after being told that she's to marry Colonel Girdwood, a slimy and corrupt officer keen to get into Sir Henry's good books. She's caught, of course, and fetched back. The only glimpse we get of her punishment is Sir Henry turning around and picking up a cane off the mantlepiece, lashing it through the air, and then lifting her chin with the tip of it as he snarls, "On your feet."





Later Jane's dog escapes during a parade, and Sir Henry angrily tells her to control it - if she can't manage to keep it quiet, he won't beat the dog, he'll beat her.

This was more than enough to get me excited, but during a conversation between Jane and Sharpe towards the end of the episode, she tells him everything. He needs the ledgers that will prove Sir Henry's and Colonel Girdwood's corruption, and he comes to ask for her help. He has to break into the house - she's defied her governess, and is being kept prisoner. When he expresses surprise at a noblewoman being treated this way, she tells him,

"Major Sharpe, I am not of them. I am the daughter of a saddler and Sir Henry's sister in law, fit only to be married off for whatever reasons suit my uncle. I ran off when I was told I was to marry Colonel Girdwood, but Sir Henry fetched me back, and - "

"You're frightened of Sir Henry?"

"Yes - but I do want to help you."

"Could you find the ledgers?"

"I want to, but it's hard..."

"It would help me disgrace Girdwood."

"I know. I should take the risk ... but if I fail, I shall be punished."

"By who?"

"My uncle beats me. He let Girdwood watch the last time because he thought the colonel should know how to treat a wife. He uses a cane. There are marks on the study wall where he thrashes and the cane scratches the plaster. He gets very angry."

"How dare he treat you so!"



Oh, Sharpe. Heroic you may be, but in this case I think the fantasy is better off without you.

Sugasm #128

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“Yep, sounds like the boyfriend needs a lesson,” she affirmed. “You just need to show him where to lick.”

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

Victorian schoolroom

Remember the vintage spanking pics I posted last year? In transferring data to my new PC I've just discovered all the others I scanned in from the same book of erotic photography and never got round to posting.





The Victorian schoolroom is one of my earliest fantasies. When I was eight years old I remember going on a residential school trip to a manor house which had been preserved as a museum. The place was beautiful, and we had a great time climbing the vast yew trees in the grounds and exploring the old Victorian cellars. As a class we spent an afternoon in a Victorian schoolroom which attached to the house. Our usual teacher led the class, which was slightly surreal - he was a good-natured, burly, sporty man but he warmed to the roleplay, and we all dressed up in old-fashioned clothing that was provided by the museum. We had to practise writing copperplate with dip pens, all of us using our right hands to write with, and after the lesson the teacher walked up and down the rows of desk inspecting our work for neatness and our hands for inkstains. Everyone who had inky hands or messy work was hauled up to the front of the glass to be caned. Not a real caning, of course - we put our hands out and the teacher waved a dramatic flourish over each outstretched palm. The boys who giggled and thought the whole thing was hilarious were sent to the corner in a dunce cap.

My interest in spanking had arisen long before then, and I spent the entire afternoon moving as if through a dream. Even now, I can't quite believe this was a genuine school trip. Surely I imagined it? Through the lesson I took the roleplay very seriously and when I was called up to be punished I was as solemn as if everything was real. The faux-punishment was embarrassing, a relief and a disappointment. I was glad that not all of my secret inner daydreams were being dragged out of my head and paraded in front of my classmates - because that was how the rest of it felt. I don't know if the episode cemented certain embryonic desires which might otherwise have focussed elsewhere, or if my kink was well and truly formed by then and this was just a strange coincidence. It was squirmy and shocking and I had the time of my life.

The national obsession with the clichéd Victorian schoolroom seems to date back some time. These photos were produced in 1925, when no-one had worn bloomers for decades - but the images of the sloping school desk, the prim schoolmistress and the graffitied blackboard are already essential parts of the fantasy. (Have I gushed about bloomers recently? I love bloomers. I feel more naked wearing bloomers that open at the back than I do wearing a thong, or nothing at all. I love being punished through bloomers: the sharp contrast between decorum and exposure makes the whole experience more piquant. And they frame the buttocks beautifully - no bottom is unflattered by the soft curve revealed through bloomers.) And it goes without saying, but that schoolma'am is hot.

I'm not sure what's going on with the fake ruler-welts on the schoolgirl's bum, though. But I suppose you can't have everything.

the caning clock

Haron of The Spanking Writers posted the other day about a customisable clock, where the numbers could be replaced by pictures of bottoms sporting a stripe for each hour.

Oddly enough, I've had a very similar fantasy for a long time now, although I don't think I've ever talked about it before. It's part of a series of fantasies in which I'm one of many naked slaves owned in a vast, dark castle. In various aspects of the fantasy I'm used as furniture, or simply locked into the walls, head in one room and bottom in another, to be used by anyone who passes by. Bizarre room decorations are quite a feature of this fantasy, particularly ones which immobilise helpless slaves in such a way that their bottoms are presented and exposed. One of my favourite ideas is to be caged in a wooden structure that bends me double, concealing every bit of me apart from my lifted, waiting bottom, rising out of the cool wood, helplessly available and completely depersonalised.

Most of the ideas are anatomically or practically impossible, and the force of the fantasy is always in being kept there for hours ... certainly far longer than anyone could comfortably go without drinking or relieving themselves. Although if you had the space and the carpentry skills you could act out snatches of the long, ritualised scenes in my head that would be tedious and impossible to enact in full. But they're there, cosily nestling in the shadowy stacks of my mind's library, as well-worn and oft-visited as the spanking scenes in my favourite erotic novels.

Anyway, one interesting aspect of this imaginary castle was an ancient decorative clock. It was established by an eccentric aristocrat in the castle's history, and the weight of tradition is such that no-one has ever thought to challenge this archaic custom, which is still carried out day and night. The ritual of the clock is Gormenghastian in its precision and antiquity. In the Longest Room, lined with portraits and cabinets containing dusty curios, two sets of twelve wooden benches are set up in a row, one on each side of the long hall. A naked girl bends over each one, waiting. To mark each hour a uniformed footman walks up to the line. He is carrying a long cane, in dark wood with a silver handle. With the effortless neatness of long practice, he smartly canes a waiting girl with the strokes of the hour. The first girl receives one stroke; an hour later the second receives two; etc. The cane is stained with age, and the strokes cut deep enough to mark; the welts have to be clear and visible. Anyone walking between the line of bottoms will be able to tell at a glance which hour of the day it is.

The girls are rotated, of course, between this duty and others; the row of bottoms each morning needs to be fresh and unmarked. Whether or not the girls assigned to the later hours of the night are chosen randomly, as punishment or as part of some great, complex rota, I don't know. I also know that no-one could wait all day like that. But I like the image of it. The idea of waiting. Of being 11pm, or 12pm, listening to the hours creep closer. Each slowly mounting set of cracks and yelps. The cries of the girls would become part of the everyday fabric of sound in the castle; one would listen out to the number of screams, when they rang out, to check the hour.

And there's a small part of me, as well, that knows this was only true in the olden days. Now, this wing of the castle has fallen into disuse. No-one enters it except the servants. But the old rituals are still carried out, reliable as clockwork. Just the footman and the waiting girls, performing customs as old as memory, with no witnesses but the spiders in the shadows. The rest of the castle has long forgotten them - but the clock keeps on faithfully striking the hour.

sexual narratives

I was staying at D.'s the other night and we had the whole evening ahead of us. We were both in a playful mood, and there was a lot of purring and pouncing as we snuggled in the living room.

"So, what's the plan, boss?" I asked him.

"Well... I don't so much have a plan. Just an idea. I don't know, what did you have in mind?"

I grinned and opted for my favourite policy of Being Totally Unsubtle. "I thought we could maybe have lots of hot sex."

"Radical suggestion! Honestly, I don't know where you young people get these crazy ideas. I'm shocked and appalled."

"What was your idea?" I persisted, nuzzling him.

"Well. I thought since my housemate's away on holiday, we could maybe take advantage of having the place to ourselves ... and I could beat you in all the rooms we haven't christened yet."

I liked that idea. Sadly, a short while later Real Life intervened on our happy fantasy and our play session had to be postponed to another night (I'm seeing him this evening. I'm looking forward to it rather a lot. Can you tell?)

Later that evening, musing on my disappointment, I realised wryly that one (rather sad) factor in my frustration was that the play session had sounded exactly like the kind of thing that would make an interesting blog post. I don't write much about the scenes I play with D., and I feel a faint pang of guilt about not properly representing of the intimacy we share. I don't want it to seem like he and I don't play, like my submission to him isn't very real. The thing is that his tastes fall more within BDSM spectrum than the spanking one, and although I'm happy for this blog to be somewhat explicit on occasion, for various reasons I don't want to start regularly writing about my sex life in detail on this forum.

Which led to an interesting thought: if I kept a sex blog (I've considered it, but honestly, I barely have time to maintain this one) it would be full of stories from my play with D., in the same way that my spanking blog is full of stories from my play with Tom. Not that D. doesn't spank me and Tom and I don't have sex (quite the reverse, I assure you) but in each case that's not the psychological focus of our intimacy.

By which I mean, I think, that the CP play I share with Tom is narratively interesting. There's shape and structure to the emotionality of it. There's a story there. Of course it's not the only part of our sex-life that's true of, but broadly speaking, CP tends to be where he challenges me, where we veer away from what's easy and straightforward.

D. and I work differently. For D., spanking and CP are mostly foreplay. They aren't usually a story in themselves; they're the prologue to another, more explicitly sexual, psychological narrative.

In each of the two relationships the complexity and the ritual arises, for the most part, in different types of play. My sex-life with both partners is broad and rich and interesting, but the pinnacle of that interest - the narrative focus - differs between the two.

I wonder how far you could take this line of reasoning? Could one go so far as to say that this, this place where story arises, is the core of a person's sexuality? Is that what makes a spanko; that spanking is the central theme of their personal erotic narrative? Whereas if spanking is sensual and pleasant, but a different kind of sexual act holds the cathartic key to the story, then that, probably, is where the true kink resides?

As for me ... a week ago I would have guessed that my central theme was CP, but it can't be, if I can play a key role in D.'s narrative so easily. The answer occurred to me as soon as I'd posed the question: my own sexual narrative is one of submission. Submission is the pinnacle of my personal story arc. Spanking, CP, sex; I enjoy all these things, and I know what I like and what I don't, but all these elements are individual aspects of a greater whole.

I don't know how well the above model stands up to other examples. Tell me about your own sexual narratives. What aspects of your play reveal the richest psychological material? Which make the best stories? Is it spanking for most of my readers, or is there a more complex range of interests? Tell all!

quirt: punishment

I had my first experience of a quirt a little while ago. A kinky friend of mine is a bit of an expert in making and using leather whips, and back when we were first getting to know each other he promised me my first taste of one of his toys. For various reasons we've never had quite as many chances to play as we'd both like, and by the time we finally made a date in February we had a whole bunch of desires and intentions to explore together.

Th evening didn't start well. It was my fault, really. I'd been ill recently, had a long shoot that day, and was exhausted when I got home afterwards. I ended up running very late. We were trying out a new fetish night, and had originally planned to meet up first so we could get ready and travel to the club together. I was overwhelmed by stuff to do and kept postponing our meeting time, until eventually we agreed to just get ready separately and meet at the club. I said I'd text him as I was leaving the house so he could aim to arrive at the same time, but I forgot to send the text. I'd called and told him I was leaving in a few minutes, but I was meant to then text and confirm and I didn't. He ended up waiting at home for twenty minutes before deciding to leave anyway, and I didn't realise my mistake until I was on the tube and out of phone access. He got to the club considerably later than I did and he wasn't impressed.

While I was waiting for him to arrive I felt really anxious. I knew I'd messed up and I didn't know if he'd still be angry when he got there, and I didn't know if he'd be the kind of angry that could be resolved in role or if our date was ruined before it started.

Eventually we found each other, and the look in his eye told me everything I needed to know. I was definitely in trouble. But it was the kind of trouble that meant I was going home with him at the end of the evening. I breathed a sigh of relief as I kissed his hand and said I was sorry. "Oh, you will be," he said, and the threat held just enough of a spark of mischief that I could let go of my guilt. It would be dealt with later and I knew he'd be fair.

The fact that he was choosing to react in this way - that he wasn't letting me get away with messing him around, but he was determined to not let it affect our time together - was deeply reassuring. I felt the letting go, the security I always feel when I'm faced with discipline I know I can rely on. It feels very safe to know that I won't get away with something. Knowing I'd be punished later, that I'd atone in full, let me put the guilty feelings aside and start to enjoy my evening.

We had all sorts of adventures that night, both in the club and afterwards at his place, but those are another story. At one point in the evening he told me to stand with my hands resting on the wall while he used the quirt on me for the first time. I've wanted to taste this implement for years. He told me that this is what he'd be using for my punishment later. Twenty hard strokes, one for each minute he was kept waiting at home. I swallowed and looked down, knowing it was fair, frightened and excited but feeling that same security in his authority that was completely relaxing. He flicked the quirt against my shoulders, my back and buttocks, then started wrapping it, lashing my nipples and belly with the leather tips with perfect accuracy. The pain started to mount and each lash was beginning to really hurt. I was squirming in response to the quick, burning strokes and he had to tell me angrily to stay still.

Much later, when it was time for my punishment, I knew it was inevitable and I accepted it. He was gentle and firm and looked deeply into my eyes, checking in and connecting with me before telling me to resume my position against the wall. The whipping was hard and slow. I sobbed my count and my thanks after each stroke. I was quiet at first, concentrating on my breathing and on my count, emptying my mind and accepting the pain. By halfway through it was seriously hurting and I was struggling to stay still. By the end I was screaming before I found the breath to give my count, and afterwards I felt emptied, cleansed, resolved. It was closure, both emotionally and physically. Enough pain for me to really get a grip on, enough for me to feel pushed. I felt like I'd needed it, and in a strange way it was deeply satisfying.





Afterwards I knelt before him and thanked him for my punishment in a much more intimate way. I was very glad to be able to give him some closure in return. Tired and contented, we curled up in each other's arms and talked quietly as we drifted off to sleep. The sun had come up some time ago.

You know you're a spanking model when ...

... your anxiety dreams take place on spanking shoots. Seriously, this is the first time this has happened to me. I'm a champion worrier, and am fairly used to anxiety dreams and the various motifs my subconscious latches on to helpfully inform me that I'm fretting about something (no, really, I hadn't noticed). But spanking shoots are a new one.

In my dream I was shooting for Northern Spanking, and we were getting ready to do the first film of the day. It was a huge shoot and the crew and models had split up into lots of little groups to get more films shot at the same time - I was with Lucy and three young, blond male spanking models. One of them was a RL friend (who is into spanking, but has never got involved with it professionally), one was a camp little primadonna who wasn't based on anyone I know, and the other was - wait for it - my (entirely vanilla) little brother.

In the dream, we were running late and Lucy was stressed and I was guilty - and I didn't realise until just before we were meant to start filming that I was meant to be topping. The scene was a school one, with all three boys in school uniform and me leading a punishment assembly in which they were all, one by one, brought up to the front and spanked. I have very little experience at topping and I completely freaked out. I couldn't do it. Lucy had to swap places with me and play the role herself, while I mooched about being miserable and feeling like a complete failure.

After mulling on it, I decided that it was only acting and I was jolly well going to go through with it, so I changed my mind and took over from poor Lucy, who was fairly unimpressed with me by this point. I handled the verbals okay, but when it came to the spanking I was completely rubbish. You know those dreams where you're trying to run from something, but you can't, it's like you're running through treacle or water and everything's in slow motion and you can't get away? It was like that. I couldn't bring my hand down with any force at all - it was like swinging it through mud. My smacks were useless and the boys were rolling their eyes at each other impatiently while they waited for me to get the hang of it. I was trying harder and harder to spank them, the panic rising, but I could barely manage to touch their bottoms. My arm was being resisted by the very air itself.

It kind of makes sense that I should have a performance-anxiety dream about topping; it's like dreams about taking your driving test when you can't drive, or playing a solo on an instrument you don't know how to play. Those kinds of dreams tend to focus on a skill which is inside your worldview, but not one you have any personal expertise in.

But the weirdest thing about it was that there was still quite a lot of spanking in the dream, which I was mostly watching other people do, and despite everything I still found the spanking erotic. The arousal clashed with the anxiety until my headspace was all conflicted and messy. I woke up feeling fretful and confused ... and irrationally guilty about involving my brother in such sordid activities, even if it was only in a dream.

I don't know what you think, but the meaning of this dream is pretty clear to me: I need a spanking. Best anxiety relief I know, and it should also settle any remaining confusion about whether I'm designed to be a spanker or a spankee!

welcome Amelia and Ariel!

Thanks to the ever well-informed Niki Flynn, I've just discovered that Amelia-Jane Rutherford, AKA Ariel Anderssen, has finally got a blog of her own. Despite being one of the best-known and most talented faces in bondage and spanking, until now she's focussed on offline activities, and hasn't had much of a presence in the blogosphere. I'm very glad to hear that she's joined us at last, and am looking forward to being able to stalk her properly, and not just fangirl quietly from a distance.

I only hope that blogging doesn't eat so much of her time that she's unable to keep producing so much fantastic bondage and spanking material. Dedicated she may be, but I wonder if she realises quite how addictive this is...

snow!

Did anyone else in England see the snow at the weekend? I couldn't believe it! Last week it was almost summer, bright and breezy and cheerful - and then at the weekend a surprise blizzard hit, snow falling thick and fast all through Saturday night and Sunday morning. I couldn't resist going out for a walk in it. London was picturebook beautiful, snow covering cars and rooftops and branches in a perfect layer that would have been unusual in winter, let alone in April.

It was freezing cold, but even so, I couldn't resist...

The snow had melted by Sunday evening, and this week spring has made a dazzling comeback. The warmer weather may be more comfortable for outdoor spanking adventures, but the snow was definitely more dramatic.

connected

(continued from the previous entry)

I don't really remember the order things happened next. At some point he bent me back over the pillows for the next implement, and, skipping the middle range, went straight to the Master cane I bought him for his birthday last year, a 12mm dragon cane with a polished ebony handle. It's a beautiful toy, stiff and sleek and heavy enough to leave bruises even on a spanking model who doesn't mark easily. I'm not sure if he gave me the first set of twelve before we stopped to take stock or afterwards. I remember that number six made me burst into tears, made me feel weak and tired and unable to cope. I know that my tiredness was bothering him, that he was searching for a way to fully and fiercely get my attention, to touch me to the core. There was no point me counting down the strokes until I was allowed to sleep, we were both looking for more than that. I was striving to be obedient but obedience alone wasn't giving us the emotional fire we craved. We're a stubborn pair and the night was still young; neither of us was willing to give up yet.

When the cane wasn't seeming to draw me out of myself, even the heavy strokes of the Master cane that cut deep into muscle and left vivid welts, he changed tack. I was asked to change into a slinky nightie. He wanted me to feel glamorous and sensual, to be fully on board with what was happening. When he got the wooden paddle out of the toybox I smiled to myself - I used to be terrified of this paddle, and now it's the toy we use to turn me on, the one that "switches on my masochism light". I'm capable of sexually enjoying the physical sensation of pain but it requires a precise set of circumstances, and submission alone doesn't seem to be enough to trigger the effect. (At least, not yet.) This paddle makes me aware of the full curve of my ample cheeks. It's a sex toy for sensual adults, round and smooth and not too heavy. My previous terror of it has lingered in the form of an electric excitement. When I become aware of myself, wrists pinned in the small of my back, bottom sticking up in the air and the paddle igniting a glowing heat in first one buttock, then the other, the fact of what's happening to me is unbelievably erotic. I'm turned on far more by my awareness of the experience as a whole, imagining how the scene must look, than I am by than the white-hot flare of each flat, crisp smack.

We were getting somewhere, but I was still kind of emotionally limp, still not engaging with him in the way he was looking for. The next implement in my "tour" was a riding crop, which, I have to admit, I'd been hoping he would use on me earlier in the evening. I trusted him, and was hopeful that maybe this would rekindle my overstimulated senses, bring me out of my passivity. Maybe it would turn me on until I was alive with sensation, begging for each stroke.

"I want you to stay still," he told me, after I'd had a sip of water and bent back over the pillows. "And I want you to stay quiet. I'm going to give you thirty-six strokes with the crop, and any audible sound you make will earn you three strokes afterward with the Master cane."

We'd played silence games like this before, and on occasion they'd tipped me instantly into subspace, triggering my natural pride into trying to take as much as possible, and immersing me in a raw and private world of pain which, not able to be relieved through my usual cries, built up inside me until something imploded in my head and I started to fly. But tonight? I was trying too hard to be obedient to have many clear thoughts in my head, but I remember feeling aggrieved as he started the whipping. He kept count for me and I gritted my teeth, trying to breathe through the pain. I remember thinking that I didn't want any more strokes from the Master cane, that thirty-six was unfair, that it was too many. I remember thinking that it was no fun for me, not being allowed to cry out. I couldn't relax, couldn't float on the sensation, couldn't make it something erotic. I just had to endure it. I felt victimised. I felt like someone being whacked unfairly, struggling to not respond, to not give an inch.

I gasped, loudly, at around six or seven. I think he let me get away with that one, but the next stroke that really got to me brought a loud flood of tears. I wept as much out of injured pride as out of pain, hating that he'd forced me to bring further punishment on myself, that he was going to break me whatever I did. And yet ... that desperation, that helplessness, was hotter than anything that had happened so far that evening. No matter what I did, I couldn't win. This wasn't what I was in the mood for, wasn't what I'd wanted him to do next. And that was what tipped me over. That was what exposed the core of me in the way he'd been seeking all along. Each time he forced a cry out of me I sobbed, hysterically, taking advantage of the opportunity to weep and weep. And each time he'd wait until I was calm, soothing me with caresses and soft words, holding my shoulders as I sobbed into the pillow. I was broken down completely. There was no pride left. He'd won, and he was going to keep going. I'd thought I'd been helpless before, but I'd just not resisted. Now I appreciated the difference, and the helplessness I knew now prompted a different sort of acceptance. I wasn't just letting him do what he wanted and trying to be obedient. I was completely present in my skin. All the chakras flared open along my spine, like a line of beacons passing their light from hill to hill. Something had clicked into place. He'd done absolutely the right thing. On a superficial level it was horrible and I hated the unfairness of it. But the vulnerability of it forced me to open up, to be vividly present in what was happening. Despite all my efforts and good intentions earlier in the evening, this was what finally allowed me to offer myself up to him in that intangible, indescribable way.

I don't really understand it. After thirty-six hard strokes with the crop I'd earned myself nine canestrokes, and I was raw and exhausted. He held me and soothed me as I cried myself out on his shoulder. Our embrace created a tiny and self-contained bubble of intimacy. We both felt it. We could feel each other's heartbeats.

We talked a little as he brought me down. I confessed that I still felt aggreived, still hated him a little bit for pushing me so far, even as I accepted that I'd needed it, that I found being made to feel that way incredibly hot. It was very challenging for me, psychologically. I would have found the whole experience much easier if we'd been roleplaying, if I could have thrown myself into a character that felt genuinely hard done by. But instead consent and desire, stubbornness and fear warred inside me. I trusted him - I didn't believe he was going to take me past my limits. But a part of me resented the unfairness of being tricked into bringing more punishment on myself no matter how hard I tried, and a part of me resented being hurt in a way that wasn't immediately fun.

That resentment didn't run deep, of course. To the bit of my brain that was watching what was happening and appreciates an edgy non-consent scenario, I found the whole thing extremely hot. But it also provided a very real hurdle for my submission to jump over. And that jump, that push, was what clinched it. That was what left me sobbing and sated in his arms, even as my pride was still nursing its wounds, fiercely glad that he'd had the courage and the skill to take me down that road.

He gave me the option, in the end, of whether or not I wanted to take the final nine strokes. He said he was proud of me already, that I didn't need to take them to prove anything. I didn't want them - oh, boy, did I not want them - but I know myself pretty well. I knew that if I didn't take them I'd feel like I'd failed, no matter how much reassurance he gave me. My own pride hadn't been extinguished completely, and I wanted to finish what we'd started. It wasn't going to be pretty, but I needed the closure. I knew I'd regret it if I took the easy way out.

I cried twice more during that last caning, even though the final four were relatively light. Both cheeks of my bottom were inflamed and swollen, little nubs of hard bruise forming in the centre of each one and welts painting red stripes from edge to edge. I was glad when it was over. But I was even gladder that it had happened at all.

overstimulated

If you're in a switch couple, do you each get a spanking from the other on your birthday? Not being in one, I wouldn't know. Having two boyfriends already means I get two birthday spankings, one from each of them. But - even more unfairly! - I also get a spanking on their birthdays.

Mr C turned 31 last Tuesday, and to celebrate I took him out for one of the most decadent meals we've ever shared. Nine tiny, exquisite courses accompanied by perfectly matched wines. We had the place to ourselves and enjoyed the full attention of the waiting staff, who seemed to like us - at least, we chatted to them quite a lot about the food and wine, and they gave us an extra course for free, apparently for no other reason than because we praised the rest of them so highly. By the end of the meal I was giddy and overstimulated. I've heard about food being aphrodisiac before and thought the idea was silly, mostly because I took the word literally. Eating this meal wasn't physically arousing. But it was sensual and hedonistic, awakening my senses and focussing all my attention on bodily pleasure. I don't eat food like that very often, and I found the complex, subtle tastes challenging and beautiful. As I tried each course I felt that my tastebuds were already becoming more discerning, better able to unpack the sophisticated, surprising flavour combinations, to savour and appreciate individual elements and how they interacted. The sensory overload left me excited, flushed, faintly dizzy.

I'd booked the meal early so we'd have time to play afterwards. I had fretted a bit, when choosing the restaurant, about whether a five-course taster menu would be far too much food. The quantities felt perfectly judged while we were eating - we took our time, but as each plate was taken away we were impatient to experience the next gastronomic bliss lined up for us. After petit fours and espresso we were full, but not over-stuffed.

By the time we got home from the restaurant an hour later, however, we both wanted to lie down. It had been an intense experience, and neither of us was in a hurry to do anything too energetic until we'd recovered. We cuddled and drank tea while we waited for our bodies to process the sensory deluge we'd just inflicted on them. I was a bit worried that I'd get so sleepy we'd have to cancel our play session (I have a bad habit of putting pressure on myself to play on special occasions, even though I know that feeling pressured is likely to stop me being able to relax enough to enjoy a scene). My back was hurting as well - one of my shoulders had been twinging all evening. Mr C massaged it for me, but I tentatively suggested that the most effective way of relieving the pain would be to flog me - he has a soft, heavy, lambskin flogger which is all gentle thud, and no sting.

He liked the idea, and after asking me to strip down to my stockings and panties, had me kneel on the bed, holding onto the headboard with my back arched. The flogging started oh-so-gentle, almost frustrating as my muscles in my back cried out for harder impact. He'd barely begun to really work on the sore points between my shoulderblades when he stopped, and decided to move me down the bed so he could cane my breasts.

Now, I love having my breasts caned. It's only been done a couple of times, but I lovelovelove it. I love kneeling with my knees apart, aroused and trembling as I hold my hands behind my back or above my head, exposing my breasts to my tormentor. I love the sensation of vicious flicks from a tiny, flexible cane or switch, strokes on the small, firm mounds of my breasts that make them bounce and me gasp. I love and hate the strokes that land directly on the nipple with a piercing flash of white-hot pain.

But tonight, I just wasn't in the right headspace. My back still hurt, and I had a mild stitch between my ribs from eating so much rich food. At first Mr C tried to tie my wrists to the bars of the bed, and when that didn't work for one reason or another I offered to just grip the footboard; but something (don't ask me!) had left a gluey residue on the metal bars of my bed, as if a sticker had been peeled off, and it got all over my fingers. Ew! By the time I'd wiped my hands clean, the mood had been pretty much lost. I was trying to be good, I really was - but my focus just wasn't there. I kept forgetting to ask permission to speak or fetch a drink or water. Mr C was firm and thoughtful and patient, but despite both of our best efforts our connection wasn't quite clicking.

After a flick on my right nipple made me screech and break position to clamp one hand over my breast, he realised that this wasn't going where he wanted, and moved me back to the head of the bed so he could resume the flogging. That worked better - the muscles in my back finally started to relax, and I sagged gratefully under the weight of the strokes. Afterwards he took me over his knee for a warm-up spanking, and he was gentle enough that I could find the familiarity comforting, could begin to let go.

Once my bottom was thoroughly pink I arranged myself in my usual position, bent over pillows in the centre of the bed, for the tawse. I have a light-weight black tawse which gives a warm, sexually-charged lick that isn't frighteningly heavy. It's soft enough to be sensual, but with enough sting to give it that edge I crave so deeply. I writhed as he whipped me with it, getting increasingly turned on. When he was satisfied that I was sufficiently warmed up he told me that it had been a long time since I'd experienced a proper implement tour, and that he intended to remind me what some of the toys in our collection felt like. Starting with the junior cane, a flexible crook-handled 6mm rattan - the first cane he (or anyone) ever used on me. He gave me 12, each one a sharp, swift bite that faded quickly, light and stinging.

The next cane up used to be called the "senior" cane, in the days when we only had two. It's only 2mm thicker than the junior cane and just as whippy. These days I can laugh about how light it is, how far I've come since I was scared of it. I was given 18 with this one, starting my count from 12. They hurt, but I tried to just relax into it, let the strokes wash over me. I struggled through them without too much difficulty.

When he drew me up for a hug and to check up on me, I felt completely floppy. I was coping alright with the scene, but I wasn't really with it. I was just too sleepy. He asked how I was and I said I was okay, but very tired. It's not that I wasn't in the mood for it - I was happy to submit to his intentions, to try be obedient. But my energy levels were very low, and apart from desperately wanting to please him, my heart wasn't really in it. Our connection was nowhere near as fired up as it's capable of being; our intimacy wasn't as raw. I wanted to give him a good end to his birthday evening, but I wasn't craving this; I wasn't so attuned to him that every sensation lit up something inside me; I wasn't lively and responsive and completely attentive to his touch. I was just tired. It happens to all of us.

Mr C could have given up at that point, and I am so, so glad he didn't. Our D/s dynamic has been increasing in trust and intensity as we've matured together, and although it's been a rocky road in places, things have been steadily growing deeper since we re-affirmed our commitment to each other last autumn. We still don't have the formal structure and protocols that we developed when he was first training me, when I was still a teenager, but I've grown up a lot since then and we're reapproaching something similar from a different angle, as equal adults who respect and trust one another. It's difficult, re-learning how to submit to him as an adult when I have the memory of the naive, unsustainable ferocity of my submission to him as a teenager lingering in my mind, begging the comparison. But I think we're on the right track, and each scene we've played over the last few months has taken us further down our shared journey, strengthened and affirmed our connection.

(to be continued...)

in memoriam

I love the subtler, more implicit end of CP photography. Atmospheric shots with emotional impact, anticipating an event rather than revealing it. Telling a story of tension, anxiety, ambiguity.

This shot has a pleasing mystery to it. Is the girl carrying the cane for her own punishment, or someone else's? Will she be administering the caning? Will she be forced to watch - and will it be her turn next? Does she know what to expect, or is this her first encounter with the implement? Is she walking into the shadows, towards fear and pain - or is she walking out of them, towards redemption and forgiveness?

The photographer I was working with on this shoot was Dave - or Focus3 - a lovely gent whom I first met working with Miss Bainbridge to create an office punishment photoset. Dave wasn't a spanking afficionado, but he had an aesthetic appreciation for the emotionality and powerful imagery of our kink, and was keen to explore it more. This was the only shot he sent me of a whole day we spent shooting together, and he was excited about returning to the theme and reworking it, searching for an image that perfectly captured the tension he had in mind.

Sadly - and wholly unexpectedly - Dave passed suddenly away last year. I never saw the rest of the photos, and I doubt I ever will. He was a talented photographer and a true gentleman. His open-mindedness, geniality and vision will be sadly missed.

But I'm glad I have this image, to remember him by.

Sugasm #125

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 #126? 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
Filling Myself
“We too want, need, conversations in which someone listens to us and considers our needs, not just their own.”

Sex Worker Solidarity: Amanda Brooks
“There’s a lot of love among activists, even those who disagree with one another.”

Need
“These images that come from the artistic workings of your inner soul speak to me, as mine do to you.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults)
10 Lies Pornographers Tell

Editor’s Choice
Though We’ve Never Met

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

sitting down afterwards

Sorry for the lack of posts over the last few days, I've been busy celebrating Mr C's birthday (which I will tell you all about in a day or two, once he's checked the entry over for me). I am now sitting on a sore but disappointingly unmarked bottom - last night it was red and welted with knots of bruise forming under the skin, but my new superwoman spanking model healing powers cleared most of that up overnight. Today it's tender to the touch, but all that's visible are some faded pink welts and pale fingerprint bruises.

It's funny - most spankos talk about not being able to sit down afterwards, but I've never really had a problem with sitting. Even when my bottom is deliciously tender to the casual squeeze, I don't mind the warm pressure sensation of sitting on a bruised bum. Welts and other skin damage don't tend to register through clothes when I sit down - it's just bruising that twinges, and even then, it's only really noticable on hard wooden or plastic chairs. Just a quick wince as I sit, and I actually like the reminder of whatever recent naughtiness I've got up to. (The only exception to this was when I still cycled as my main form of transport - I remember cycling home from the train station after a couple of heavy play weekends early in my relationship with Mr C which felt almost as bad as the beatings themselves! I very quickly got a better-padded bicycle seat after we started dating, I can tell you that.)

One thing I did discover the other day, though, was that although my nice cushioned desk chair is usually kind to a recently bruised bum, it makes all the difference if I sit on it naked. I sat down at my desk naked after a spanking recently and discovered quite how scratchy the upholstery is. I had to get a silky throw and spread it over the chair seat to protect my sore skin from being unpleasantly chafed.

So I don't mind hard chairs, but rough fabric on a bare, recently-spanked bum is horrible! Which do you find worse to sit on - welts or bruises, hard seats or scratchy upholstery?