summer break

I'm going on holiday tomorrow for a week, and won't be able to post again until the first of July. Elizabeth Simpson and Amber "Pixie" Wells have both opened the floor to questions lately, and I thought this would be a fun thing to leave you with while I'm away.

Is there anything you want to ask me? Anything I've written in here which confused you, or which you wanted me to tell you more about? Anything I haven't written about in here, which you'd like me to? What topics most interest you, what would you like to see more or less of on the blog? I'll be back in a week or so, and hopefully there'll be some interesting questions for me to chew over once I'm home.

Have fun, and play nice :)

humiliation is best served hot

Two days after a caning at the hands of one boyfriend, the other decided he was in the mood to play. Now, D. isn't really a spanking man. He likes power, control, humiliation. And his sadistic streak is a mile wide, but his tastes run more to the BDSM side of things, although he'll indulge my need for straightforward CP on occasion. But his main kink is dressing up. Or rather, dressing me up. Ridiculously, painfully high heels; stockings (holdups and suspenders; sheer if possible); latex; schoolgirl uniforms. Most of my fetish wardrobe was picked out by D. The rubber nurse dress, the see-through harem girl costume, the dresses that are more hole than dress - even the ones he didn't choose himself were strongly influenced by his tastes. I do, after all, have a very strong desire to please.

I'm in the habit of texting him, before I visit him, to ask whether he'd like me to bring anything to put on once I get there. (Sometimes he doesn't. Yesterday, his reply read

*smiles* Just your lovely self this time. *kisses*

which had me purring before I'd even left the house.) And sometimes he does. Last Friday, he asked me to bring my white slinky night-dress and thigh-high leather boots.

I packed them, and once I'd arrived at his place we chatted and caught up with each other's news. Until he, sitting at his computer desk, asked me, "So what do you want to do, then?"

"Well," I said, shy but determined, "I thought I could maybe put on my pretty boots?"

He smiled at me, the appreciative little half-smile I covet every moment I spend with him. "What a good idea. Why don't you go and do that."

I returned while he was still at his computer, and knelt by his feet, nuzzling his thigh as he finished composing an email. When he'd finished he spun his chair around and looked me over, his eyes glowing with lust and love. A hand trailed lightly up my satin-clad body and I shivered, smiling back at him. He took my hand, helped me to my feet, and led me out of the room. I was a strange mixture of self-conscious and exultant, self-conscious yet basking in his approval.

We stopped in the hallway and he kissed me. Nothing in the world is like his kisses. Melting, feather-light, teasing, promising. Unseen energies seem to entwine as our mouths meet. By the time he released me I was light-headed with arousal. He looked into my eyes, a complex, luminous look of love and joy and desire, and touched a finger to my bottom lip. "Wait here." He disappeared into the bedroom and I rested a hand against the doorframe to steady myself.

He came out carrying a ruler I bought for myself a couple of years ago, and gave to him last summer. It's smooth and unmarked, with rounded edges. Satiny feel of sanded wood. He likes to alternate smacking me and caressing me with it. He told me to bend over right there in the hallway, with my hands on the doorframe supporting my weight. My bottom stuck out at a right-angle, lifted by the high heeled boots. I arched my back and tried to keep my balance as I felt the first stroke of the ruler.

It was pure eroticism: me poised there for his pleasure and mine, teasing me with sensation. Sometimes he likes to torment me more with pleasure than with pain, awakening my inner masochist and then tantalising me by withholding the severity I crave. This time, he wanted me to feel it. I gasped as the ruler struck my bottom and upper thighs again and again, each stroke a quick, sharp flare of pain that left my skin warmed and tingling. Every so often he paused to run a hand over my reddening flesh, resensitizing my skin with the delicate caress. Then he started using the ruler in earnest, a series of hard, quick strokes. I remember being surprised by how hard it was, how relentless. I was torn, simultaneously wanting to arch back towards it and flinch away. He slipped his hand up to my breast and his fingers lightly teased me through the satiny fabric, suspending me between pleasure and pain. I whimpered, completely helpless under his skilful touch.

Later he moved me through to the kitchen. (He likes spanking me in the kitchen.) I put my hands on the edge of the sink and bent over, forced on tiptoe by the heels. He paddled me, alternating firm spanks on each cheek with his thin wooden paddle. After that, I'm afraid my memory gets a little vague. He might have used the ruler again. He certainly pleasured me with his fingers, teasing me and leaving me desperate for more. We moved back to the living room and he proceeded, slowly, and deftly, to take possession of me. The play had left me reeling, dizzy, compliant and utterly his. As he took his pleasure from my willing body, he took full advantage of that fact.

He was rewarding me for my obedience, letting me sit astride him until I'd achieved my own pleasure, when the doorbell rang. He stopped me deftly, lifted me to my feet and started buttoning his jeans. I was bewildered, aching from the release I'd been denied. I'd only been moments away. He grinned at me, reminding me that we'd ordered food about an hour ago. "Go and answer the door, then."

So it was that I opened the door and paid for our delivery while dressed in thigh-high black leather boots and a white satin slip, bottom and thighs recently spanked, blushing hotly from tousled hair to trembling breasts. My humiliation was complete - and, with it, his possession of me. I don't know if I was more flushed from embarrassment or from our recent activities. I made as little eye contact with the delivery guy as possible, grabbed the food boxes, shoved the money at him, mumbled my thanks and slammed the door shut. I was back in the living room when the doorbell rang again - he'd forgotten to hand us one of the items. D was merciful enough to answer the door and collect the extra box, but it was small relief. His grin when he joined me in the lounge was positively sadistic.

He did let me achieve the release I needed, though. Twice, in fact. Our dinner was cold by the time we finally got round to eating it, but I don't think either of us minded.

twelve inches too short

I went to a posh school with a strict uniform code (and yes, I had letters home about the liberties I took with it, silly little goth that I was). The skirt was designed to sit a couple of inches below the knee - which anyone will tell you is the most unflattering length, particularly if the skirt itself is square and shapeless. We all, inevitably, rolled the skirt up at the waistband or got our mums to hem it in an attempt to look less like we were wearing oversized sacks. Even I, who was always a loner at school, succumbed to peer pressure and shortened my skirt.

I love the idea of a rule penalising the number of inches a skirt is too short with that number of strokes. I'm not sure where I first encountered the idea. Certainly my school was nowhere near this strict - as long as not too much leg was showing we all got away with shortening our skirts to some extent. And even if a teacher did note our non-regulation dress, detention or letters home were the worst you could expect. But the image is a hot one. Teachers stalking the corridors, wooden rulers in hand, measuring the distance between skirt hem and knee. Six inches too short? Six strokes: with the same wooden ruler, of course.



I've posted a couple of pics from this photoset before, but I've just found a free hosted gallery containing several more. I promise you I never wore anything this short at school! (Although I have seen teenagers on the bus who have made me wonder.) Twelve inches shorter than regulation length ... that's twelve strokes, sharply delivered, first over knickers and then on the bare. I sulked and protested, but Mr Lewis was implacable.



Given the look on his face while I'm doing some well-deserved corner time, however, you have to wonder how much he really objected to the length of my skirt.

after the party

Leia-Ann Woods arrived at the English Spankers shoot as Mr C and I were halfway through our final scene. We'd been hard at work (or play; I never quite know which word fits best) all morning, playing two characters with a very edgy D/s dynamic between them. It was deep roleplay; exhilirating and exhausting. Even after my final caning we still had to do the stills, and after those I was drained, happy, and just wanted to curl up with my lover and sleep the rest of the day away.

But they'd planned a double scene with me and Leia-Ann, and I'd been looking forward to it - she's a great roleplayer and I've never acted with her before, although I've done a couple of shoots with her behind the camera. I was half-expecting another immersive psychological scene - all three of us are into D/s in our private lives, after all, and we're all experienced players. It would make sense for English Spankers to take advantage of that. My nerves were at an intense pitch; I still hadn't quite recovered from the emotional rollercoaster of that morning's shooting, and so many endorphines were flooding my body I was feeling giddy.

When the English Spankers told us they wanted a silly, erotic, consensual spanking scene, I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. It seemed such a waste of my heightened emotional state; I was ready to dive back into subspace at a moment's notice. But it was Leia's first scene of the day, and they decided they wanted something light-hearted. Peter described the scene to Leia and I: two young ladies home from an school disco themed office party, who seduce their colleague with spanking banter and end up getting more than they bargained for. The two of us went upstairs to try and find school uniforms as close to matching as possible. "I hate this sort of scene," I said to her as we compared tartans. "Yeah, me too," she agreed. We're both submissives: we like violence, coercion, power play. Persuading someone to spank you is all very well in real life, but it has no place in our fantasies.

I'm sorry to say that we didn't take the scenario very seriously. It was a bad pun fest from start to finish, with Leia and I taking the piss out of everything we could think of - Tom, each other, the director's instructions to sit with our legs far enough apart that the camera could see our knickers. I hadn't had much to drink, but my endorphine-fuelled giddiness matched that of my character. And while the office party was pure fiction, Tom and I may as well have just had our own private party (well, as private as you can be on set) in terms of its effect on our moods. We were high, inhibitions thrown to the winds. And for all my misgivings about consensual spanking scenarios, it seemed to work out alright. The photos stand by themselves - we might have been larking about, but it looked good.

Both Leia and I were vulnerable - she was on her first spanking of the day and needed a good warm-up, and I was bruised and sore from filming three previous scenes. Tom lingered over my "warm-up" as much to cover up my welts with a more even redness as anything else, and every smack made me wince. I was tender as all hell, and the brisk, cheerful spanking of the piece was the last thing I wanted - my headspace was still much more suited to slow, dreamy contact.

But I think the English Spankers are wiser than I realised. That chirpy, silly, pun-filled spanking was exactly the tonic I needed to bring me down before I had to face the journey home. The hand-spanking acted as a warm-down as much as anything else, and the giggles really helped ease my endorphine crash. (The wine helped as well.) When spanking two girls who are each at opposite ends of an adrenaline curve - one just having peaked, the other barely starting to climb - I honestly can't think of a better way of handling it. Despite my preference for dark, serious, psychological fantasies, at that time a fun, erotic spanking scene was exactly what my battered emotions - and bruised bottom - needed.

showing you my marks

The doorbell rang. I knew who it was - he'd texted me as he left work to warn me he was on his way. I was halfway down the stairs to the front door when I realised that I was only wearing a bra with my jeans. I'd taken my t-shirt off earlier - it was a sunny afternoon and my room was too warm for me to need it.

We kissed our hellos, and he made himself tea and went into the back garden for a smoke, saying he'd come upstairs and find me when he was ready. I got a few more minutes' work done before he came in, then finished the bit I was on and joined him on the bed. He kissed me appreciatively, fingers running lightly up my spine. I purred against him. "It's good to see you, sir."

He decided to cane me over my jeans, which he hasn't done in a while. I followed his instructions, arranging pillows in the middle of the bed and lying across them, bottom lifted towards his attentions, while he selected a couple of canes. He told me he would give me eighteen strokes, but that I shouldn't worry about counting them.

They hurt. I was wearing knickers under the denim, but each stroke bit as sharply as if it had been delivered on the bare. I don't know if he was compensating for the extra protection, if I was still being a wimp or if the jeans in fact offered no protection at all, but those strokes were definitely no joke. I managed the eighteen without breaking position, but there were a couple of outraged yells among my responses. The second one was particularly vicious. I struggled to present myself in the way he likes; back arched, bottom raised. I didn't want to present myself; I didn't want to relax my muscles before each stroke. My body was desperate to tense, to poise for flight. But he gave me time after each stroke to compose myself, and I fought to present myself properly, to relax.

Afterwards I was okay, even beginning to warm towards the caning a little. I was cuddled and then told to take my jeans and knickers down - he was going to switch to a more senior cane and give me another twenty four. And these he did want counting. I whimpered a bit - twenty four! Surely that's not reasonable! - and felt even sorrier for myself when I noticed which cane he was picking up. I thought he'd already been using that one - if the biting eighteen strokes I'd felt so far were from a junior cane, what would these feel like?

I arranged myself back over the pillows, and he admired my marks. "Can you take a photo so I can see, please, sir?" I asked. I was curious how much protection the jeans offered against welts, since they seemed to offer so little against pain. He was happy to comply. Then he asked if I was ready. "Yes, sir," I said, quietly, making involuntary fists and trying to relax. And he began.

It wasn't easy. The low strokes were particularly unpleasant. I felt thoroughly sorry for myself, hiding my face in the duvet to hide my scowls, grinding out my count through clenched teeth. The strokes were hard, and they were effectively delivered cold. At twenty-two the blazing pain broke through my self control and the tears started to flow. And suddenly all the tension seemed to flow out of me. I sobbed my way gratefully through the last two strokes, which were slow, measured, and hardest of all. The pain became exactly what I needed. I accepted it, took it into myself. I offered no resistance. I let it wash over me.

Afterwards he showed me the photo he'd taken, my marks from eighteen canestrokes delivered over jeans. I asked if I could post it on my blog, and he said of course. I'll let you into a secret: that was the reason I wanted a photo, all along. I wanted to show you my marks.

This isn't just the usual blogging addiction, for me. This is a familiar CP trope. After a trip to the headmaster's office, a school boy or girl returns to their dormroom for a public display of the damage; for sympathy, comparison, perhaps even help from a close friend putting lotion on the wounds. It turns private suffering into shared bonding. The experience is transformative, from the shame of punishment to a badge of honour, something to take pride in.

I took pride in my submission long before I started blogging about it. I take pride in pleasing my Dom. And I've always taken pride in my marks; but being able to show them to you, to those of you who are familiar with what I've just experienced, lets it become a different kind of pride. It's not only a secret knowledge I carry with me for the rest of the day; it's also a collective bonding, an opportunity for shared empathy and respect.

We didn't get a second photo, after the twenty-four strokes on the bare; we both had other things on our minds. So these are my eighteen cold canestrokes over jeans, and this is me in the virtual dormroom, showing you my marks.

maxi taming

It's funny how reality and fantasy intersect. The three of us haven't really had the time or energy for much play lately, and for a while my appetite for spanking faded to match. Over the last few days, though, it's started returning, and when Tom and I planned to spend last night together, I was really looking forward to having a leisurely evening to indulge our mutual kink.

If only life were that simple. I was cheerful when he arrived, and very glad to see him. We hugged and kissed and talked, and he was exhausted from work, so I ran him a bath and cooked dinner and washed his hair. I was in the mood to play, but he'd warned me he wanted some time to curl up and recover before having to do anything energetic, so I tried to give him the time he needed.

We took our dinner upstairs and sat down in front of some DVDs. By the time my beloved had settled himself enough that he was in the mood, I was wiped out. I fell asleep on him and our rare evening together was wasted.

Of course, guilt set in as soon as I woke up. Never the most useful of emotions. I wanted to reconnect with him before he had to go to work, but I tend to be fuzzy and cranky in the mornings, which is not an ideal starting point for a quickie spanking. I encouraged him to pull me over his knee, but once I was there, I realised in a rush of fear that I hadn't been spanked for ages¹ and that he was picking up his wooden hairbrush and oh god, please no, please not too hard.

Have I told you about this hairbrush before? He's had it for a while:



It packs a hell of a punch. It's heavier than our crisp wooden paddle, with tonnes more bite than my lovely smooth-backed Mason & Pearson. I've had some terrifying punishment spankings with this brush, with me screeching and howling from start to finish. And I've had some delicious, exquisite play spankings with it, where my fear of it (combined with Mr C's skill) contributed to my arousal and by the end I was lifting my bottom to meet each firm, loving stroke.

This morning, I responded indignantly. "There's a hairbrush under my bed!" I protested, referring to the much less dreadful Mason & Pearson in my toybox.

"I know," he replied, implacably.

Don't let the silly slogan on the back of the brush fool you. It's not just for hair with attitude - it's the best tool for taming recalcitrant submissives I've ever come across. In fact, the manufacturers must have had an inkling of this when they designed it: the front proudly boasts its powers of "maxi taming".



He did warm me up this morning, aware of the vague rebellion in my sleepy head. He started light-as-light, but I was so tired and wimpy that I squealed indignantly at every soft smack. It wasn't a long spanking. After a quick warm-up using his hand, he picked up the hairbrush and peppered my bottom with gentle spanks, increasing the intensity as I gasped. Before too long I was wriggling under a series of harder swats. He waited for me to be still, and then he dealt two crisp, solid strokes to my trembling bottom, one on each cheek. I imagine they still counted as "medium" on any objective scale, but I certainly felt them. And I'm sorry to say that rather than being grateful for being given the spanking I needed, I whimpered and sulked and demanded cuddles.

He's at work now, and I'm sitting here, thinking about last night, and this morning's spanking, and pondering the paradox that can make me crave CP for weeks and then resist it once it actually starts to happen. I'm hoping that tiredness is all that's going on here, and it's not anything more complicated. And I'm hoping above hope that when he gets home from work this afternoon, we'll be able to try again. I think I'm in need of just a little more taming.

1. This may be an exaggeration, but it's certainly how I felt.

Chross' spanking art gallery

Chross has just launched a new gallery showcasing his personal and ever-growing collection of spanking art. It includes fine art CP photography, spanking scenes in mainstream comics, and his own photos and drawings. There's not much there yet, but the fine art photography is particularly well chosen. This was one of my favourites:



The only quibble I have with this gallery is the lack of attribution for the photos. I'd like to see the name of the photographer added in captions, ideally with links to their website or the series this photo was taken from. This photo is called "Esther and Finn 6" - but does that refer to the title of a story, the models, or something else? And who takes the credit for this delicious image?

That said, I'm sure Chross will develop his gallery as he works on it - as I understand, it's only been online for a couple of days. And it's convenient to be able to browse his favourite images all in one place, especially when he has such fine taste.

with the flat of a sword

I had a delightful dream last night, full of pirates and conspiracy and being on the run out of Manhattan in a huge inflatable dinghy with spies and freedom fighters. At one point, one of the pirates broke an article of the pirate code and was duly punished by the pirate captain: eight hard strokes, applied on the bare with the flat of the captain's sword. The welts that blossomed under the tempered steel were very distinctive; raised white and purple weals fading to red at the edges.

Now, despite both my doms being experienced fencers, I've never been beaten with the flat of a sword. Neither of them has fenced for years, and these days their hectic work schedules mean we don't get the chance to play as often as we'd like - and when we do, we tend to stick to what we know works. So I have no way of knowing whether or not the dramatic welts my subconscious produced were realistic or not.

I've googled, but to no avail: the internet doesn't seem to have any photos of people being spanked with swords; the closest I could find was a reference to the Bride's fight with Crazy 88 in Kill Bill, where she sends the last man standing on his way with a humiliating smack to the arse with her sword - but over clothes, disappointingly. I also found a couple of fantasy porn stories which mentioned sword spankings, but in my opinion nothing can rival the formative scene in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, which affected me deeply when I first read it aged 7, and which has stayed with me ever since.

It's early on in the book, before Eustace's transformative experience on Dragon Island, when he's going out of his way to make himself objectionable to everyone on board. He particularly dislikes Reepicheep, the chivalrous talking Mouse, and one day Eustace sneaks up behind Reepicheep on the deck and swings him round by the tail. Reep stabs him in the hand, and then faces Eustance, brandishing his rapier and challenging him to a duel:

"Why do you not draw your own sword, poltroon!" cheeped the Mouse. "Draw and fight or I'll beat you black and blue with the flat."

"I haven't got one," said Eustace. "I'm a pacifist. I don't believe in fighting."

"Do I understand," said Reepicheep, withdrawing his sword for a moment and speaking very sternly, "that you do not intend to give me satisfaction?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Eustace, nursing his hand. "If you don't know how to take a joke I shan't bother my head about you."

"Then take that," said Reepicheep, "and that - to teach you manners - and the respect due to a knight - and a Mouse - and a Mouse's tail -" and at each word he gave Eustace a blow with the side of his rapier, which was thin, fine dwarf-tempered steel and as supple and effective as a birch rod. Eustace (of course) was at a school where they didn't have corporal punishment, so the sensation was quite new to him. That was why, in spite of having no sea-legs, it took him less than a minute to get off that forecastle and cover the whole length of the deck and burst in at the cabin door - still hotly pursued by Reepicheep. Indeed it seemed to Eustace that the rapier as well as the pursuit was hot. It might have been red-hot by the feel.

There was not much difficulty in settling the matter once Eustace realised that everyone took the idea of a duel quite seriously and heard Caspian offering to lend him a sword, and Drinian and Edmund discussing whether he ought to be handicapped in some way to make up for his being so much bigger than Reepicheep. He apologized sulkily and went off with Lucy to have his hand bathed and bandaged and then went to his bunk. He was very careful to lie on his side.

- C. S. Lewis, "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader"

Eustace doesn't earn himself a beating again, although before he reforms he comes close one more time, when Reepicheep catches him trying to steal water from the ship's rations. The incident is reported in Eustace's diary:

"I had to apologize or the dangerous little brute would have been at me with his sword. And then Caspian showed up in his true colours as a brutal tyrant and said out loud for everyone to hear that anyone found "stealing" water in future would "get two dozen". I didn't know what this meant till Edmund explained it to me. It comes in the sort of books those Pevensie kids read."

Which I always thought was a nice little meta-textual reference: of course any child reading the Narnia books would know what it means, too.

However, even wonderful excerpts like this don't help with the question of what the marks look like. I imagine it depends on the sword - rapier welts would look very different from those left by a flatter blade. I'll try and persuade one of my boyfriends to introduce me to the sensation (and hopefully take some photos for you while I'm at it. I might even dress up in a wench outfit), but if any of you can find pictorial evidence to assuage my curiousity in the meantime, I'll be a very happy girl. And it'd hopefully give me some idea what to expect ...

naughty nurse

I've recently been transferring my archive from my old hard drive to my new computer, which involves going through my modelling folders and deciding what's worth keeping. I've discovered quite a few shots I'd forgotten about. Like this series of me doing a striptease in a latex nurse "uniform":

How's that for a red bum?

Here's some more:



(Photography by Synthetik Demon.)

caned wearing bloomers

You probably all know by now about my bloomer fetish. So it should come as no surprise that I've taken a particular liking to this photo from the latest Lupus Spanking update:



The scene, unseasonally, is Christmastime - a quiet, normal domestic Christmas. The preview describes the scenario as follows:

They all fast. You have to fast on Christmas Day – otherwise how could you see a dancing fairy?

But Jane is willful and can’t resist the tray of sweets. And the maid? When the young lady permits, even offers her some...

But Hana notices. And why shouldn’t she tell her father about their misbehaviour? Jane’s upbringing can’t be neglected, even if it is Christmas. And if the flexible whistling rod can change the daughter’s mind, why shouldn’t it work on the maid? So both the “sweet” girls get their punishment, and their naked bottoms suffer some real beating.

I wonder if the girls were seeing dancing fairies by the end of their canings?

If you like the above pic, you might also enjoy the free hosted gallery and the preview clip from this film.

Kami Robertson

Hello, much-neglected blog! I've been terrible at posting lately, and I'm afraid I'm unlikely to get back to posting every day again for a while (although I'll try my hardest). Lots of other work stuff is going on at the minute - I juggle lots of different jobs, other than modelling, and they're all going haywire at once at the moment. There are some stressful deadlines that have me coding for twelve hours a day with no time to read blogs, let alone post. Then there's summer projects that need organising, and scary new opportunities that have me lying awake at night wondering about which direction I want my (non-spanking) career to go in. I'm afraid spanking hasn't been on my mind much of late, which is always a sad state of affairs :(

So if I owe you an email or a comment, it's not because I don't love you - I promise I'll find a day to sit down and catch up on my correspondence as soon as I can!

Being in a vanilla headspace for some reason means I'm not really in the mood to post pictures of me. I'm not sure why. Happily, there are lots of beautiful people I can post pictures in the meantime. For instance, have any of you managed to miss Kami Robertson, the stunningly cute new model on Northern Spanking and English Spankers?



She's young, genuinely kinky, and seems to be a complete sweetheart - I defy anyone who's read her interview with The Spanking Spot to not be utterly charmed by her :) I am, I have to confess, harbouring a teensy weensy crush. Don't tell her or anything.