mirror image

I just about met my deadline on Wednesday, and emailled it to D. (we're working together on this project) moments before racing out of the house. I paused just long enough to get his message asking me to bring my lacy dress and some high heels. The dress was bought at BoundCon; I don't have a picture of me wearing it yet, but will probably be taking it to my next shoot with Lady Sonia at the end of July, so I'll be able to show you after that. It's more hole than dress: black crocheted lace, with a tiny skirt barely skimming decency at the front and showing more of my bottom than it covers. The first time I tried it on to show D. I was instantly pounced and molested, which I thought was pretty good going.

I arrived at his; we talked about work a bit (he was happy with what I'd done; I'd had to race to finish it after spending the morning on more frivolous things) and then had dinner with his housemate. By the time we went to bed I'd drunk quite a lot of wine. I borrowed his camera to take the Vilena-style photos, and he grinned at me from the doorway, making helpful suggestions as I wiggled and occasionally fell flat on my face. "Arch your back more! Bring your knees as close to your boobs as possible! Lift your face higher! Now lift your arse higher!" (YES YES I AM IN FACT TRYING. Cheers for that useful advice, sir.)

So then I'm naked on his bed, a bit worn out and giggling after my exertions, and while I was innocently flopped on my front he proceeded to kneel on the back of my legs, reaching over the side of the bed and bringing out his biggest cane. It's long and thick and only bamboo, not particularly dense or heavy, but he enjoys how melodramatic it looks.

"Is this because I didn't do your work this morning?" I asked, flushing.

"Yes. That's exactly what it's about." I felt the tip of the cane trail lightly up the backs of my thighs, skimming the curve of my bottom. I swallowed, enjoying his dominance, and whimpered plaintively. My recalcitrance didn't impress him. He paused, lifting the cane away. "Of course, I could always not beat you?"

"I don't mind you beating me," I whispered hastily, "as long as you're not actually cross with me."

More feather-soft caress of bamboo. He followed it with his body, his hips pressing gently against me and his lips touching the back of my neck. "I'm not cross with you," he murmured, "but I am going to beat you. Because I like watching you wriggle. And because you're a naughty wench."

He spanked me first, harder than he normally does. He hadn't risen to my play-complaints, so I didn't indulge in them: instead, I responded with fervent enjoyment. I'd been thinking about this scene all day. I'd hoped for it, hinted at it. I hadn't been sure if he'd initiate it, and now he had I didn't want to put him off by pretending I wasn't into it. There's a time and place for resistance play, but as far as he was concerned, this clearly wasn't it.

By the time he started caning me the atmosphere was intensely sensual: strange for a punishment caning, especially one I knew I deserved. Usually punishments for real misdemeanours aren't fun for me at all. But my procrastination had been unprofessional - I knew that - and he hadn't had a go at me about it when I admitted I hadn't started work yet, so I'd guilted myself about it instead. But I'd also worked extra hard to make up, finished the job, and produced something he was happy with, so no harm was done. This was a deserved punishment, one I'd anticipated and needed, but there was no need to "teach me a lesson" - the lesson had already been learned. Partly it was just an excuse; partly it was cleansing my remaining guilt; and partly it was straightforwardly, without viciousness, reinforcing my existing awareness that I really shouldn't be doing that sort of thing until I've finished my other work.

Anyway, it was delicious, not brutally hard but stinging and satisfying, with a few strokes landing right on my crease. I hung onto the headbars of his bed, trying to keep quiet for the sake of his housemates, hissing through my teeth and flinging my head back as the harder strokes broke through my self-control.

When he stopped I knelt up, and my eyes widened at the iron hardness of his erection. For someone who claims not to be a spanko, he'd certainly enjoyed that.

"Put your pretty things on," he told me, smiling. I couldn't take my eyes off his cock. I leant forward to give it a quick kiss on my way off the bed, but he pushed my face away with his hand, still grinning. "Not until you're dressed, wench. We get distractedly too easily. Scoot."

I grinned back, and obediently tied the skimpy lace around my neck and hips. I'd forgotten to bring heels, but by that point he was too turned on to bother punishing me again, and I can't say I minded.

Of course, what better position to fuck me in than facing the mirror, head up and arse in the air? I watched my own face as he entered me, cheeks flushed and pupils the size of the moon; I watched his pecs flexing as he moved, his lean shoulders and sharp cheekbones; I watched looking at my body in the mirror, looking at my face, looking down at his cock sliding into me. I looked right back at him until I couldn't keep my eyes open or my head up any more, and then I buried my face in the mattress and cried out, no longer thinking or caring about what I looked like.

Perfect for more than just spanking, indeed.

the Vilena pose

Do any of you read Questionable Content? It's one of my favourite webcomics, and I've been following it for years. It's not normally renowned for its kinky potential, apart from some of the strips featuring queer librarian Tai (on whom I have a massive crush). Imagine my surprise when D. linked me to this drawing by QC artist Jeph Jacques:



Apparently, this was created in response to a Russian photo meme started by a girl called Vilena, who became popular overnight after posting a similar image on a social networking site. Some say the appeal is in the enormous size of her bottom compared to her face; others because of the look in her eyes. Or perhaps because it's a perfect position for a spanking?

Either way, hundreds of Russian women immediately started posting photos of themselves in the same position. I've not really seen it spread to the UK or America, though, apart from that single reference in J. Jacques' livejournal. I've certainly never seen anything referencing it in the spankosphere.

Time to remedy that, wouldn't you say?



It's actually surprisingly difficult. Does anyone else want to play? I bet you're all much more bendy than me.

tweets of spanking

I've just discovered TwitterFox, a FireFox addon that allows you to use twitter through multiple identities. The reason I haven't had a kinky twitter account until now is that I already run a public vanilla twitter, and I didn't want to be endlessly logging in and out. TwitterFox has solved that problem with its nifty drop-down menu to select between accounts, and very happy about it I am too. I've spent the morning naughtily designing a layout for my twitter page rather than doing the work I was meant to be doing. The work I'm meant to be doing at the moment is for a new business D and I are starting, so I'm shooting myself in the foot really. And quite possibly earning myself a spanking when I see him tonight. But look! Isn't it pretty?



While adding the twitter feed to my blog sidebar, I took the opportunity to spruce up the blog design a bit. This means that all my carefully-resized images will be totally swamped by my new wide post layout on all but the tiniest screen resolutions, but no matter. Here's a nice wide screenshot to celebrate having a bit more space.

The new blog title has been simmering for a while. I'm not going to change the url of my blog, but I was never happy with "Pandora's Blog" as a name, and I think the new one expresses the right balance between submission and feminism. This blog is about kink, sex, politics and the porn industry; and however spanked and sorry I may be, no-one will ever stop me thinking and talking and speaking out on issues I care about. Neither of my Doms would ever dream of wanting to, which is one of the reasons we chose each other.

So, come and find me on twitter! And now I really should get on with some work.

"I'm Fiona Locke, and so's my wife!"

The reason I've never written a review of Fiona Locke's "definitive CP novel" Over the Knee is an interesting story.

When I was at uni, we had a "family" system for first years, where an older student doing the same subject would be picked to be your mentor. My uni "mum" and I couldn't really have been better matched: at the first family dinner in Freshers' Week, we clocked each other's dyed black hair, heavy eyeliner, and scarred forearms with a mutual understanding. She stayed on to do a Masters, and throughout my three undergraduate years we'd often be found sitting on the steps in halls, smoking Marlborough Lights (no, I don't any more), bitching and bonding. We kept bumping into each other on random online communities, we had very similar problems with food and our bodies at the time, and all sorts of other things in common.

When we were students, she wasn't into spanking. I talked about my kink and she listened, and occasionally made wistful comments about how maybe she was kinky after all, but then she remembered that she was really happy with her vanilla fiancé, so that was that.

She got back in touch a few months ago, and we met up for drinks. Both of us had fallen out of touch with most of our other acquaintances from uni, but we quickly realised that the other was what I think of as a real person: a kindred spirit, someone who gets it. I'm not just talking about spanking; we'd both turned into sexually adventurous, politically minded, independent women with very similar tastes. Except that she was still with her vanilla fiancé, so she hadn't yet had much experience of kink. She was interested enough, however, that I sent her away with my copies of Over the Knee, Dances with Werewolves and Sex in Uniform (which includes a delicious naval cross-dressed caning story by Fiona Locke), hoping that they would awaken her inner kinkster.

I had difficulty getting in touch with her for the next few months. After a while I stopped sending her emails, and figured she'd get back to me when she was ready. Eventually I got a text from her. Long story. Am moving to the States with my new Dom. Probably won't be able to take you up on that offer of drinks. Are you surprised?!

I wasn't. Not at all. But she still has my damn books.

--

There has been some speculation this week on the "true identity" of Ms Locke. It was all started when Emma-Jane vehemently denied that it was her, and set everyone to wondering. Zille Defeu sums up the available information, causing wild guesses that Fiona is Caroline Grey (she denies it), Peter Markworthy of English Vice (so does he) and Rosaleen Young. After all, what spanko conversation would be complete without mention of the International Bottom of Mystery?

Ludwig joined the fray with a flattering, but entirely inaccurate, theory that I'm Fiona Locke, which of course means now I have to post and deny it. Prefectdt offered the hilariously credible idea that it must be one of my Doms; I was tempted to play along and claim that yes, Tom is the true Fiona Locke, but when I asked him he didn't seem as amused by the idea as I was. In any case, while he is certainly more inclined to novel-writing than me, I can't see him ever publishing under a female persona.

Amy Hunter, observant wench that she is, has pointed out that I'm named on English Vice as a "friend" of Angie and Peter. Peter himself tells us that he wrote that paragraph, and he certainly isn't Fiona Locke.

Logically, the existence of Peter tells us certain things. Tempting as the arguments are for a male Fiona, if the "Angie" of English Vice is male, who is "Peter"? A gay partner? An invented character, mischeivously participating in the conversation on Zille's blog (in which case he's lying; he is Fiona Locke)? At this point the subterfuge becomes far too complex for me to wrap my head around, so for the moment I'm going to abandon that idea, although if you want to try and work it out, by all means feel free.

Obviously if I did know Angie's real identity, and was her friend, I wouldn't publish it here, when she's clearly not ready to share her secrets. But I'm amused that everyone's so quick to jump to the conclusion that the name-check on their website means I'm privy to their every secret. Is it so implausible that I only know Angie and Peter online? There are plenty of friends in this scene I haven't met in person yet: most of you lot, for a start.

Even if I don't know who they are (and if I did, I wouldn't tell you), it makes sense that Angie and Peter are the pseudonyms of a spanko couple we know under other names. After all, Angie writes about being active on spanking forums, and they still update their website occasionally, if less often than they used to: but they almost never post on blogs or forums, which seems strange for web-savvy, social people. Is English Vice the only place they talk about kink online? Or are they doing so elsewhere, under different names?

My personal favourite candidate is, and always has been, Haron of the Spanking Writers. Haron is a talented writer, an intelligent and very kinky woman, with many of the same tastes and fantasies as Angie. She clearly has a wealth of personal experience to draw from, and she's more careful about sharing information about herself online than some - perhaps to protect her nom de plume. We know she's a keen writer, quite possibly published; she wrote for Lowewood throughout its lifespan, and talks on her blog about writing erotic fiction.

We have never seen a picture of Haron – or her partner Abel – and so it's perfectly plausible they are the couple posing on the covers of Fiona's books, and for the photos on English Vice. They are English, and can you think of a better inspiration for the Professor character than Abel? I haven't yet read On the Bare, but a few scenes from Over the Knee are strangely similar to those in The Spanking Writers: like Angie, school roleplay and motivational spankings helped Haron while she was writing her thesis; and, like Angie, she was given a celebratory caning to mark its finish.

Of course, I've met Haron, so I know (and so do several of you!) whether or not she does in fact resemble Angie's photos on English Vice. But ... even then, that wouldn't necessarily prove it either way: Fiona could always have got a friend to model for her. After all, in Over the Knee englishvice.net already exists when Angie discovers it, run by another kinky couple with a penchant for outdoor punishments. Perhaps Angie identifying herself with Fiona is a sneaky piece of misdirection, to help keep her friend's identity safe?

It's all far too complicated. Fiona clearly doesn't want to be identified - yet. But I don't think she'd mind some idle speculation. As for whether she is really Haron - you'll have to ask her yourself :)

the psychology of domination

From this month's issue of Filthy Gorgeous Things, which is promisingly entitled Force, and focusses on BDSM, rough sex, dirty girls and iron cocks - and, as ever, beautiful writing, photography, art and design. Go, admire, allow yourself to be teased until you're hot and bothered and ready to surrender.

rumbled on tumblr

The eagle eyes of Roland Hulme recently alerted me to two instances of copyright theft on tumblr. I've never used this site before, and it took me a little while to work out the interface (what do you mean, you can't leave comments on blog posts?!). Still, I eventually managed to trace the images back to their original poster, "bendoverloverboy".

Let's compare this image with the original, shall we? Notice anything different? How about this tumblr pic, compared to this photo hosted on my website?

Not only has he reposted images from my website without credit or attribution, he carefully took the time to trim my watermark off both images, rendering them anonymous before he re-uploaded them. The mirror image is actually © the photographer, Jay Oak, meaning his copyright has also been infringed.

Bend over indeed, lover boy. While I thrash you with the Big Stick of Netiquette. Not only is this damn rude, it's also illegal, and contrary to tumblr's Content Policy.

I've notified tumblr, but haven't been able to contact the thief himself, as he doesn't list his email and the site doesn't allow comments on blogposts. (Since writing this post, tumblr have removed the offending posts: kudos to them for the swift response time.)

The original image Roland pointed me at was 22 "reblogs" down the chain, and while I was puzzling over how to trace it back to its source, I very nearly decided not to bother. After all, I'm not making money off these images. But I persisted; it's a point of principle, especially when I'm not the only person whose copyrighted material is being stolen. By the time I'd written an email to the support team reporting the infringement, I'd worked up a nice head of steam, and felt thoroughly justified.

It made me wonder, though. Realistically, when is it worth pursuing this sort of theft? Is there a difference between images you have to pay for, and content which is released free of charge? If an image is published in the public domain, is it fair game? Or is reposting things only acceptable as long as you don't alter the original image, or post a credit linking the copyright holder? I'd be really interested to know your thoughts.

101 uses for a flogger

Well, two, anyway.

I.
A few nights ago D. and I were in bed, settling down to sleep. The lights were off, the windows open to try and get some through breeze; it's been baking in London since I got back. Once side effect of this is insects.

The first thing I know about the fly is D. jumping up and swatting irritably around his head, but by then it's flown off. He settles back down, grumbling about the uselessness of my cat, who is curled up on my feet and totally uninterested in hunting flies. After a few more minutes of buzzing and taunting on the part of the fly, D. loses patience. He turns the light on and looks around for it. It's up near the ceiling, too far to reach with a book, and I don't have a fly swat.

Naturally, D. grabs the nearest likely object to hand: Tom's brown leather martinet, left crumpled on the floor at the bottom of my bed after our scene with Caroline. (Yes, I need to tidy my room.) He starts lashing the flogger at the fly with a practised right arm, while I wake up enough to collapse in giggles. After a couple of strokes he hits his mark, and the fly plummets lifeless onto his pillow. The hapless creature is deposited outside, while I crack jokes about his irrepressible domliness. Secretly, I can't help feeling slightly jealous of the fly.

II.
D. and I again, a couple of nights later. We're at his place this time, nearing the end of a long weekend of sun, friends, and re-acquainting ourselves with each other's bodies. I'm feeling recharged and horny after my week in the sun, and can't seem to get enough of him.

We've been up all night partying, and are both tired, but for me the tiredness is overwhelmed by sexual hunger. He's still feeling worn out, but I tell him he doesn't need to move much. He lies facedown on the bed while I lick him all over, and then lick him in some very specific places which swiftly wake him up. Before I know it I'm on my back, clutching the head bars of his bed with both hands, and he's kneeling over me with his horsehair rubber flogger, grinning. This is a sensation-play toy rather than a particularly hard one, and I can't take my eyes of him as he takes his time shaking it out, teasing out the tangles with his fingers.

He whips my breasts with it, alternating each stroke with caresses that sensitise my nipples, and make the next hurt more than I expect. It hurts just enough to make me desperate for more, but not enough to make me afraid.



Later I'm kneeling up on the bed, legs spread wide and my hands clasped behind my back. He looks me in the eyes as he lifts my chin with one hand and slaps my breasts with the other. The slaps are hard, hard enough to shock me. I can feel the weight of my breasts, despite their smallness, as they bounce under the smacks. Between slaps he leans forward to kiss me; hot, teasing, melt-in-the-mouth kisses. Neither of us is particularly patient, and before much longer we're fucking as hard as we can, flushed and panting and me screaming loud enough to seriously annoy his neighbours. This is why I never believe him when he tells me he's too tired.



Last night, I found myself replaying the scene as I pleasured myself. I don't regret the passion that led us onto other things so fast, but pure sex is never enough to stimulate my imagination when I'm on my own: my masturbatory fantasies are far rougher and nastier than the things I usually get up to. I pictured myself tied down on my back, hands together and feet forced apart. A blindfold tied tightly over my eyes, heightening my sense of touch and making me more aware of my vulnerably open mouth. He's playing that stinging rubber flogger up and down my body, not discriminating as to where: the stinging lashes falling on breasts, nipples, tummy, ribs, hipbones, thighs. I'm twisting under the strokes, the tender flesh of my belly and sides unused to the impact, trying in vain to escape the stinging whip, but my moans belie my movements and every stroke just makes me wetter...

That's as far as the fantasy got, I'm afraid. Curse my short attention span.

kinks I still don't have

I'm still recovering from my working holiday: building things out of wood in the outdoors for a week was rejuvenating for the soul, but tiring for the body. And the frantic admin involved in organising it all beforehand took its toll. I've been in the office a lot since I got back. Last night after work I was in bed by 7pm, and stayed there until nearly midday. It was awesome, and I got to enjoy that emotionally vivid type of dream peculiar to lie-ins, after you've already been woken once by the dawn (or, in my case, cat).

My dreams this morning involved:

• Twisted fairytale adventures in medieval castles, involving lots of hiding and chasing down spiral staircases.


• Sorting through boxes and boxes of old junk in one of the houses I used to live in (this is a recurring dream; I've moved house a lot). This time the junk included hundreds and hundreds of felt tip pens, and in my dream-wisdom I decided to test all of them to see if they worked.


• Discovering the collection of long knives and swords I'd hoarded during my adolescent sword fetish, and getting excited at the memory of penetrating myself with them.


• Cleaning all the blades, most of which were rusty, although they had beautiful decorations and velvet and leather sheaths. Then getting out a pack of condoms and intimately re-familiarising myself with them one by one.

Spiral towers, pens, and swords: Freud would have a field day. In actual fact I didn't have a teenage sword-fucking fetish, nor did I collect blades (although an ex-boyfriend did). Both are pure invention on the part of my subconscious, which has always been good at creating false memories to back up the random situations it puts me in.

I'm pleased that my dream-self is responsible about hygiene, although how the condoms didn't split on the sharp points I have no idea. It was a hot dream, in the way that random things can become erotic in dreams simply because your brain decides they are. However, now I'm awake I have no more desire to insert sharp metal things into myself than I did before I went to sleep. Sorry to disappoint, subconscious. You are still more perverted than me.

while I was away

Well, I'm back. A day later than expected, thanks to last-minute car failure that resulted in a seriously frustrating 24 hours at the mercy of the AA, but home. I collapsed straight into bed when we staggered in last night and I've been in the office all day today.

So I don't have any kinky news for you. But the world, when I returned to it from the isolated depths of rural England, had plenty of news for me. In the Guardian on the train home I read that Darryn Walker, the blogger who was prosecuted for obscenity after writing a fantasy about abducting, raping and murdering girls band Girls Aloud, has been acquitted. A win for free speech, whatever your opinion about Mr Walker's taste or lack of respect for his fantasy objects. If the prosecution had been successful this would have been the first obscenity conviction of a textual crime, and I'm pleased that the precedent hasn't been set.

The bad political news is that Night Jack, the anonymous Police Constable who won the Orwell Prize for his blog about the police force, has been outed by the Times. Not the first, although political bloggers tend to get less publicity than sexual ones, but policing has been rife with scandal over the last few months, so the story is big. I didn't always agree with Night Jack but I supported his right to privacy, and I think his exposure is a sad, shameful and unnecessary thing. My day job isn't anywhere near as sensitive and interesting as his, but I've already come to terms with the possibility of being outed one day to loved ones who would be hurt by the revelation. I would rather break the news to them myself, and there's a tightening in me at every public humiliation which brings that inevitability closer.

--

The kink world has been busy in my absence, too. You've probably already seen them, but since I got back online I've been hungrily devouring Adele Haze's and Ludwig's accounts of their latest shoot with Lupus Pictures.



Adele has excelled herself in a series of wry, beautifully described posts, starting with a selection of The Annotated Lupus Tweets, which she follows up with a gorgeous post about Remembering the Pain, and an indulgent look at the Lupus Marks in Development, a narrative I never tire of seeing recorded in pictures. Ludwig, meanwhile, tells of unexpected Czech lines, false moustaches and caning positions. Definitely a film to look out for.

to play or not to play?

One of these days I will stop trying to cram umpteen million things into every week and actually have time to be the faithful and diligent blogger I aspire to. I haven't finished writing about this week yet, let alone BoundCon; nor I have written the synopses or titles for the Roué films (sorry, Dave); nor written about seeing Waiting for Godot on Wednesday (it was excellent, but not terribly kinky, so perhaps there's not much to tell).

This is because since Caroline left on Wednesday and I landed back in reality with a harsh bump (which my sore arse did not appreciate one bit) I have been ludicrously busy. Things occupying my attention have included:

• going in to work like a good officemonkey;


• worrying about my financial future now that one - and possibly both - of my ongoing contracts are coming to an end;


• reassuring D. I still love him (this involved dressing up in a tartan miniskirt and white kneesocks, and allowing him to fuck me until I scream. No complaints here!);


• concocting outrageous plans to go into business with D. and take over the world;


• running around like a headless chicken frantically trying to organise the outdoor project I'm running next week.

Yep, it's that time of year again: this time tomorrow I'll be journeying out of the city and into Nature, which I love like a true masochist, despite its habit of mercilessly raping my face in showers of pollen bukkake on summer mornings. Once there I intend to camp and make Art and definitely not get stoned, of course not, what kind of layabout drug-addled hippy do you take me for.

(Sorry. All this running-around sourcing art supplies and herding my team of layabout drug-addled hippies may have left me slightly manic.)

Anyway, I very much doubt I'll have time to line up a neat series of BoundCon posts to publish in my absence, so all will be quiet from me until I'm back. In the meantime, I want to tell you about Tuesday night.

Haron invited me and Tom to the dinner party her and Abel were hosting when I saw her t'other week. Tom sent his apologies - he was working that night - but I decided screw it, I'd go anyway, I never go to these things and I wanted to see as much as possible of Graham and Caroline while they were in town.

I knew that by "dinner" they probably meant "kinky" and was looking forward to spending social time with likeminded friends, but I wasn't planning to play. For a start, my arse was a state, and even if I'd been up for taking yet more punishment on my beleagured butt I wasn't sure it was a good idea. Secondly, I wasn't sure how comfortable I'd feel at a group play party without my Dom.

See, I'm actually really inexperienced at this whole topping/bottoming thing. I do it on film, and that's brilliant and a very specific set of headspaces. I don't bottom to my Doms, I sub to them, which is different yet again. While I'm poly, I don't really have many other playmates. I don't have the energy: it all goes into working and creative projects and my existing relationships. When I've dated J I've subbed to him, but that's not happened for a while. No-one else is really close enough to count as a "Dom". My lovely toppy friends are tops, and actually, subbing is so amazing and intense and fulfilling, and my bottoming/roleplaying itch is usually satisfied by shooting, that it's hard to find space in my busy brain for casual play with toppy friends on top (as it were) of everything else. Besides, if I'm finding the time and energy to seduce any new lovers, they're much more likely to be female. And the story of My Attempts to Sub to Women is a whole other novella which I don't have time to write just now.

Which is fine, and my lovely toppy friends are lovely and therefore not the types to put any pressure on me. But still, I've very rarely played with non-Doms without one of my Doms being there, thereby providing a sort of Domly Umbrella which I can sort of generally sub to, which makes my headspace much easier. Just casually playing with toppy friends without my Dom there to look after my comfort zone, and without getting paid, was a fairly new experience. God, that makes me sound like such a whore. But you know what I mean.

I arrived at the party later than everyone else, thanks to working in the arse-end of London until 6pm, and everyone was already very bouncy and tipsy. I'm not going to do the full name-check but it was marvellous to see new and old friends alike. Haron got me a glass of wine and I started trying to catch up with the drinking.

While I was still relatively sober, I admit I found the flirty, pervy atmosphere a bit overwhelming. It was all very friendly and no-one was behaving inappropriately, but I felt surrounded by brats being mischievous and tops making lewd threats, and I found myself actively seeking out the non-kinky conversations where I could be a normal grownup lady rather than just a spankable bum. I'd sort of decided by this point that I wasn't going to play, not because I absolutely intended not to, but because I'm really bad at saying no, so it was easier to change my mind from No to Yes than the other way round, and this way I wasn't in danger of putting pressure on myself to do something I wasn't comfortable with.

The play started sporadically, the odd brat hauled over a knee for untying shoelaces and generally Asking For It. Abel's girlfriend was very sternly dealt with and made to face the wall, sobbing, which was simultaneously uncomfortable to watch and deeply hot. After dinner Caroline and Rebecca were hauled upstairs by Jessica for a double caning, and made to show their marks to Rev Jenkins. (I took a picture, but I'd rather not post it until I've checked if Rebecca's happy with me doing so.) I took on the role of Resident Lotion Applier, which wasn't just an excuse to fondle Caroline's spanked bottom, honestly. Things hotted up. Pretty soon I felt like the only person there who liked being spanked and hadn't been (although that wasn't true - a couple of the others were abstaining for their own reasons).

Once I'd decided that maybe I did want to be spanked after all, I suddenly remembered how marked I was. I didn't want to parade my bruises in front of the whole house (not out of shyness, but I used to be so attention-seeking I now get paranoid if I think I'm in danger of it) so I dragged Haron upstairs and demanded she give me her expert opinion.

Bending over the edge of their double bed, I raised my skirt and she knelt behind me. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news," she said, tracing the thickening scabs with her fingertip, "But I think you're too damaged."

"I suspected as much," I sighed. "How bad is it?"

"Well, unless the top only hit your thighs and certain areas of your left buttock, it's going to be messy."

So we went back downstairs, and because I was drunk I started whining loudly to anyone who would listen about how ironic it was that earlier I wasn't sure I wanted to play, and now really wanted to, I couldn't. Then I stopped whining because it was annoying. So I sat and fidgeted for a while, and watched HH spanking Kami with a frat paddle that was bigger than she was, and when she'd been well aftercared and there was a gap in the conversation I scooted in next to them and wailed "I want to play! But I don't think I can!"

"So play," grinned Kami with a shrug.

"But I asked Haron and she said I shouldn't!"

"Come on," said HH, "Let's have a look."

So it was, despite my earlier self-consciousness, that I knelt on the sofa and exposed my bruised and scabby bum to the whole room, while HH undertook a detailled "examination". ("For the power of SCIENCE!" I quipped, clearly not knowing what was good for me.)

"Hrm," said HH. "Yes. Yes, I think we can do something with that." I found myself being led upstairs, while HH explained that he was going to use the same tawse on me that he'd previously introduced to Graham, it being reasonably light and unlikely to add to the bruising.

I was kind of dazed as I followed his lead. Drunk, I guess; happy that I was finally playing; resolutely not feeling weird about any of this. We'd played well and deeply before on several occasions, and we'd shared some pretty deep conversations earlier that evening. I was nervous of being tawsed cold and gabbled something about how tawses had made me cry lots on shoots. But I wasn't really scared. I trusted him.

I stretched out on the bed. He was talking in that rich, soothing voice of his. I can't remember what he said but I felt very small. As soon as the first stroke fell I shrieked and suddenly remembered what Haron had said about thighs. None of the strokes were easy; there was no "warm up", although I'm pretty sure he got harder as I got used to it. After the first few I yelled and tossed my head, clinging to the bars of the bed for dear life. I kicked too, and he told me off for that. But it was strange: despite the sharpness of the cold strokes slicing into my vulnerable thighs, the lack of roleplay context to immerse myself in, I never panicked. I never wanted it to stop, I never worried I couldn't take it. I just responded, loudly and vocally and sincerely, with my whole self.

I think I started sobbing after the third or fourth stroke, but I can't really remember. Tears poured down my face. I choked and sniffled and felt bad about getting mascara stains on Haron's bedsheets. But I was totally relaxed. When he told me to stay still, I stayed still. Tears poured out of me, all the restraint of the previous night's play gone. I cried like a little girl. It was wonderful.

Just when I was settling into the rhythm of tears and voice and stinging flashes of pain, just when I was confident I could keep this up, and starting to worry that that meant it wouldn't end for hours, he stopped, apologetically. One of my cuts had reopened and was bleeding. So he went and got a tissue, while I sagged on the bed, wiping my eyes, and then he mopped me up and we mutually exclaimed over the lack of aloe in the house (honestly! what sort of kinky house is this?) before deciding that cocoa butter would do fine. My bottom was cossetted and pampered after its ordeal and so was I, and there was lots of cuddling and it was lovely.

The rest of the party was terribly, terribly drunken, and I won't embarrass myself or others by sharing its secrets.

But that tawsing on my thighs was wicked. I had stripes for two days!

Today my marks are at that itchy, peely stage where I can't scratch it without scabs flaking off. I love me a bruised, welted arse, but scabs are just annoying. This is my last night with D. before I disappear off into the wilds of nature, and I don't want a passionate parting fuck to be spoiled by the flaky scabs from my dalliances with other men. Oh well. I'll just have to distract him. It's amazing what you can do with white kneesocks and a tartan miniskirt.