When a caning is just what you need

Frustrated by not being able to run any other processes while editing video, I recently souped up my four year old Dell to a whopping 4GB of RAM - the maximum I can get without replacing the motherboard. It's much more capable of multitasking as a result, but file conversions and rendering still take bloody ages. I set the "Scrubbing a floor naked for 60 minutes" video I was putting together for my client rendering at about midday, and it's still going now. Admittedly that's an hour's film at DVD quality, but still. I need a new PC.

Since I'm not going to be able to sleep as long as my computer is whirring fit to take off, I may as well tell you about the spanking I got this evening. D and I left it far too long between dealing with my accumulated misdemeanours. It's been a horrendously busy month for me, so I've had little time for exercise; that, combined with snatched, tired time together meant that I'd built up a hefty score to settle. As he was doing the maths I groaned and asked if we could deal with some of it next time. I didn't expect him to go for it, but he did, and when I discovered that the total was over a hundred swats with the brush, I was relieved.

He let me go over his knee this time, and I was grateful - the physical contact made me less afraid, although it didn't really make it hurt less. I was due 42 this time for missed exercises, with 48 still to come; plus 12 for two missed check-ins. The 42 came in long, brisk sequences, more than six at a time, at least it felt like it; possibly in tens. Although I had the reassuring warmth of his thighs under my hips I didn't even get a rub inbetween sets, or a word from him, until we were most of the way through. I am developing a healthy fear of that brush, I can tell you; he doesn't even have to use it hard and it stings like hell.

I found myself experimenting with ways of processing the pain. Holding my breath. Clenching my teeth. Stuffing the duvet cover in my mouth. Kicking, yelling, cursing, hissing through my teeth. Taking deep breaths. Howling. Nothing helped me get through it except time and endurance, and then I was hanging limply over his lap, out of breath, amazed at the ability of that piece of wood to break through all my experience and enthusiasm to render me completely helpless.

The last twelve, for failing to make my daily check-in twice, were hard. I opted for the "yelling" approach this time.

Then it was over, and after a very welcome rub I got an affectionate smack, which my whole body responded to by going yes! That's more like it! That I can deal with! I communicated this to D, and got a lovely short, firm hand-spanking in return which, bizarrely, felt like balm to my blazing cheeks.

D reminded me that my health is more important than almost anything else, and when I'd conceded his point we settled into some serious cuddling. My arse was glowing hot with two hard round spots in the middle of each cheek. I huffed and exclaimed and took the piss out of myself for being such a wimp, and he tried to make me feel better:

"Whhhyyyyy did I sign up to this, I am so stupid."

"Because you're a good girl. And you want to be a better girl."

"STUPID."

I bemoaned the strange effect the brush had on me - it's so weird that I can take canings so readily and this just flips me out, I have no way of processing it calmly. "Actually," I said, half in jest, "I could do with a caning right now, that'd make me feel like less of a wuss."

"Well, there's one right here," he observed.

So I lay over a pillow on the bed and offered him my throbbing arse, and D took advantage of my already being warmed up to thrash me soundly with the 12mm dragon cane that had been standing by the bed.

I didn't count the strokes - 24? 30? My whole body welcomed the familiar, beloved sensation. I breathed into it, bathed in it, until I was awash with pleasure.

And all was well with the world.

Bathbrush, meet thighs

My discipline deal with D (how's that for an alliterative beginning?) has been revealing so far. To my surprise, I've pretty much kept within my drinking limits, apart from one week which included two birthday parties and two other boozy social occasions.¹ And my gym schedule has been easy to maintain, at least when I'm at home and not gallivanting around the country. But the daily physio exercises I'm meant to do to help my long-term back pain - day after day, despite my best efforts, I'm failing to find the time.

I tried doing them last thing before bed; but then by the time I've finished for the day, I'm flattened and just need my sleep. We haven't tried first thing in the morning yet as my morning routine is already longer than it should be, and I don't want half the day to disappear before I get down to work. I tried fitting them in as and when, but my schedule is already squeezed to bursting and I seem to never have a space of time when there isn't something urgent needing doing. D and I sat down and talked about it and agreed that a mid-afternoon break might work, since an excuse to get up from my desk and move around will help my back in any case. I have an alarm set for 15:00, but it always seems to go off when I'm in the middle of something super-important. My new idea is to set the snooze on it to half an hour, rather than five minutes, so chances are I'll have finished whatever I was busy with by the time it goes off again.

I'm encouraged by my success in the other areas, and determined to break the back of this one (as it were). In the meantime, however, my record is fairly shoddy. The last time D and I settled the account, I was due 48 whacks with the bathbrush for missed physio exercises; a bonus 6 for missing a number of days in a row; plus 12 for going a week without a booze-free day. Hardly a glowing report. We talked about ways I could try and do better, but I did feel genuinely disappointed with myself, and D, while gentle, was not exactly impressed.

So the tone was very different from our last punishment session. He asked me to undress completely, and as I lay on the bed I knew this wasn't going to be pleasant. D's manner was calm, but a little cold. The strokes for missed back exercises were so numerous that he didn't give them to me in sets of six, this time; just one extended application that did not care how much I wriggled or cried.

I did cry, before we were halfway through. The tears squeezed themselves out onto the pillow and it felt good to surrender to the pain, to our collective disappointment, the shared sense that this punishment was thoroughly deserved. The last six, bonus strokes for missing my back exercises too many days in a row, were hard, and if I hadn't cried I might have screamed.

But the worst came last: twelve hard whacks with the brush on my thighs. He delivered them with a clinical, even pace, starting at the top of one thigh and working down it for six, then back up the next. The pain was incredible. I gripped the rail at the head of the bed for dear life, willed my legs to stay still and not kick, and sobbed.

I felt better afterwards, though. Admittedly rather sorry for myself, but less burdened by the knowledge of my failure.




I'm sorry to say, however, that after all that the intervening weeks have been even busier, and my good intentions have continued to fail. I'm still not giving up - I want my health to improve, and I'm determined to find a way of making this system work for me. But the next accounting is likely to be another painful one.

1. I could perhaps blame Emma-Jane for the jugs of mojitos, but that would go against the spirit of spankee solidarity.²
2. Which is, of course, Bacardi.

How to make housework more interesting

Today I spent an hour scrubbing wooden floorboards, naked.



This was an intersection of many different aims. Most pressingly, the floor needed scrubbing. I also have a client who wanted to see a video of me cleaning floors in the nude. This was pretty convenient, as usually when I'm doing tedious chores I fantasise about being a hapless slave or scullery maid, mistreated and virtuous, forced to do boring housework rather than chasing her dreams. Ironic, really, that I have bucketloads of freedom, and my dreams mostly consist of making porn in which I am rather less free.

I decided that scrubbing the floor naked would be much more fun if I'd recently been beaten, so I may as well make a short film for my own site as well as the custom clip for my client. Sadly, radiators and plug sockets around the walls meant an actual Victorian maid scenario would have been somewhat unconvincing. But that's okay, because it gave me an excuse to break the fourth wall and make a film about the act of fantasising, not the fantasy itself.

Fittingly, today is International Woman's Day - a good day to make consensual D/s porn in which my boyfriend makes my fantasies come true. In the story, I'm meant to be scrubbing the floor on Saturday, and am not looking forward to the prospect - but when I come downstairs to start work, I discover that Tom has already cleared out the furniture and swept the floor for me, and is waiting looking rather dashing in a period waistcoat and cravat. My Victorian maid's uniform is waiting on a chair for me. It's his present to me, knowing how my mind tends to wander while I'm doing housework and wanting to make the chore more fun for both of us. I get dressed up in my maid's outfit, he gives me some lovely marks with the cane, and then I get undressed again (so as not to soil the costume) and set to work feeling warm, floaty and very loved.



I scrubbed for an hour, and the work went by ever so quickly - distracted by the rough wood under my bare knees, the cool air between my thighs and the glowing welts on my bottom. I can definitely recommend this as an approach to housework, if you can manage it!

His hand; my mouth

So last night I was sitting down to write my #ladypornday blogpost, feeling kind of achy and creaky and grumpy about the idea of sitting at my desk when my back already hurt. I know, I thought, I'll have a drink, that'll ease the aches and help the words come forth. Except I was due a teetotal day. So I didn't have one, I went and bothered Tom instead.

He's been poorly again this week (after that brief sunlit ray of health) - just a cold, but enough to frustrate us both all over again. But he was very sweet. We cuddled, and he asked if I wanted a backrub. I regretfully turned him down - I didn't really have time for a massage AND writing a blogpost before dinner, plus I'd feel guilty getting him to look after me when he's the one who's sick. But it occurred to me, sitting on his lap enjoying a cuddle, that I could perhaps ask for a spanking.

So I did.

We started with him sitting on the edge of the bed and me over one knee, but that made my tummy ache, so after a little bit I asked if I could go over both knees instead. He spanked me carefully, with restraint, not wanting to push too hard but knowing that if I was going to get the endorphins-as-painkillers I was after I would need to be pushed a bit. Even over my knickers, even at a fraction of the strength I know he's capable of, I couldn't take it. I owwed and winced and sucked in my breath and tried to be brave and knew full well I was being a total wimp. I hung on, waiting for my body to catch on and start to mellow out, but the switch didn't flip.

Tom reads me well. He knew that it wasn't quite getting where I needed it to, so he put a pillow on the floor and got me to kneel on it, bending over the side of the bed. This was more comfortable - but it made my bare bottom all the more vulnerable, the skin seeming even more sensitive. For whole sequences of smacks I managed to be brave and not yelp, face screwed up and hands tightly squeezing the bedding, but it never got to the point of actually feeling good. He layered the smacks so cautiously and thoroughly, interspersing them with such tender rubs, that surely I must have been properly warmed up - but the harder smacks, when they came, just made me yell "OW!" in a tone of voice that was more annoyed than anything else.

I was too stubborn to want him to stop, but I didn't know why this wasn't working for me. Was I too tired? He paused to rub my back again. I instantly relaxed into the bed, grateful noises muffled by the duvet. He stroked me and kissed the back of my neck. "This isn't really helping you much at all, is it, love?"

"Mmmmmf." I didn't want him to stop stroking.

He didn't stop; but his other hand did move within reach of my lips, so I kissed his fingers and his palm. He rubbed a particularly achy spot between my shoulders, and I leaned forward, mouth pressing against his hand. He kept it resting lightly over my mouth and I felt myself softening, mellowing. There was something intensely, tenderly vulnerable about it. It made me feel sort of little, but not really in the "little girl" sense, just suspended between those two strong, clever hands. My awareness focussed in on these points of contact; one hand on my back, one gently resting against my lips. I suddenly knew that if he were to start spanking me again now, it would be lovely, and I waited to see if he would; but he was still being careful. So in the spirit of enthusiastic consent, I murmured, "if you wanted to spank me again, that might be nice."

He did. And it was suddenly perfect, everything I'd needed it to be. He spanked me hard, slow, fully, and I breathed deep and my body filled up with sensations. Everything slowed right down and the pain washed over me. His hand wasn't stopping my mouth, but the light touch of his fingerpads against my lips was deeply arousing. When the pain got intense I focused on that sensation, his hand over my mouth, and it was enough. He gave me big, powerful spanks and I gratefully kissed his fingers.

Such a tiny thing; such a huge impact.



Afterwards I knelt on the pillow between his knees and we clung to each other, all filled up with love. Then I took my laptop through to the lounge and sat my spanked bottom on the sofa, to write my blogpost in comfort.

'Discomfort me with apples': a fantasy shared

I love the two most recent posts by Abby Williams, telling the story of an impromptu roleplay scene in which she's punished for scrumping apples.

Escalation is a fairly common consequence of sharing a fantasy with a top. It's your fantasy, in which everything is arranged to your liking. Emma Jane has recently written articulately about the difficulties involved in this, how much detail to go into, how faithful a reproduction it's reasonable to expect. As a bottom, it's not usually realistic (or fair!) to expect a top to become a cipher, to play their role exactly as you imagine it; and it's unfeasible and unsatisfying for the bottom to micro-manage a scene in advance. So offering a fantasy to a top is very much a gift - you're not asking them to reproduce your vision exactly, but opening it up to their personality and contribution. After all, most self-respecting tops prefer to inject a little surprise into a scenario, rather than merely reciting lines agreed in advance.

In my experience, when I've asked one of my doms to do something I've fantasised about, one of two things happen. It's either a very fluffy, very consensual, very instantly gratifying scene where I get what I want and there isn't much of a D/s dynamic in action. Or they take the opportunity to turn the tables on me - change something, do something I didn't expect, go harder than I expected - anything to unsettle me a bit, to swing the balance of power their way. Ironically, if my fantasy is of an edgy, intense scene, this is pretty much the only way to give me what I've asked for. Reproducing my fantasy exactly as described may tick all the boxes, but it won't have the same psychological impact as a scene in which I'm given something real to overcome, some genuine fear or uncertainty.

I know this, and yet I'm still not used to the way it makes me feel. When an asked-for scene makes me struggle, I'm swamped with feelings of inadequacy. I asked for this, I fantasised about it, why can't I take it? Even after the scene is over, I can dwell on that initial resistance, wondering if it means I'm a wimp, or not submissive enough. And yet, over time, I have come to realise that without initial difficulty, the scene would lack impact - would lack that psychological journey which gives it meaning.

Abby's writing describes this experience perfectly. When her husband initially springs on her the apple-scrumping punishment fantasy she's told him about, she doesn't react as positively as she expected.

I bent over, fingertips to toes, shifting my body weight from side to side as if I really was an impatient young thief, ready to receive her spanking so she could be on her delinquent way. "Thirteen strokes, then," said Mr. Williams. "You will count."

"Yes, sir," I murmured, but at the first stroke of the belt, I found myself angry, irritated with the pain and the situation. I huffed, letting him know I was irritated with the punishment. "One, Sir," I sneered.

I find roleplay can liberate me to feel anger and irritation with a top in a way I wouldn't be comfortable with in most of my romantic D/s dynamics. But it's not just an in-character fabrication - it's a genuine reaction to the pain.

The fifth and sixth strokes were less shocking. I counted them properly and I didn't make a scene. Stroke seven would mark the halfway point. I had started to relax after the two strokes I could handle; I thought I had shown that I was willing to take the punishment and that he would be less forceful about the punishment, in kind. I was wrong. The seventh stroke crossed my thighs in a painful amalgamation of cruelty and curiosity. Mr. Williams knows that I detest any spanking upon my thighs, and I know he's always interested in my reaction. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that I was being tested. Instead, I screamed. I don't know if I was speaking to Mr. Williams or myself when I followed the scream with, "What the fuck?" I just had not been expecting that level of pain in our apple farmer scenario.

The silence then was so strong that I began to twitch. "I'm sorry, Sir," I whispered. "That's seven."

"That's right," he said tersely. I was in for it.

Strokes eight through twelve were hard, but my submission was no longer an act. I wasn't going to fight the belting any longer.

This passage really resonates with my experience. The hottest scenes are often the one in which the bottom can't "win" - in which we can't predict or manipulate how things will go. But it's not an easy ride, and I wouldn't want to do it with someone I didn't trust utterly.

I love how effortlessly Abby blends fantasy and reality; how her innocent apple farmer scene turns unexpectedly nasty - and then unexpectedly sexual. My favourite bit is in the second part of her write up, the perfectly captured moment where all the tension is broken:

As wife, I know I'm wet, know I'm ready for Mr. W to take the scene where it always leads, but the swish of a cane through the air behind my poised backside lets me know the farmer is not ready to let the apple thief off so easily. I clutch a pillow just before the cane lands.

Thirteen strokes of the belt have not properly warmed my bottom and I lurch forwards into the pillow to stifle my howl of pain. A tap on my lower back reminds me to return to position, kneeling on my hands and knees properly with my back arched and bottom presented. I tensely shift back, not ready but not wanting to seem unwilling.

The next stroke cuts full across the spot where bottom meets thigh, and though I begin to wimper, the thief, who can say the things I would not, says through clenched teeth, "That. Fucking. Hurt."

"Maybe this will help with the pain," Mr. W says. He goes to the nightstand and I think he's going to pull out one of the smaller paddles, something to finish warming me before the remaining eleven cane strokes I know he still wants to give me. Trusting in my husband, I close my eyes.

He returns to his place behind me, stroking my bottom, then clutching the flesh beneath his palm, pulling me open so that I feel even more naked than I already am. His finger touches the orifice between my reddened cheeks, pressing just a little. I relax into the touch. He presses deeper, then pulls out. I think I am about to receive a gentle leather paddling, something sexy, something that will finally send the farmer and the thief from the room. Instead, he presses into me again, this time with something thicker, firmer. It's not flesh. I recognize the toy we bought just weeks ago specifically for this purpose, for this spot, and irrationally, indignantly, the apple thief rears back. "Sir! I hardly think I know you well enough for that!"

Mr. W, clever farmer that he is, pushes me back down. "You've been on this farm before," he says.

I can't hold back. I snort, then giggle, then I'm all out laughing. He begins to laugh too, and the tenseness of the entire scenario is broken. I wiggle my bum at him. "You're right," I say, "I have been on this farm before. I remember now why I came back."

The evolution of punishment; or, how I came to like it

If I were to tell you that historically, punishment has not been something I've enjoyed, I'd appear to be stating the obvious. Of course no-one enjoys punishment, that's sort of the point. But even within the familiar paradox of kink, punishment has not been a framework that I've tended to find fun to play with. Hot, undeniably; but in the context of a real dominance and submission agreement, coupled with a hopelessly strong desire to please those I love, earning a punishment has never been a fun way to initiate play for me. It's been rare, and when it's happened it's been about genuine upsets or disappointment, it's been tearful and it's not been pleasant for either of us.

Of course that mode of punishment also has value: catharsis; the putting to bed of heartfelt remorse, relief from guilt; the raw intimacy that comes from undergoing such an ordeal together for the sake of maintaining good faith. The self-respect that can be earned by bravely facing the unpleasant but necessary consequences of regretted actions.

Until now it's only ever arisen in two contexts; the breaking of pre-negotiated agreements, or the resolution of relationship conflicts where I came to see myself as being in the wrong, and craved some sort of absolution before I could forgive myself and move on. Neither an experience I'm inclined to seek out.

Recently, this sort of "serious" punishment hasn't been a feature of either of my primary relationships. Tom's health problems are well chronicled, as is D's reticence about adopting the more ceremonial aspects of D/s.

So the deal I've made with D this year has been an interesting experiment. My first punishment under our new agreement took place in a highly sexually charged context, and wasn't, to my surprise, the edgiest aspect of our play that day. Since then, at my instigation, we've expanded our agreement so that he's helping me keep track of more than just my drinking levels. I'm currently trying to improve my health and fitness more generally, and regular exercise is part of that, as well as the exercises I've been given by my physiotherapist to address my particular back problems. So as well as booze, I'm now reporting in on two additional counts: if I do my back exercises every day, and if I visit the gym three times a week.

Of course, as soon as he agreed to help me keep track of these extra factors, I immediately came down with a filthy cold, so I had a temporary reprieve until I was better. I was still not at all well the last time I visited D, which led to the punishment for the two missed days of back exercises before I got ill being postponed. Then once I recovered, I was working all hours of the day trying to make up for lost time on various client projects, I'd got out of the habit, and finding half an hour a day to do back exercises was not top of my priority list.

When we came to deal with things yesterday, then, I had quite a lot accumulated. One missed daily report. Six missed days of back exercises. To my relief, it turned out that I'd been doing really well with drinking moderately (thanks in part to the cold!) and I hadn't missed any gym sessions - but still. He'd already told me it would be six whacks with the bath brush for every missed day of exercises. Plus twelve for the missed report, adding up to a colossal 48.

So you'd think that I'd be a mess of nerves, leading up to it. But to my surprise, when he mentioned that he was packing the brush, when I saw it waiting for me on the pillow in the morning, when he came up behind me at my desk and softly kissed the back of my neck to give me my 15 minute warning, I didn't feel anxious, or upset. My primary emotion was one of reassurance, of security.

I felt loved, knowing that he cared enough to put energy into keeping his side of the bargain, even though it's not his normal style. My fear of the brush translated into a thrill of arousal. I knew I wasn't going to get shouted at. I knew I wasn't going to have personally disappointed him. The goalposts were set by me, and the only person I was letting down was myself. And I - well, I was doing my best, and working out this deal with D and accepting my punishment was part of that endeavour. There was no point feeling guilty about it. Half an hour of exercises every day is a tough habit to get into straightaway. I knew I wasn't going to manage it straight off. I'd done worse than I hoped, but there weren't going to be any recriminations or hard feelings. Just a quick punishment to deal with past 'failures', and the chance to do better next time. It felt honest, and straightforward, and strangely liberating.

When I reached a stopping point in my work, I joined him on the bed. He let me look at the spreadsheet and we discussed how I'd done. He was impressed with me for going to the gym while I was still ill; and my drinking had been lighter than my stated aims. But the back exercises were a problem. We talked about ways to help me get into the habit. Setting a time each day, and an alarm on my phone. It feels strange to stop working when I'm being productive, but I should justify it by thinking of the break itself as a health benefit; the consequences of doing computer work all day will be lessened if I get up and move around regularly. They only take half an hour, less time than the washing up, less time than a bath, less time than it takes to tidy my room or go to the shop.

After a little while I realised I was using the talk to put off the inevitable. Our eyes met. He stood up and held out his hands, and I joined him. A kiss, and then his eyes scanned me, and with a quirk of his lips he said quietly "Take off all your clothes, I think."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

I did. Then I lay down, as instructed, over pillows on the bed, and he told me that I'd be counting these in sets; not each stroke, but each misdeed, starting with the missed report.

I felt so safe in his hands, so reassured by his gentle manner, that I forgot how much that damn brush hurts. It doesn't seem to have much weight to it but every stroke is a targeted, stinging punch and I am incapable of thinking while it's going on. It just gets to me, pure and simple. The pain is startling, shocking; even when I know it's coming it takes me aback.

Tom was in the next room, so I tried to be quiet. I hissed, I took deep breaths, I yelled silently into the pillows, I grabbed fistfuls of duvet, and when one set of six landed hard and fast I couldn't do anything except twist and howl and involuntarily clench both buttocks and try to flinch away. In between he stroked my back with a tender hand, and I gasped and thanked him and gritted my teeth for the next.

Then it was over; and as I cuddled up to him I realised that I hadn't cried, hadn't had the catharsis experience I usually associate with punishment. This was less distressing and less complex than that. On one level it was wholeheartedly, straightforwardly consensual. This whole thing was my idea. D wasn't being domineering, making me do things I didn't want to do; he was my team-mate, my equal partner, working with me to help me achieve my aims. On another, my crime was not emotionally distressing; a minor blip in my striving for self-improvement, but I hadn't hurt anyone and had no reason to be overwhelmed by remorse or regret. This punishment was a tool in my arsenal; it was part of the plan. It wasn't anything to feel bad about. And I didn't feel bad. I felt relieved, satisfied, loved, reassured, safe.

And - oh, my treacherous cunt - actually really turned on.

It turned out I wasn't the only one. Of course, snuggling up to him, naked and trying to rub the persistent itchy sting out of my bottom, it was easy to get distracted. More kisses didn't help. When my hand brushed against the hot bulge in his jeans I asked "Is that from kissing me or spanking my bottom?"

He smiled. "Yes."

His hand, exploring in due course, discovered what I'd suspected - that all my protestations of being a good girl who hates being punished were belied my by body's reactions. I was slippery wet. "My cunt and I disagree on the question of the bath brush. It thinks it's hot."

"Your cunt," said D, around promising kisses, "thinks anything you're afraid of is hot."

--

He told me to put on black and white stripy stockings, and spanked me again just because he could, making me kneel with my arse stuck right out so there was no padding to bounce under his palm, just taut skin. He smacked the backs of my thighs, too, and at various points my breasts. Our enthusiasm was mutual, and our lovemaking an excruciatingly pleasurable mix of tenderness and violence.

I can't help feeling that there's something wrong with this positive feedback loop; that if we have so much fun every time I'm punished, won't it be self-defeating? I do genuinely want it to help me improve. But those objections are theoretical. Deep down, I'm not conflicted at all; my satisfaction is too self-evident to argue with. Yes, I'll try to earn less punishment next time. If I get some, I'll take it and it'll bring us closer together. If I don't, he'll probably find an excuse to beat me anyway. Or perhaps I'll just keep raising my goals to stay slightly ahead of my progress, so I'll always fall slightly short of them - all in the name of self improvement, of course. It's all good.

(I'll leave you with one final image: me, just after D had put his jeans back on and returned to his work, doing my back exercises on the floor in knickers and a t-shirt, bottom still glowing from my recent spanking and the carpet feeling very rough where I was tender. The whole thing probably helped me loosen up, but if I'm going to used that method regularly I'm going to need to get a yoga mat.)

Plans are afoot (although not - yet - legwarmers)

This morning, as I emailed D my daily report on the previous day's drinking (one pint of berry cider, for the curious) I asked him a question which came up while I was swimming yesterday. How about if I listed my exercise along with the booze? No pressure to add it to the D/s deal, but I'm picking up my fitness schedule at the moment and I want to keep track. Since I was sending these emails anyway, it seemed easiest to roll it in, if he didn't mind?

Happy to keep notes, he replied, also happy to discuss how you might be held accountable for keeping at it. Thrills.

This evening, I got online to an email entitled 'Instructions'. I'm to bring a school uniform with me this weekend. Not the sexy brat kind, the authentic kind. White knickers. Flat shoes.

Things progress apace.

It's astonishing how well long-distance (well, relatively; different towns, but only 2 hours away) has suited us these last few months. Seeing each other is a treat; in between we miss each other like crazy. It's not just the distance; our communication is the best it's ever been, we're confident with each other, and every good experience swells the positive feedback loop. But the distance, the missing, wanting what we can't have, sending each other horny text messages when we're not seeing each other for days - it gives it that urgency, that edge.

In chat this evening, he enquired whether asking for spanking would ruin the experience for me. I was surprised by the question - surely I've blogged enough about asking for a spanking over the years? - but thinking about it, I realised I've done that with Tom far more than with D. Partly because D's topping style is so spontaneous; partly because our communication about sex has only recently become so fluent, and in past years I was more insecure and afraid of rejection, and less articulate about my wants. Partly because D has, historically, been more into mindfucks than beating me - has treated my penchant for CP with a wry amusement - and I didn't want to impose my kink on him too much.

But the positive feedback loop seems to have done its stuff. D's confidence has grown with experience - specifically, his confidence that I really do enjoy it - and that knowledge seems to have fed his sadism in a direct way. He's more interested in spanking me, and, apparently, he's also interested in being asked explicitly when I want it. He's always encouraged me to talk filthy. He likes it, especially if I feel shy and end up squirming.

In answer to his question I said that spanking works for me with a myriad different headspaces. Wanting to please, but finding this implement difficult. Sexy, enthusiastic, loving it. Immersed in subspace, flying high. Playful and laughing, mock-hating it. Roleplay scenes. Punishments. Edgy and emotionally difficult scenes in which I'm pushed.

I enjoy all of these, but only some of them are compatible with asking for a spanking. If I've asked, the consent is made explicit - it's difficult to play with non-consent after that point. So yes, asking for a spanking is great if I want a playful, sensual scene - but for the D/s to get intense the control has to be out of my hands. The only way an asked-for spanking could become edgy is if the top turns the tables on me and gives me more than I expected, an implement I didn't ask for; starts to make me regret having asked in the first place. Which ... would be hot.

"Even if I want and ask for a spanking," I said, "there are some types of pain that are just going to push me. Like anal sex."

D grinned.

As I've mentioned before, anal play has been off-limits for a while for health reasons. Nothing serious - just fragile skin that tore (frustratingly, not during any sexy escapades) but has taken over a year to heal up. Much patient nursing has paid off and lately, it's felt it might be possible again.

D has been teasing me with the idea accordingly, as any self-respecting sadist would. Somehow, I guessed that this whole schoolgirl plan might have something to do with my recently healed, pseudo-inexperienced arse. The image made me shiver with arousal and fear.

He confirmed my impressions as soon as the topic came up. "I tell you this now," he said smugly, "so you can agonise about it for the rest of the week."

"Waaay ahead of you."

"I hope my housemates are out. I'd like to hear you screaming for me."

I visualised myself, white knee socks, innocently flat heeled shoes, white school blouse. White knickers puddled around my ankles. Being spanked, the fantasy remained demure. But this ... I would be frightened, struggling, sweaty. School tie around my wrists, perhaps? Knickers stuffed in my mouth?

"Pity I don't have a Japanese school uniform," I quipped, disguising my flutters of erotic fear with flippancy. "I'm going to feel like a manga character."

By mutual unspoken agreement, within a minute we were both browsing Ebay.



I've also developed a sudden desire to own legwarmers, one pair black, one white:



Neither could arrive by this weekend, but the English schoolgirl has her own appeal. And it's nice to have more than one thing to look forward to.

--

So I asked D if he wanted me to play a schoolgirl, or a grownup woman wearing a school uniform. He considered the question happily for a moment before replying that a schoolgirl would be fun. Now, our previous attempts at non-consent roleplay have been very sexual, and my ability to pretend to be suffering goes out the window once penetration is concerned. But since then I've had more practice at roleplaying, and the idea of being a very scared, very helpless, very punished schoolgirl who doesn't know what's happening to her and feels horribly dirty and violated is a fantasy that appeals. I sent D a link to Mr Defeu's extremely hot "punishment plus" story when it was posted, and he apparently found it as hot as I did.

I also like the idea of being an older schoolgirl, daring to ask for what she wants. But roleplay is where it's easiest to play with non-consent, and the little girl image appeals right now, especially in the context of the violation fantasy.

The only question remaining was, who would D be? With his long hair, tattoos and cat eyes he's not the classic authority figure. My wicked uncle? My perverted biker uncle, the black sheep of the family. Not uncle. Guardian, perhaps. I'd definitely find roleplay easier if I wasn't the only one in character; and the rougher and meaner he was, the easier I'd find it to take the pain.

To my surprised delight, and despite some understandable self-consciousness, he's game to try playing a role. I don't know what sort of shape it might be, but it wouldn't be D without some spontaneity. I'm looking forward to being surprised.



Pictures of Zille Defeu provided by the incomparable Northern Spanking. Thankyou for providing such hot fantasy fodder!

Punishment, humiliation and bondage

Photo of Ariel Anderssen courtesy of Restrained Elegance

Actually, when D suggested we get the spankings over and done with at the end of my last entry, there were two in the offing. My punishment for not checking in as per our agreement a couple of days earlier; and a fun spanking he owed me to make up for being mean.

Put like that, it sounds kind of contradictory. But I suspect you'll understand.

I was waking up with my laptop and a cup of tea, and thinking about making breakfast. I asked what he had in the kitchen, we made a plan. I settled in to read twitter while I finished my tea. D and I exchanged some sort of internet-related banter I can't remember, but which probably involved my teasing him. His retort: "Get into the kitchen and start cooking, woman!"

Now, we've talked about him making sexist jokes, even in jest. I want to call him on it but I'm in too good a mood enough to properly have a go. Instead I say: "Well, I was just about to start making you breakfast, but now you've said that I'll only do it if I get a spanking later."

He thinks for barely a moment. "Yeah, that's fair." And all is forgiven.

--

After dinner, slightly tipsy, I walk past the open bedroom door and catch sight of what's waiting on the bed. The punishment bath brush. And his belt, coiled neatly and waiting on the pillow. My tummy flips with nerves.

The next thing I remember is me, naked, standing in front of him as he sits on the corner of the bed, bath brush in hand. I'm grateful that he's on the corner rather than the edge of the bed - it allows me to go diagonally over his knee with hands and feet on the floor. I always feel awkward and huge, a giantess, when I'm lying over someone's knee with my arms and legs up on the bed. Hands and feet on the floor ironically makes me feel less self-conscious.

I got some warm-up smacks with his hand and the brush as he tested its weight. It doesn't look like it's having any effect at all, but it stings like blazes - as my squeaks testified. My head was right next to his big wall-mirror, but I stared at the carpet, unwilling to look myself in the eyes. Once he'd satisfied himself that he had the measure of the brush, he asked me if I was ready.

"Yes, sir." I was feeling very sorry and submissive and just hoping I could stand it. How many minutes was I going to get?

Then - "I'm going to give you twelve," he said, and I realised all in a rush that he didn't mean twelve minutes, he meant twelve whacks, and that this was going to be bearable. Not pleasant, but bearable.

I winced and squirmed my way through them, continually amazed at how so small and innocuous an item as that wooden brush could have so much effect - but then it was over. Ironically, the 'fun' play that followed was far more humiliating than the 'real' punishment.

--

"Put on your pretty things," said D, his smile telling me that the punishment was over. Most tops just give you a hug afterwards. He ... well.

I put on the sheer black hold-ups with ridiculous hot pink lacy tops which I'd bought for amusement's sake a couple of days earlier. Plus black patent stilettos that do up with ribbon. Standing in the heels I teetered over him, feeling shy and unbalanced, like a little girl playing grown-up dress up.

His erection told me how much he'd enjoyed spanking me (or perhaps just how much he enjoyed seeing me in stockings and heels). I was grateful for the punishment, both its inevitability and its relative lenience, and more than happy to show him how grateful I was with my mouth. In return he lay me on the bed with the heels in the air, and rewarded me for shaving my pussy that afternoon with teasing, loving licks, working inwards from my mound and upper thighs in a slow, slow circle that had me panting.

Just when I thought he was going to let me come, he stopped. I was guided to my feet again, and he tied my wrists behind my back with soft black rope. My breath was coming in tiny, nervous flutters. My whole body felt sensitised.

Suddenly he slammed me backwards against the wall. I fell against it, unsteady in the heels. His hand wrapped around my throat and forced my head up. My face was higher than his but he was looking straight into my eyes. I felt too tall, too vulnerable, my hands pressed together behind me against the cold wall. His other hand carved tendrils of sensation on my skin, making my breath catch, and then he lifted it and slapped my left breast with such force that panic, like white noise, fizzed in my brain for long seconds. I yelped loudly, shocked, and then gasped for breath, face feeling very pink, unable to move my head, his hand a steady pressure around my throat.

Our eyes met with the electric shock of hunter and hunted. I was overwhelmed by the terror of being trapped, knowing I couldn't escape his unwavering gaze, or the next slap - which made me cry out again, even though I knew it was coming. I squirmed, not sure if I was more humilated by the smacks or by his continuing to look into my face as he hit me. More slaps, making my breasts bounce. My nipples felt hard and tight and too sensitive, a situation not helped by his insistence on pulling them, pinching them before slapping them again.

I felt horrible, humiliated, scared and so aroused I was dizzy.

After taking his time punishing my breasts, he threw me onto the bed. I landed awkwardly, hands still bound behind me. Normally I'd scramble to regain my balance, try to find out where he wanted me, but all autonomy had been shocked out of me. I just lay there facedown, breathing fast and waiting for him to act. He tied my ankles together with more of the rope. Then, with another length, he bound my thighs, just above the knee.

So I'm trussed hands, thighs and feet, unable even to steady myself for balance, high heels sticking out off the edge of the bed and aching breasts smooshed into the duvet. He climbs on top of me and busies himself spanking me for a while, which is actually kind of a relief. Hand spanking, that I can cope with, and I ground myself in the familiar, pleasant sensations. But then he stops, and I can feel his cock nudging against my bottom.

He slides the velvety tip up and down my crease, teasing me with its hardness; pushing, gently, insistently, pushing, just long enough for me to start to groan, to resign myself to the pain, to whimper, "if you're going to do that, you're going to need some lube" - when he stops toying with me and plunges himself into my cunt instead. In that position I can barely move, can't do more than rock my hips back against him an inch or so, and the angle isn't one that will get me off. But that's not the point. He takes me ferociously, one hand pinning my shoulders, my head, to the bed, and I surrender.

When he stops, it's only to flip me over and shove his cock in my mouth instead. I'm so deep in subspace that I take the length of him easily, and don't resist as he violently fucks my mouth and throat. He moves me wordlessly between positions as he uses my body to his satisfaction, and I do everything he wants. Passivity isn't normally my style, but I'm so brimming over with joy and intimacy that every motion, each acquiescence feels like the most significant act in the world.

I'm back on my face, being taken roughly once more from behind when I can't bear it: I need to come. I beg him to untie me so I can kneel up. To my astonishment he indulges me. Once free I offer myself to him, arse in the air, as wanton as a bitch in heat. He seizes my hips in both hands and gives me what I'm after. I come shaking, violently, screaming, my head pulled back by the fist grabbing my hair and my arse lifted again and again against his hips.

Afterwards, I'm drowsing on the bed in a blissful haze when he jumps up and starts digging through a drawer. He gives me a kinky merit badge and I don't guess until I'm holding it in my hands which one it's going to be.



I smile. Yeah, that makes sense. I had wondered if it was going to be the Deep Throat one, but I guess that adventure is still to come.

Temperance

Before Christmas I asked D if he'd do something for me. I'd become aware, lately, that I'd been drinking more than I was comfortable with, and I wanted help keeping track of it. With some nervousness, I hinted that the sort of help I wanted was the D/s type. D's never been particularly comfortable with formally structured protocols, and prefers a level of informality and spontaneity to both play and punishment. 'Serious' rather than playful punishments have been rare between us, and mostly on a one-off basis - although I've learned over the years that this doesn't mean our D/s dynamic is any less real.

So I wasn't sure how he'd react to the idea of a more structured, explicitly negotiated system to help me watch my drinking. I told him the truth - that I'd taken the proposal to Tom, first, but although he'd agreed, he never ended up acting on it. Tom's health has been so poor lately, and his stress levels so high, that it hadn't seemed fair for me to put extra pressure and responsibility on him. So I checked that Tom didn't mind, and approached D instead.

To my surprise, D seemed amenable. Unlike Tom and me he almost never drinks; perhaps that was why he felt comfortable keeping tabs on this area of my life. He'd feel hypocritical, he said later, holding me to standards he wasn't keeping himself. (In my defence, I'm not a total pisshead - four pints of cider is an unusually heavy night's drinking for me - but I do find it all too easy to have one or two at the end of a long day, and it adds up. When I realised I couldn't remember the last day I'd abstained completely, I decided it was time to change my habits.)

After a vague "yes" but no further discussion, I knew better than to push, and left the ball in D's court. Sooner than I expected, however, I received a startlingly stern email from him describing the process and principles he wanted me to follow, and asking me to let him know the guidelines I wanted to be kept to. I read that email several times: it was a delicious mix of negotiation and dominance. The basic rules were up to me - although he was prepared to let me know if he thought my suggestions were too slack. But once agreed, he would keep me to them; and it was him that insisted that I send him an email every morning reporting what I'd drunk the night before. If you don't report a drinking level for a given day, without a good reason, then I'll assume you deserve a punishment for that day regardless of surrounding drinking levels. I shivered with delight at the realisation that he was taking this seriously.

We discussed punishments. A designated implement seemed sensible, given the associations it was likely to accumulate. With some trepidation I proposed the horrible little bath brush which, conveniently, has been barely used since I bought it. We were both being very honest with each other - him about his lack of booze knowledge, and me about my own weaknesses. The whole thing felt more consultative than authoritative, but I felt very secure knowing that, unlike me, he wasn't going to cut me any more slack than I deserved. I was confident that the structure we'd developed was sensible and sustainable, holding me to the spirit (as it were!) rather than the letter of the law, and I trusted D to make fair judgments.

As I sent him my daily emails (a hard habit to get into), it became clear that I was trying to lean too heavily on my 'rules', whereas he was more interested in general patterns and my perceptions. At first it felt like I was in a constant state of self-denial - possibly the restrictions increased the temptation - and moderation felt surprisingly difficult. Nonetheless, as I'd hoped, the act of recording affected my decisions, and the prospect of disappointing my Dom proved far better motivation than my vague guidelines in themselves.

After about a week, I discovered that he was collating the emails in a spreadsheet. A categorised, colour-coded spreadsheet. I was amused, flattered, aroused - but also shiveringly nervous at the precise record-keeping this implied. I've had punishment books before - but this was my first punishment spreadsheet!

I got to see it in person on Friday afternoon. Green text marked the booze-free days; red the heavier ones. A blazing scarlet background denoted the day I forgot to check in. We argued about that, a bit. The thing is that I was fairly sure I'd not drunk anything that day, but I couldn't prove it until I got back home. I was perfectly happy to be punished for not sending the email, but it seemed unfair and unproductive to treat the missed email as if I'd had a piss-up. The two crimes were clearly separate! Eventually he agreed - by which point of course I felt anxious and guilty about having got my way.

Once the spreadsheet was up to date, D cheerily suggested that we get the punishment over with. With alarm, I suddenly realised how close I was to tears. A combination of disappointment for having missed a report, anxiety about the perceived unfairness and guilt for arguing with him. As we hugged he noticed my trembling, and decided that spankings would happen after dinner. I was both relieved and disappointed. I appreciated the chance to calm down enough that I had a chance of taking my punishment with some dignity, but no-one likes to wait.

(To be continued...)

2010 redux, 2011 resolutions

Happy new year, kinksters! How's 2011 shaping up for you so far? I've had a lovely, low-key few days, mostly taken up with cooking and housework, but also picking up the project threads laid aside over Christmas, scenting that new year energy on the wind.

Twelve months ago I wrote a long kinky retrospective on the year just gone. The picture that emerged was of a whirlwind of work and creative projects, at the expense of personal time and private explorations.

My resolutions were a bit long-winded, but they boiled down to four key points for improvement. Did I manage to achieve them in 2010?

1. For Tom and I to move in together, and hopefully find more time for play and domestic discipline as a result.

A half win. Most of this year has been dominated by Tom's new business start-up, which is currently struggling through its first winter but hasn't gone bust yet. I've given an awful lot of time to it, but he's given more. While in many ways he is much happier and the changes have improved both our lives, the stress of starting a new business has been very detrimental to his physical health.

Our partnership has grown and strengthened - we've had some rough patches, worked through them, and right now are greatly enjoying each other and the prospect of a shared future. Living with him, getting to see so much more of him, sharing so many experiences with him, has been great. But sex and play have been off his radar for most of the last six months. Polyamory (and lots of talking) has helped me learn patience without pressuring him, but I'll have to wait a little longer before improvements start spilling over into our shared sex and kink life.

That said, Tom and I have had a couple of epic threesomes this year, a fun video shoot with Ludwig and Kaelah, and a brilliant photoshoot with Adele and Jimmy - plus a few memorable play evenings regardless. So I can't complain too much.

As for increased D/s structure - Tom has been willing but we've both been aware of his limits, and he hasn't needed me to burden him with extra responsibility. Strangely enough I've recently started exploring this side of things with D, which is new for us. More on that later.

2. To launch my new site.

Nope, pretty much entirely for the above reasons. I've given half my year to Tom's business, and the rest of my time has been taken up by earning a living, political activism, and doing less of that overworking thing, and more of that resting and socialising thing. (Ha! Well, a bit.)

That said, I've turned things around in the last 6 weeks and have been throwing myself at the project every spare moment I have. I have plans for fundraising and investment, I've made progress with editing, post-production and brand development, I've got money put aside for the site build and I've had a couple of great shoots. I may not have achieved my aim, but I'm leaving the year feeling motivated, driven and totally fired up about this project, and I'm confident that one way or another, I can make it happen, on my own terms and in my own time.

If I make one kinky resolution for the year ahead, this is it.

3. Develop a private D/s connection with a woman (specifically, with the lovely Penny D) and generally enjoy kinky play with more ladies.

I'm happy to report that 2010 was a total win on this front. I'm going into 2011 on the arm of a dominant lady as well as my lovely men, and Penny and I have had all sorts of good times together this year, including an outing to Club Subversion. I've enjoyed bottoming to the delicious Adele Haze on a couple of memorable occasions, including a double caning from her and Abel back in January. In fact I've not had a shortage of new female lovers with a taste for spanking me, and have enjoyed hot dates with March Middleton and Serafina. I continue to be amazed at my good fortune.

Finishing School was also a landmark here - a whole weekend roleplaying with the sublime Lucy McLean and Amy Hunter (culminating in another double caning - the second of three this year, which is a theme I wholly approve of!) It turns out that I find playing with friends on a social basis (rather than with lovers on a romantic one) far easier and more appealing if the friends in question are female. Lucy and Amy provided a blinding initiation into the joys of immersive group roleplay, and I loved every minute of it. I hope to carry this trend into 2011 - I'd love to attend more roleplay events, and there are one or two lovely switches among my kinky friends that I'm keeping an interested eye on. (Look out, ladies...)

4. Generally, spending more time and energy on socialising, meeting new people and lovers, and quality time with my partners.

I think I can safely say I managed this one as well. As well as the delights described above (plus a couple of unnamed others!), paradoxically, my relationship with D has thrived since moving away from London. Long distance does seem to suit us, and the second half of this year has brought unexpected renewal, romance and kink to our partnership.

I've still tended to overwork this year, and accumulated more long-term fatigue over the summer, but I've got better at resting sensibly to recover from it. Life feels pretty good at the moment, and I'm really looking forward to the challenges and new adventures 2011 has to offer.

Reading your comments on last year's post, I'm pleased to see that some of you have fulfilled your 2010 resolutions, as well. I hope 2011 brings you everything you hope for, and more!

Let the turkey burn

D and I both seemed to be in odd moods last weekend. I, after being totally on top of things all week, was fragile, overtired and crashing, but desperately trying to brave it out and not be a needy little girl. Apparently it came out sounding like I was pissed off with everything, which suggests either that I'm not as good at braving it out as I think I am, or that D is better at reading me than I think he is. Or perhaps it suggests that sometimes, what I need is to be a fragile little girl. D, after all, is one of the few people I'm genuinely comfortable being small with, so I'm not sure why I was trying to fight it so hard.

Anyway, the resulting bickering was outdone by the truly electric make-up sex that came after it. Not normally a pattern D and I find ourselves in, but our emotional vulnerability lent itself to play of a remarkable rawness and intimacy.

At one point, being pushed with breathplay, my body suddenly went into an uncontrollable panic - emotionally I was alright but in three seconds I'd gone from turned on to hyperventilating, crying and shaking (and, okay, still turned on). Credit to D: he immedately stopped, held me, took my word for it when I said it was just a physical reaction and wasn't a big deal, and was perfectly happy to pick up where we'd left off as soon as I'd regained my composure. Sometimes, being pushed until I break can make me feel just as safe as my top taking care to push me without breaking me.

After a mutually satisfying, loved-up fuck he pulled three implements out of his toybox - cane, wooden paddle and belt. I'm looking at him half going WTF, we just finished, and half delighted that we aren't done yet.

"Pick one," he smiles.

Just one? I'm disappointed. I consider. We had fun with the paddle last time, so today I fancy something different. I suspect he wants to cane me - it's not an implement he plays with often, and the fact he's got it out suggests he's in the mood. But what I really want is the belt - the liquidy warmth of leather, the sharp but glowing sensation which wraps around my bottom like a caress.

"I'm surprised," he says when I make my choice (I think he was expecting me to opt for the cane), but he humours me: the belt is laid out on the bed, the other two put to one side.

Throughout a restful evening the belt is a teasing promise of what's yet to come. I was expecting to get it later that night, but tiredness overtakes us both and I fall asleep on him around 11pm.

The next day, dinner is in the oven and somehow we end up snapping at each other again. We talk through it but he needs some time to calm down, so I flop on the bed and distract myself with my netbook. Ten minutes later I hear him come in behind me. I'm wondering what mood he's in when I feel his touch, an affectionate stroke along my back. "Permission to glomp?" he asks hesitantly, and no sooner have I granted it I'm engulfed in a whole body hug. Well, there are worse ways to say sorry. I love the feel of his weight resting on me, and tell him there's no hard feelings by bumping my arse playfully against his hips from below.

Which is how I came to be facedown on the bed, jeans unbuttoned by him and tugged down over my bottom, which is lifted by a couple of strategically placed pillows and practically tingling with anticipation. The enormous mirrors alongside his bed had been making me feel self-conscious of my fuller figure all weekend, so I hid my face from them (as I had while over his knee the day before) and wondered if my over-emotional self would be able to cope with the thrashing I'd chosen.

Perhaps he was wondering the same; the first three strokes were light, testing the waters, warming us up. I breathed deeper and murmured my assent. The gentleness of his approach meant that when the harder strokes fell I lapped them up. I felt cocooned in love and security, safe to yelp and hiss through my teeth as the pain nudged against my thresholds, safe to moan into the bed when they hit that perfect sweet point of simultaneous pain and pleasure.

When the fire in my bottom was well and truly lit he paused and gave me a rub that almost made me purr. I felt like he could keep going all afternoon, except of course that dinner was still in the oven, and in fact I should have started putting the veg on ten minutes ago. "Shall we reconvene later?" he asked, not wanting to ruin the meal I'd started, but I had absolutely no desire to interrupt proceedings.

I was reminded of the Ann Summers ad I saw at Victoria station recently - a lady wearing sexy negligee and the slogan LET THE TURKEY BURN. At that precise moment I felt wholeheartedly in agreement with the sentiment. Let it burn. Dinner could wait. I had other priorities.

So D nipped out to turn the oven off, the veg was left sitting in cold water, and my bottom got cooked instead.

He re-appeared in front of me (I was still stretched out on the bed with my jeans around my knees and my arse glowing pink), grinning like a kid who's done something they shouldn't, holding up the two rejected implements. His grin widened as he waited for me to get the joke. "Pick one."

So that was his game. I hid my amusement and excitement with my best sardonic look. "Am I choosing what else I get, or am I choosing what else I get first?"

He beamed at me, delighted with his surprise and wanting to string it out, then relented. "First."

"Alright." I briefly compared the relative sensations and marking produced by belt-cane-paddle or belt-paddle-cane. The belt had left me nicely tender and the paddle is a very blunt instrument. I opted for nuance. "Cane."

He was surprised again, but given I'd thought I was done, that made two of us.

He made me thank him for the cane strokes, but not count them, so I don't know how many I got. They hurt, though, more than I'd expected after that languorous, sensual belting; every stroke a jolt of sting that fizzed and itched along the line of the welt, making me jump, making it impossible to relax. I hung onto the rail at the foot of the bed and gasped my way through a caning that pushed me more than I expected.

It had the desired effect, though. By the time he finished I was soaking wet. As he stood in front of me again and unzipped his jeans I pounced on his cock hungrily, eager and grateful. The pleasure of feeling it slide against my tongue made me close my eyes in bliss.

Skip ahead a bit (past me on my back with my head hanging off the foot of the bed so that he could slide deeper into my throat, stopping my airway - but not making me panic this time) and before long I definitely wanted to be fucked more than I wanted the paddle. I may have mentioned this aloud, because D tutted and thwarted my impatience with a reminder of earlier negotiations. "Mmm, not yet - you have to shave first, and put stockings and heels on, and all sorts of things."

He was referring to online chats in which we'd agreed that I'd shave my pubic hair for him over Christmas. I mildly prefer the appearance of trimmed hair, but I like to keep my labia and crack shaved for ease of access and silkier sensations. D has a strong preference for ladies and gentlemen who are completely shaved, a bias I'd find less forgivable if he didn't keep himself smooth in turn. It's too much faff for me to indulge all the time, but I enjoy variety, and I don't mind obliging him occasionally. If nothing else, I can usually expect to be rewarded with pleasingly enthusiastic cunnilingus.

I needed no further prompting. I jumped up to grab a razor and towel and headed to the bathroom.

It's strange - if you described this situation to me I might expect to feel somewhat indignant about having my pleasure forestalled until I'd corrected some lacking aspect of my personal grooming. Perhaps I should have been annoyed with his presumption. But as I perched on the side of the bath, shower foam mingling with the slippery evidence of my arousal, I felt supremely content. The act of revealing newly bare, sensitive flesh seemed remarkably like unwrapping a present for him, and I felt a similarly happy anticipation at the prospect of pleasing him. I hummed to myself as the razor slid delicately over my swollen labia, enjoying my awareness of the cane welts striping my arse. At that moment, cheerfully obeying his orders with a sore red bottom, I felt very, very loved.

--

We didn't get round to the paddle before dinner. Not that I'm complaining - events proved more than satisfactory (and so, when we eventually reheated it, did dinner). It wasn't until I was getting ready to leave that I was reminded of our unfinished business. I'd already missed one train due to not being ready in time, and was belatedly packing and trying to find my netbook case. I went into the bedroom to look for it. A little while later D came in to ask how I was getting on, and raised an eyebrow at the discovery of me on the bed, checking twitter on my netbook.

"You've packed all your things up already, yes?"

"Nearly!" I chirped, jumping up and hastily scooping up evidence to the contrary.

He looked at me. I looked innocently back, jamming netbook, socks and phone charger into my rucksack.

He picked up the paddle.

It was a fair cop. I bent over the end of the bed and lowered my jeans for my third and final dose of the weekend. I received several rapid, crisp whacks with no warm up which had an effect similar to that of a bucket of cold water. I squirmed and yelped throughout, a far cry from the submissive pleasure with which I'd taken the belt a few hours earlier. His raised eyebrows at my wimpy reactions made me wish I could turn my masochism on like a tap, but the paddling served its purpose. Suitably chastened, I tugged up my jeans and finished my packing with a smile on my face. I do like it when tops keep their promises.

Playing the game

One of the problems with being a good submissive at a kinky roleplay event is that well-behaved characters don't get punished, and can end up feeling a bit left out. (The exception is if the tops know you well enough to pick on you unfairly. Leia-Ann Woods would probably argue that this situation is not desirable at all, but I did find myself envying her, strange as it seems - I'd have found being singled out much easier!)

In private D/s scenes and social contexts like play parties and clubs, deliberately bratting, being disobedient or causing mischief in order to earn a punishment has always made me feel uncomfortable. I can't get over the idea that I'm being horribly self-involved, rude, demanding and attention-seeking. More generally, I've never really liked being made to feel "naughty" when I'm being punished. I much prefer to please my partners - and if I please them by being punished, so much the better!

But in a social roleplay like the Finishing School weekend, what's the best approach for a good girl who likes to play hard? Should I only roleplay with tops I can trust to set me impossible tasks, single me out unfairly, pick up on every little misdemeanour, deliberate or accidental? Not easy to achieve unless I only roleplay with my partners - and if every bottom in a scene needed such treatment, the tops would have their work cut out!

The first public punishments of the weekend were meted out at the Saturday morning assembly. Emma-Jane had organised matching Little Miss Trouble panties for everyone to wear instead of our regulation knickers. She'd made sure a pair was provided for me, but I agonised stupid amounts over whether to participate or not. I really wasn't comfortable playing a bratty persona and deliberately earning punishments. It's just not my style. But I didn't want to seem like some snotty goody-goody thinking she was better than everyone else, either. I'm more susceptible to peer pressure than I'd like!

In the end I decided that it was foolish to pressure myself to do something I wasn't comfortable with, and wore regulation knickers. I was in on the joke, but when Mrs Darling and Miss Hammond-Grant whacked their way down the line of naughty bottoms, mine was passed over (apart from a couple of over-enthusiastic, accidental swats from Miss H-G on her way past the first time, which was more funny than anything else!)

I think it was the right decision. I wasn't excluded from a big scene, and the teachers didn't go on about my abstention to the extent I felt embarrassed about it. But interestingly, as we stood there in assembly, skirts lifted to show Mrs Darling who had participated and who had not, I realised that despite my misgivings I probably would have felt comfortable if I'd joined in, after all. Okay, it would have felt a bit artificial, but it was no big deal and all in good fun. Next time, perhaps, I'll have the confidence to join in for the sake of the joke. After all, if my character doesn't misbehave somehow, my real kinky self won't have much fun.

I've already decided that at future roleplay events like this I definitely want to take a character, with a different name and backstory (I have a few ideas already...), to make it easier for me to indulge in this sort of play without guilt.

Being good out of character is great. (Being responsible and helpful, being nice to people, pulling your weight with chores, not being selfish or annoying). But my character and me have different aims. I like playing hard and want to be included in the kinky fun. My character, however, wants to avoid getting into trouble. Both of us want to please our tutors and get on with my classmates. But is being good in character necessary to be a good play partner?

The only kind of scene I've played for fun before involved crimes committed offstage, or unfair scenarios with sadistic tops taking advantage. An educational setting with fair, likeable teachers is very different. It's unfair to expect two tops to take responsibility for satisfying a whole group of kinky girls without any input from them - it's reasonable that we should help them along by giving them something to work with. Really, if you think about it, misbehaving is the right thing to do in this sort of context!

Outright bratting may not be my style, but creative mischief to amuse my classmates and enliven a group roleplay feels less self-involved - it enhances the experience for all. My teachers' characters won't approve, of course, but the real tops trying to pull together an entertaining and satisfying group scene will appreciate imaginative contributions (and are almost certainly finding it as funny as us). The consequences are an out-of-character reward as much as an in-character punishment. I favour active rather passive submission, and I think this sort of "misbehaviour" is the equivalent in certain types of roleplay.

One rule Adele Haze mentioned at the weekend which several classmates agreed with was, "don't commit the crime (in character) if you can't take the punishment". But I think it works the other way, too - if you want the punishment, you have to earn it somehow! Part of being a grownup, after all, is self-reliance - it's not fair to expect other people to do all the work for me.

There's a difference, of course, between the sort of imaginative, entertaining mischief which enlivens a scene, or cheeky retorts witty enough to make people laugh, and being genuinely annoying or aggravating. This line might be obvious to hardcore purveyors of mischief, but I'm just trying to puzzle it out - helped by following the good examples of my fellow Finishing School students.

Here's what I've got so far: think of this as Finishing School Etiquette (the unofficial version)...

• Mischief and cheekiness are all very well, but unkindness and snideness are rarely justified. Creativeness and generosity of spirit aren't incompatible with rule-breaking!
• Targets should be chosen with care - mean characters are fairer game than nice ones, and of course one should show solidarity with one's fellow students! Other people "playing the game" are better targets than those trying to be good.
• Disobedience should be frivolous and entertaining for onlookers - attention-seeking behaviour is more justifiable if you put on a good show and raise a laugh.
• "Naughtiness" shouldn't be an excuse to get out of chores or unpleasant duties, especially if this makes more work for your fellows. Same goes for bothering people while they're doing something difficult, unpleasant or necessary.
• Just as tops can be expected to look after our limits, we should look after theirs. It's better to ease off when they're particularly tired of dealing with naughty pupils rather than demanding more attention from them.

What do you think? Is that a reasonable approximation of "bratting etiquette"? Are there any I've missed?

I think all my fellow players last weekend had an instinctive grasp of these rules. As well the teachers showing us how to be more ladylike, the other Finishing School pupils offered a masterclass in responsible naughtiness. Watching so much entertaining cheekiness and mischief has left me feeling much more confident that I could enjoy breaking the written rules, once I've got a better sense of what the unwritten ones are.

I've realised that so much of effective naughtiness is about confidence. Answering back is impossible if you're too tongue-tied to think of witty retorts. It's easier to cause trouble if you can trust that your play partners will enjoy the consequences. One of the reasons I default to obedience is if I feel shy or insecure and don't want to call attention to myself. I'm worried about seeming like one of those demanding, pushy bottoms constantly competing for attention. But this weekend offered a crash course in creative ways of getting into trouble that are fun for all involved, and by the end I was feeling more confident that I could join in without making a genuine nuisance of myself. Now I just need more practice - clearly, I'm just going to have to do more roleplay!

I'm not sure what Mrs Darling and Miss Hammond-Grant will make of the non-curricular things I learned this weekend. I'm sure Finishing School was intended to make me better behaved, not worse...

Kinky Merit Badge I: Spanking

D has a thing for high heels. It's very specific: he doesn't like worshipping or licking them or anything (so the merit badge, sadly, is not one for us), he just thinks most sexual encounters or scenes are improved by his partner wearing unfeasibly high heels. The smoother, shinier and slinkier the better. Always spike-heeled stilettos, not wedges or sturdy heels, and preferably round rather than pointy toes. I refuse to wear the things in the usual vanilla contexts, but I've developed quite a collection of shoes I can barely walk in which I only wear in bed. And I've caught the fetish - I now associate wearing ridiculously high heels with having fantastic sex, and I've developed a taste for the way they look on other people. So when I'm gearing up to visit him and he tells me to bring some shoes with me, I know we're going to have some fun.

I've been waiting all night for the instruction, and am ready when it comes. We agreed that it would be appropriate to start the collection with the Spanking badge, so I think I can guess what's coming. He busies himself in the bathroom while I undress in the bedroom. I'm still wiggling into the latest favourite pair of strappy heels when he comes back in, which always make me feel self-conscious, but then I've grown to like the imbalanced self-consciousness D's topping style tends to make me feel. It's a sort of humiliation-lite.

We're already feeling connected. When I look into his eyes the love shining from them makes my throat ache. He asks me to kneel, and I notice he's holding my collar. I haven't worn it in a long time - not because we haven't been playing, but just because that sort of formality has never really been D's thing, and it kind of fell off our radar. (Plus, it's kind of hard to give head in it, which has always been a big part of our play.)

"I'm not going to give you your Collared badge tonight," he murmurs, his lips almost brushing my ear as he fastens the collar around my neck. "But I thought you should get used to wearing it again." I can feel love and lust and affection filling me up as if it's being poured into me. I'm still kneeling; he moves to face me, takes my hand and kisses it, and I return the favour, never breaking eye contact.

Then I'm lying facedown on the bed - facing away from the big mirrors that line one wall of his room. He moves behind me and I peek over my shoulder. He's holding his black leather gloves, the soft Italian leather driving gloves I bought him years ago because in my opinion all dominants should own some. He puts them on, slowly. I can't help it - at this sight of those gloves I'm already wet. The incongruity of the dark leather against his bare arms just heightens the effect. I imagine his leather-clad hands on my skin, my nipples, my lips, enclosing my neck; the contrast between the satin-soft leather and his strong grip. I'm so aroused I give an involuntary whimper.

He obliges me with caresses, his hand wrapped around my throat like a warning, brushing against my cheek, my breasts. Then he starts to spank me.

We tried this once before, so I know that the gloves diffuse the sting rather than enhancing it. He's spanking me as hard as he can, though, using all his strength, and each spank thumps against my arse, jolting me forward. The sting is dispersed but the thud is lovely. After a little while I wonder if he realises he's partly wasting his strength, and (respectfully) comment that the leather always hurts less than you might hope. The next thing I feel is the snap of an empty glove against one cheek. Such a mocking little sting, almost no weight behind it; the opposite sensation. A few more smacks like insect bites, and then he starts using his hand. After the extremes of sensation caused by the leather the familar warm sting of his palm is welcome, and I buck to meet each spank.

He turns me round, and onto my back. My arms are tucked above my head. He moves my legs apart, and then further apart. I don't even notice my reflection - I'm completely absorbed in the sensation trip he's sending me on, his wordless power over me. He holds down one leg at a time and slowly, carefully, smacks up the inside of each thigh, hard, from my knee to the damp crease at the top. I bite my lip and yelp at each high-pitched flare of sting.

When he gets to the top my breathing quickens. I know he knows that cunt punishment is off-limits, and I know that he knows that I know, and I trust him not to cross that boundary but I'm still scared. He takes his time. I swallow my panic, try to breathe deeply. He pauses, and then swaps to the other leg. The next painful series of inner-thigh smacks come as a relief. No, of course he won't. He wouldn't. I knew that.

He flips me back over. We're communicating by touch rather than language, and I'm no longer thinking in words. I hang onto the headboard as he spanks my arse with his bare hands, hard and fast. He's really going for it. He straddles my thighs, pinning me down, and spanks harder. The cumulative sting is overwhelming but I'm turned on and warmed up and I'm not scared; the pain is all mixed up with pleasure.

After a while he suddenly stops. He trails his fingers lightly along my heated cheeks. I respond with a wordless sound. His caress dawdles along my bottom crease and I can feel my breath catch and I'm suddenly dizzy. Anal play has been off-limits for annoying health reasons for far too long; I've been desperate for it at the same time as knowing it would be too painful and damaging to contemplate. I still don't feel quite ready, but maybe it would be okay, and then I feel the slick, cool smoothness of a slender buttplug nuzzling between my cheeks, and oh my god, it's slipping in. I'm going mad with lust. I can't think. He leaves it in place, all my senses shrilling my awareness of it, and reaches underneath me to pleasure me with one hand while continuing to spank me with the other. With every slap I can feel the plug jolting in my arse and I think I might scream.

I want/don't want him to take the plug out and fuck me in the arse, but he doesn't. He leaves it in while he goes down on me, which is maddening - I can't concentrate on either sensation and although the pleasure is overwhelming it's hard for me to climax. But I do, eventually, with his cock deep inside me and the high heels crossed around his back, the plug slipped out and forgotten a while ago.

--

Hot scene, but later I wonder, was it enough to earn my badge? He hasn't given me one yet (apart from in the obvious sense) and we're spending the next day together as well. Do I have more to come? That hand spanking was one of the most furious he's ever given me, if not necessarily the hardest I've ever taken. Or maybe it was that hard, and I was so turned on I didn't notice? In the end I ask him the question while we're making breakfast the next day. He says yes, he intends to give me the badge. I joke that he's earned one, too. He smiles.

Later that day, he's at his desk and I'm on the sofa with my laptop. I'm watching Pixie's Cause for Paws video. First I'm giggling at it, and then as the over the knee paddling and hairbrushing from her husband goes on and on at that intensity and speed, I'm hopelessly turned on.

I consider. We're both usually horny in the afternoons and tired by the evenings; it's an inconvenience we've lamented before. Well, here we both are. Why not seize the opportunity?

So I tell him about the video. "It's simultaneously sweet, funny and strangely intense, especially the OTK paddling scene. Mm. I'm all a-flutter now." I can feel my blush rising. "So. Um." I bite my lip and plunge in: "If you decided that you wanted to add a few more strokes to make me earn this spanking badge, I wouldn't mind." I'm bright pink.

He grins, and stands up. "Ha. Come on then."

I feel suddenly guilty for being so demanding. "It - er, it doesn't have to be now if you're busy..."

"No, no," he replies facetiously, "the bottom has spoken, I couldn't possibly delay," and his hand is out and his eyes are smiling. I make an on-the-spot decision to shut up and let him make my fantasy come true. I take his hand.

Standing in the bedroom, I'm shy and uncertain. He whistles to himself as he rummages in the toybox, taking things out, considering them and tossing some of them onto the bed. Wooden oval paddle. Belt. "Just in case I get bored." Length of rope. Meanwhile I take my skirt off. He tells me to leave my top and knickers on.

Over his knee I go. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the mirrors: I'm lying across his lap with the rest of my weight on the bed. He asks me to put my hands behind my back, checks I'm comfortable, and ties my wrists together with the rope. He reaches up and tucks my hair out of my face, treating me to one of his most charming smiles in the mirror. My heart flutters.

Hand spanks first. Solid, stinging, satisfying. Every time we make eye contact in the mirror, sparks fly. When he reaches for the paddle and rests it against my bottom, it feels so cool against my hot cheeks, and I'm conscious that my face, pressed into the pillows, is hot to match.

He starts to use the paddle, proper hard stinging spanks, exactly what I was craving, making me jump and wriggle over his lap. I'm owwing and laughing and loving him, but it hurts. I'm watching my face and bottom turn pinker in the mirror; the former is pleasing and the latter embarrassing. He finds his rhythm and for a while I'm in my happy place. The paddle hurts a lot, but this is my fantasy and every whack makes me more turned on.

After a while he puts the paddle down and uses his hand, the difference in sensation enlivening the sting in my bottom. Does that mean he's bored? Well, maybe not, but he does have the belt in his hand, and he's doubling it up twice to make it easier to aim. The twice-doubled belt is only a few inches long and each stroke is a tiny heavy punch of sensation, none of that licking warmth I usually associate with the belt. I submit to it willingly. Any impact is good with me right now.

I'm red and sore and wriggling when he stops. He helps me up, and there's an ungainly struggle until I'm kneeling next to him on the bed, still bound, tousled and pink-faced and horny. He arranges me facedown on the bed. More spanking! ... But no, he's unzipping, for a quick, rough and dirty fuck which I really, at that point, am not at all minded to complain about.





It was one of the most indulgently instant-gratification scenes I'd ever enjoyed, and it was supremely satisfying. Afterwards I felt very loved, very happy, and very much as if I'd earned my badge.

Asking for the cane

Saturday: I'm looking through an audio story a reader has sent me, so I can give them a quote for recording it. It's rather good. A first person narrative describing the protagonist's first memories and experiences of corporal punishment. It's restrained, believable; no florid, extended descriptions of unrealistically severe discipline. Instead, it describes all the context and relationships, anticipation, build-up and aftermath surrounding a few tiny events - each episode only involving one or two whacks - so trivial in the course of things, but to the protagonist (and the author ... and me) glowing with deep personal significance. The caning sequence in particular is so well-evoked that I find myself responding as I read it. This appeals to my tastes, alright. After I've replied to the email I have to nip off to bed for a few minutes to indulge the fantasy now crowding my head.

Later that night: Tom emerges from his room, over-worked and exhausted-looking. We collide over the kettle and I give him a hug. He's sleepy and bearlike, nuzzling and pawing affectionately as if I'd disturbed his hibernation. I hug him back tightly. "Do you know what I've been thinking about all day?" I murmur into his hair.

"Mmmm?"

"Being caned by you."

"Mm." He kisses me. "I'm getting there, slowly. It won't be too much longer now. I do have a bit more energy these days than I did."

"I know, I know, it wasn't a demand. I just wanted to let you know you were in my thoughts."

His health this summer has taught me a bit about patience, although it's still hardly my strong point. But I find it helpful to check in with him, to reassure each other we are still interested, still think of each other in kinky terms, even if playing isn't currently on the cards. It's positive reinforcement, and it helped keep me going during the months when even a spanking was too much to ask. I thought that getting a quick bottom rub in bed as he told me I was spankable would have made me acutely aware of what I was missing, but even that level of interaction eased the ache a little. Sometimes, when you really miss it, the tiniest spark of kinky interest can be enough.

--

Sunday: We're spending a lazy evening together, recovering from another mad, full working week. Lots of snuggling. It's good. I'm really not expecting anything, and so the surprise is all the nicer when I discover that he's feeling playful. I sit astride his lap in my pyjamas, cradled in his arms as we kiss; my top is pulled up, exposing my breasts to his big, rough hands.

Once over his lap I'm relieved when the spanking is slow, giving me time to unwrap the caning fantasy from the day before, hold it gently in my mind. I remember how much the idea of those few, harsh strokes turned me on, and the firm spanks warming my rear become easier to take. I breathe deeply and let the sensations wash over me.

It's a perfect nice spanking - right up until the end, when he makes me squirm and beg with a series of very slow, very hard smacks that crash into my arse so hard I can't think. When he finally stops I'm feeling pretty sorry for myself. But he makes it up to me: a lovely, light switching which lights up my tail and re-ignites my interest. When he lays down a few harder, stinging strokes with the whippy little switch the bite of them is a tantalising foretaste of the deeper sensation I've been craving.

Next, a satisfyingly solid, slow twelve with the leather paddle which I don't have to count - bliss. When he stops I crane back over my shoulder to see what he'll pick up next, willing it to be the cane. I'm eager and thoroughly warmed up. I earn myself a sharp glance for peeking, but to my delight we're on the same page. He's picked up one of the shorter, denser straight handled canes, medium thickness. He asks me to count.

"How many am I going to get, sir?" I venture.

"I haven't decided yet."

The first six whet my appetite. The next six fulfil it. Thirteen to eighteen, therefore, are a challenge, and I'm proud when I get through them. Each stroke is getting harder. Nineteen to twenty-four are hard, self-indulgently miserable, making me arch my back and half-jump up as I struggle to process the pain, count the heartbeats until I manage to bite out my thankyou.

Afterwards he's all warmth and praise. I'm not able to speak yet. I curl on my side in the crook of his arm, and he holds me close as I re-surface.

I don't get what I ask for every time, but when I do, I appreciate it all the more.

Power exchange, discipline and feedback loops

I really enjoyed this discussion on the Punishment Book earlier this week, in which Iris and Chris discussed what tops get out of a DD dynamic. It covered a number of fascinating points and I can recommend reading the whole post, but here are the bits that particularly interested me:

Iris: I'm a bit wary of setting up the punishment dynamic with [M] sometimes because I don't want to drain him too much. With you I get the sense that it feeds you in some way, perhaps in the same way it feeds me: not an entirely pleasant way, but a satisfying way.

Chris: I’d be lying if I didn’t say a part of me was a bit excited by the fact that you are in trouble. I have a hard time admitting that ... maybe that's why I've always been so adamant about not "enjoying" punishments. But, there is a part of me, like you say, which does feed off of that dynamic. I think we're both on the same page there. We don't like the actual event… but we both like the situation and what it represents. For me, as I’ve said before, it's largely the trust. We share something very close and special in that punishment context, and I feel very close and focused on you before, during and after a punishment.

Iris: So can I be so bold as to ask what you do get out of TTWD? For me it creates stability and security, it re-equilibrates me when I’m off kilter, and mostly, it makes me feel deeply loved. But what about you?

Chris: Good – and tough – question. Obviously, there are different things I get out of it in different settings and with different people, so I'll limit it to the punishment aspect with you. I think the biggest thing I get out of it is knowing that you trust me enough to let me punish you when you need it. I know you don’t enjoy the spanking and hairbrushing itself, and the fact that you do trust me to do it anyway is something I cherish. It does definitely create a closeness, intimacy and yes, love that doesn’t necessarily manifest in other ways. Beyond that, even during a punishment I enjoy the physical aspects of spanking and your reactions. Those reactions are very different from a fun spanking, but they feed the punishment fantasy as well without being "fake".

Lots of food for thought! I'm always impressed by how thoughtful and emotionally articulate so many kinksters are about their sexuality. I know it's not something perverts have a monopoly on, but I think power exchange tends to stimulate this sort of analysis and discussion in a way that I find really affirming.

I added a few thoughts in a comment:

I suspect this is one of those questions that's really hard to answer because for most people, it's all one great big feedy feedback loop. The bottom gets certain things out of it (Iris' explanation is spot on - stability, security, feeling loved and looked after, catharsis, re-achieving equilibrium and the feeling of "starting again") and, because the top cares about the bottom, those are all things the top gets out of it as well - the joy of knowing they are having this effect.

Plus, there's the sexual stimulation of watching yourself enact a scenario you find hot - even if that's happening in another room of your head, and the self in your body is feeling remorse and sorrow and upset. This is shared by both of you, and it loops because you're each aware, even as you're immersed in this genuinely emotionally distressing experience, that the other finds the idea of this sort of thing hot, and perhaps that when they look back on it the memory will carry some sexual excitement.

Then there's what the top gets out of it - I love Chris's explanation here. Love, care, pleasure in the bottom's trust, pleasure at being able to help them - and perhaps pleasure in the experience of being granted this authority or power over them, as well as in the trust that implies. The bottom gets to enjoy the fact that their top is enjoying all these things, as well as enjoying his or her own experience.

I think this is one of the reasons many of us find power exchange play more electric and stimulating than sex in which each parter's experience is emotionally equivalent. It creates this delightful moebius strip of emotional response where the difference and imbalance in each person's response feeds back into the other's, and you both get to share in each other's experience.

Following on from the concept of feedback loops, I found myself nodding at Iris' initial statements about not wanting to be a burden on her partner M. I can very much identify with not wanting to impose activities on a top which they don't get anything out of. This is a consideration in all my relationships and liaisons. At the most casual level, I'm reluctant to engage in spanking play with someone who is only doing it for my sake. If my top doesn't get that fundamental jolt of excitement which all spankos will recognise, then even if they enjoy giving me pleasure, my own pleasure isn't enough for me to really relax and enjoy the experience. I need to trust that this is something my partner wants to do for their own sake as well as mine.

Domestic discipline is even more complicated than that because of the amount of commitment it represents. I don't mean the longevity of a relationship, I mean the time investment that is involved in conducting a discipline relationship responsibly. Rules and sanctions need to be negotiated consensually, and they need to be followed up consistently. If a bottom lets their top down by breaking a rule, I think the top lets them down even more by responding inconsistently. The punishment should be as negotiated, and delivered relatively promptly. As a bottom, there are few things worse than breaking a rule and then not knowing whether you're in trouble or not - or finding out that the top isn't in the mood, or is too busy, to respond, and feeling neglected as a result.

This is why my DD relationship with Tom is still on hold. He knows his own limits. He knows that in his current state of health he couldn't make a commitment to respond promptly and appropriately to my breaking any agreement we might make; as such, he doesn't want to enter one until he can. He feeds off the energy and trust of a DD power exchange, just as I do, but what's worth adding here is that neither of us only feed off that energy. We also put energy into it. Having done so, we both get more out than we started with, but in order for the power exchange to work we both need to have some energy (or power) to invest into it in the first place.

Like the feedback loop arising from a discipline relationship, I think this principle is true of normal sex as well, particularly with new partners - I get energy out of it, but I need a certain amount of energy to start with for it to be workable. But in both cases, I think the imbalance of power in a Dom/sub relationship enhances the phenomenon. Both the bandwidth of the feedback loop, and the amount of energy each partner needs to put in to get things going, are increased by the different roles, responsibilities and risks involved in power exchange.

What do you think? Does this tally with your experience?