twelve inches too short

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

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



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



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

after the party

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

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

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

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

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

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

showing you my marks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

maxi taming

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

"I know," he replied, implacably.

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



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

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

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

Chross' spanking art gallery

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



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

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

with the flat of a sword

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

naughty nurse

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

How's that for a red bum?

Here's some more:



(Photography by Synthetik Demon.)

caned wearing bloomers

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

Kami Robertson

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

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

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



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

tawsed at bedtime

I love this picture of a girl who's just been punished and sent to bed. There's something so vulnerable about it:



This photo is from Spanking Online, who are currently offering a bargain deal for trial subscriptions - £3.95 for three days. Several of their sister sites are offering a similar price for similar short-term site access; you can find more information (and more photos from that tawsing sequence) here :)

predictive punishment

As a freelancer, I occasionally do contract IT work for friends' companies. Nepotism Personal recommendation is a powerful force in my industry. My first regular client was, in fact, a company my partner D. worked for, and although he's moved job since then, his new company has recently hired me as a contractor.

We've developed a system for dealing with the potentially messy overlap between professional and private expectations, including separate email addresses to remind us of the context in which we're communicating. But that's not to say that I don't still enjoy the kinky overtones of a power dynamic in which he is, essentially, my employer.

Last week, the day after he called me to offer me this project, I woke up cheerful and sent him a text:

Morning, boss :) *lick*

(I like calling him boss.)

He sent back what seemed to be an affectionate text-spank, and I thought nothing of it until that evening, when he commented in hurt tones that he'd been kicked that morning. I was all sympathy until it became clear that he thought he'd been kicked by me, at which point I became thoroughly confused because I hadn't even woken up with him that morning.

When was when it dawned on me. I hadn't sent him a *lick* at all. My predictive text had entered *kick* without me noticing, and I hadn't corrected it before sending. He'd replied with a warning, and now he intended to deal with it properly.

I pleaded innocence - that I'd only meant to send him a flirty hello, that it was thoroughly unfair to punish me for what was essentially a typo. But he spanked me for kicking him anyway.

bottom-tuning

Posting about wooden paddles got me thinking. So much of a person's pain threshold has to do with familiarity. As I was discussing with Ludwig in a comment thread recently, familiarity with your play partner, and trust in them, is a huge factor. Familiarity with the scenario is another, although I guess that's counterbalanced by the thrill associated with fear of the unknown. But for me, familiarity with an implement is hugely significant.

My favourite implement is the cane. I think it works both ways: I like the cane, so I'm more likely to be caned than anything else; and the more I'm caned the more I like it. Part of that is knowing I can take it, having the experience to trust myself to let go and accept what's happening to me. Canings affect me deeply but they don't freak me out. I'm very at home with the implement, and however horrible it is at the time, being aware intellectually that I've done this before and it's okay does tend to help. (I haven't, however, been caned to the standards of Lupus or Mood Pictures. I keep going back and forth on whether I'd want to. Part of me would want one of my Doms to do it if anyone was going to - another part of me would want the experience to be "worth something", to be as part of a story as rich as the ones Lupus create. Maybe I'll make my own severe caning film, someday.)

So my inability to take a real paddling has nothing to do with my basic pain threshold. I've been taken pretty deep in the past. It's to do with the type of pain, my body's reaction to it, and how used to it I am. Part of processing pain is shock. The shock of something unfamiliar is much more powerful than the shock of something familiar. Part of the terror of the paddle, for me, is not knowing what to expect.

To me, this would seem to tie into the fear of canes you often see in spankees who are used to the paddle. It's a different sort of pain. It's unfamiliar, it's scary, and your bottom is less used to taking it and processing it and healing from it. As such, an unfamiliar implement used on an experienced bottom is often like being a newbie again. You have to go through the whole learning process again every time you encounter a new kind of sensation.

It occured to me that this process, of familiarising certain bottoms with certain implements (and simultaneously rendering them unexpectedly vulnerable to unfamiliar ones) could be thought of as "tuning". And it's not just canes and paddles, although the American/British school conventions have created an obvious binary. I know subs who can fly from a flogging but shy away from more traditional spanko implements. Anne Rice's Beauty trilogy is full of severe beatings with leather straps and wooden paddles because those are what the author was most familiar with, but there's nary a crop or cane in sight. And I know spankos whose comfort-zone is hand-spanking, plain and simple, and who dislike "harder" implements but can probably take a far harder hand-spanking than I could.

I've certainly been "tuned" to different implements at different points in my life. Which makes me wonder whether it's a question of circumstance - that a bottom is tuned to whichever implements are most readily available when they first start playing, and then re-tuned to whatever is used on them most often - or preference? Do some people just like different sensations and experiment till they discover what they like best? Will I always be tuned to canes, or would be it be possible to re-tune me, teach me to take those severe paddlings I fantasise about? Or is the effect cumulative, and being tuned to an implement doesn't expire when you're tuned to another one?

I doubt I'll ever be tuned to heavy wooden paddles: Mr C. believes that repeated use numbs the nerve endings of the bottom, and he wants to keep me as sensitive as possible. (Although Bailey's self-confessed vulnerability after years of heavy paddlings would suggest that isn't always the case.) And besides, if I was tuned to them, they wouldn't be horrifying any more. And where's the fun in that?

paddled and bruised

I've been enjoying Michelle's new blog, Spanked with a Paddle. I hope she won't be offended if I say that the entries and pictures she posts are smut, pure and simple, and it's absolutely brilliant.

I love analysis and intellectual discussion about spanking, but it's equally important to spend time just looking at whatever turns you on. I normally prefer fiction, drawings or longer movies to photos or clips, but every so often a photo will press my buttons. Not many relative to the vast number I look at in the course of my modelling and blogging, but some. Here are a few that have ensnared me lately, stopped me and made me stare:









Paddles are one implement where my fantasies hugely outreach my experience or tolerance. I'm spanked with a crisp, light wooden paddle semi-regularly, but I've only felt the burn of a heavy wooden school paddle once in my life (and that story is a whole other entry).

For years after I started coming to terms with my kink and being spanked by boyfriends, wooden paddles were pretty much a hard limit. I was terrified of them: two hard swats on the bare with a ping pong bat age 16 (I jumped up and insisted that my boyfriend at the time stop right there - which he did; he wasn't my Dom) had put me off the implement completely.

Except, of course, that the psychology of this kink of ours is founded on paradoxes. Paddles were the implement I was most frightened of: and overnight, they became one of the things I fantasised about most frequently. I kept returning to those two swats, over and again, pushing myself further in the safety of my own imagination than I could ever go in reality. And as I've become more experienced, my paddling fantasies have scaled up to match: they are still far more severe than I could easily take. Not that I could never learn to take them, but just that I am so unused to the heavier versions of the implement that it would be some time before I could build up to the punishment swats of my fantasies.

These pictures, then, hook straight into some of the more uncharted territory in my imagination. Are the girls relatively new to spanking, still in that glorious honeymoon period where every stroke leaves beautiful bruises? (I know, for instance, that Bailey in the second picture isn't.) Or are these photos of really quite serious paddlings? Could I ever go through with a punishment like this, or do I just not have it in me? My inner pervert doesn't care: all it knows is that these pictures are hot.

spanked in the old mill

I thought the abandoned mill was the perfect place to hide. No-one went there any more apart from kids, and even they didn't venture there after dark - it was way too creepy. So what better place to take a lover when I felt like getting away from my overbearing husband?

Unfortunately, in the country even the walls have ears. Word got back to my husband. And I found myself dragged back to the old mill again, made to expose myself in that cold, dirty place, and pulled over my husband's knee for a punishment that would ensure I'd never stray again...

wrong-handed spanking

I'm used to seeing both left-handed and right-handed spankers, and often a spanker will switch to their worse hand for the sake of the practise; or, during a caning, to ensure that my left cheek takes a turn at receiving the brunt of the impact (because they're so kind and fair like that). It works both ways - sometimes a spanker who wants to train up their weaker hand will spank less hard at first no matter how hard they try, and I can enjoy the slight reprise. (And secretly laugh at them. Haha, just kidding.) But switching sides during a caning makes it hurt much more - my left cheek is more sensitive than my right, having been the victim of far fewer cane-tip impacts in its time, and not had as much opportunity to toughen up.

In all these cases, however, the spanker switches their or my position to compensate for the change in direction. I've never heard of a spanker, say, using their right hand for a spanking where the spankee is also facing right. However, that's exactly what seems to be happening in these vintage spanking pics:





Is the pose in the first photo simply an attempt at an interesting composition? Is the second because the whip is too long to be used in the correct hand - and is it actually likely to be effective from that position, or is this just an implausible tableau?¹

It's not just a feature of vintage photos, either:



(thanks to the Spank Statement for this image)

1. I do love the way the spankee is arranged across the three chairs, though - implausible or not, it's a really hot image. Particularly the spanker's expression. Mmmm :)

t-shirts from hell

Atlanta Bondage recently posted their favourite funny "t-shirt whore" pics from the outrageous clothing store T-Shirt Hell. Customers send in pictures of themselves wearing their shirts in appropriate contexts - be that sexy, obscene or hilarious. I particularly liked these two, both the t-shirt designs and the customer photos (mouseover to read the slogan):





I'm sorry to say, the gimmick worked. I found myself buying both shirts, as vest tops - the first in black, the second in red. Once they arrive, I intend to wear each one in some spanking shots (it might be fun to see if I can get my bum to match the red of my spanking tee) but they won't arrive for a few weeks.

In the meantime, here are a couple more versions of the spanking t-shirt, in amusingly unconvincing poses:





I'm pretty sure I can do better than that.

are you sitting uncomfortably? Then I'll begin...

I posted not too long ago about the spanking trope of "not being able to sit down afterwards", and how it's not something that affects me much.

Well, this is me eating my words.

I've just spent two days making a very intimate, intense three-part film with my Mr C. Returning to reality has been accompanied by the inevitable disorientation - I've been sat at my desk all day, feeling bewildered and wishing I was back in that isolated cottage in the windswept moors, being drilled in deportment and scene manners and etiquette, having my submission pushed to the limit. (Or, at least, to my character's limit - we were both ready to take it further until the director stopped us and told us to reign it in a bit! But then, trust can do wonders to my pain threshold. My character didn't trust her disciplinarian anywhere near as much as I trust Tom - at least, not at first - and her resentment and fear were much quicker to overwhelm her.)

Anyway, I'll tell you more about the shoot once I've filmed my videodiary and the finished movie is ready to go online. In the meantime, I was fascinated to find that sitting down yesterday was painful every time I did it. Sitting on kitchen chairs in the cottage; in the car; on the hard iron bench in the deserted rural train station; on an uncomfortable seat in a tiny rural train carriage; on a leather armchair in the pub where we had dinner; on the rather more comfortable padded seats of the Virgin Pendolino express to London; on the cosy sofas in Tom's living room. Each and every one elicited a surprised wince. I didn't get used to it; every time took me by surprise.

Of course, my indignant "ow!"s only made Tom grin at me - which was, I'll admit, part of the fun. When I was pouting and wriggling on the hard iron bench on the deserted train platform, he suggested I might be more comfortable lying across his lap. I decided he was right, stretched out full-length on the bench with his knee lifting my hips, and carried on reading my book. I was interrupted by a swift demonstration that he hadn't had my comfort in mind at all. My body was still flooded with endorphines from the various abuse I'd suffered at his hands that day, and I willingly abandoned my book and gasped and wriggled under the firm spanks, offering barely a protest when he lifted my skirt and spanked me over my lacy panties in the open air. We were both disappointed when he sensed someone approaching the train platform, and swiftly helped me adjust my clothing and sit down on the bench again before they came into view. Not least because sitting down again hurt almost as much as the spanking had, and the spanking was much more exciting.

Anyway, I take it all back: sitting down afterwards is a significant part of any serious punishment. I guess the reasons I was so blazé in my previous entry were as follows:

1. The afore-mentioned super-healing powers sported by most spanking professionals or regular players.
2. I don't often play as hard in private as I did on this shoot. The desire and intention are there, but (as I explained in a comment recently) real life often gets in the way. I wouldn't say it was rare for me to be bruised, but it's not regular, either. Most shoots are fairly moderate. Shooting with my Dom is unusual, and the CP is likely to go further than a normal shoot, or indeed than most scenes we play in private. We both like to play hard, but we rarely have time for the kind of extended scene that results in this sort of tenderness.
3. Most scenes I play with my Doms these days take place in the evening, before bed. Even if we play an intense, drawn-out scene that leaves me with some welts and bruising, by the time I wake up in the morning the worst has usually faded. This was the first time I've played hard, and then still been awake and active for the rest of the day. After a hard scene I usually get a whole night's sleep to rest and heal before my bruises are tested by sitting down.
4. On a shoot, much more than in private scenes, the rest of my body is working as hard as my bottom. I spent most of yesterday trying to stay poised and graceful in high heels, maintaining various difficult positions during my punishments. I loved it - but the muscles in my bum would be aching from the workout even if I hadn't also been beaten. My legs and tummy are feeling the results of the exercise as well as my gluteus. It definitely contributes to the overall soreness.

The flash of pain when I sit down is exciting - don't get me wrong. But it's also painful, and, perhaps surprisingly, I'm not at all used to it. Time to apply more arnica cream, I think.

the first session

Has it really been over a week since I last posted? I knew I'd been busy, but I didn't realise the time had flown that quickly. Apologies to all those I owe emails or replies - I'll get on it as soon as I have time.

Sadly, I don't have time to sit down and catch up now - I have a social engagement for the rest of the day, and then I'm getting up bright and early tomorrow morning to get ready for my shoot with English Spankers. Tom and I will be travelling up in the afternoon, arriving in time to shoot one scene on Sunday evening, and then we have to finish the others on Monday morning, so it's going to be a pretty hectic pace. Leia-Ann Woods will be arriving on Monday, and while I unfortunately won't be able to stay to watch her scenes, we apparently have a two-sub scene planned before I leave, which I'm rather looking forward to. I've worked with Leia a couple of times, shooting for Bars and Stripes and Northern Spanking, but she's been behind the camera each time and I've never been spanked alongside her before. I suspect this is going to be lots of fun :)



In the meantime, the second part of my story at English Spankers went online on Friday. The play in the first part was a little gentle to really satisfy me, but this strapping hurt. I remember feeling very helpless in that position - with my legs spread and my back arched I had to keep my bottom presented at all times, and every time the stinging leather bit into it I had to struggle to stay in position.

The website describes the scene as follows: "For the second part of Pandora’s story she is handed over to a visiting master. He is determined to thrash Pandora regardless of her wishes and desires. She is first of all paddled and then, bent over the spanking bench deep in the dungeon she is given a hard session with the thick leather ferala. She has agreed with her mistress that she will accept all punishment without complaint, has she pleased her mistress? Another great film in the Pandora series and more revelations in her video diary."

Something that made me laugh after filming this was that Zoe had lent us the round leather paddle as a warm-up before the thicker leather strap, assuring me that it didn't hurt, but the first half-dozen strokes with it were the most painful thing to happen to me all day! The exposed position meant that the edges of the doubled leather slapper kept wrapping slightly around my buttock, and smacking the vulnerable skin in between. It absolutely killed, at least until my skin warmed up and that gradual, pleasant tingle began to take the edge off each stroke. But I liked that it hurt more than I'd expected. It tipped me instantly into character, made me feel as helpless and vulnerable as she must feel. And it was funny afterwards teasing Zoe about the fact that she'd unwittingly signed me up to more pain, when trying to get me off the hook :)

There wasn't much dialogue in this scene, so I was free to immerse myself completely in the pain, to ignore everything else. I disappeared inside my own head a bit during this whipping, let myself be tossed from sensation to sensation. Certainly from where I was kneeling, it was very hot indeed (which I'm fairly sure must be evident in the film given how exposed I am ... and even though I write a blog about how spanking turns me on, it's still horribly embarrassing when you can see). But I'm not sure how well it translates to cinema. It was a bit self-indulgent - I wasn't really acting at all, just floating in my own little world. I hope some of that comes across, and that this film is enjoyable even though I'm not playing to the camera. It was certainly fun to make :)

more on back whipping

Wow, the weather's finally brightened, hasn't it? We had our first picnic of the summer over the weekend, and although the ground was damp and the rain drove us home early in the evening, today is glorious. I'm full of energy. (Who knows, maybe that energy will finally assist me in finishing the new version of my website I'm working on ... it's been a long time in coming.)

There are lots of things I want to write about at the moment - not least the new violent porn bill which was passed last Wednesday. My thoughts on that are taking a while to pull together, so in the meantime I want to return to the subject of back whipping. I touched on this in my previous entry, but I don't really feel like I communicates my feelings about it successfully.

A little while ago, a reader asked me about this by email:

1. What do you think of bare back whipping (see the pictures below)?

2. Take a look at the pictures on the links below. I really enjoy them because of the dynamics between the dominant and the submissive girl in these scenes. Just look at the determination is the eyes of the girls executing the strokes and how the submissive girls are working with their bodies to stand the pain. Pretty nice pictures, don't you think?

After thanking him for the fantastic photos, I replied as follows:

I have an interesting relationship with bare back whipping. On the one hand, it's definitely a part of my real-life play and I enjoy it as a form of punishment. I find it very realistic - it's associated with real, historical punishments and scenarios in my head, and as such it carries an edginess which I find very powerful. Well-executed back flogging can be a powerful, ritualistic thing and I've been known to be put in an altered state of consciousness after a prolongued whipping - the effect it has on the body is extremely powerful, and it can very easily put me into trance!

On the other hand, the physical sensations of back whipping don't have the same erotic charge for me that being punished on my bottom does. It's not that it's not connected to my masochism, because the meditative trance state evoked through back whipping is certainly the result of endorphine stimulation. It's that it connects to my kink in a different way. There's an instant, primal, sexual jolt connected to the idea of being spanked or whipped on my bottom, breasts or thighs. It's a highly erotically charged concept. Back whipping - like hand punishment - doesn't carry that instinctive erotic charge. But like hand punishment, it's a powerful psychological thing. And because the part of the body being punished isn't one which will allow the punishment to be sexually enjoyable on a physical level, the punishment can have a more harsh, non-consensual feel to it. And that's very powerful as well.

I think that comes closer to describing it. It's not that one type of CP connects to my sexual masochism and another doesn't, but rather that they connect to it in very different ways.

Remember my kinky friend who punished me with a quirt he'd made himself? His implement of choice is leather floggers. He has a beautiful collection, in various shades and types of leather, most if not all of them made by himself. He always takes a couple out with him when he goes to play parties or clubs, and most of the kinky girls in our social circle have tasted his florentine flogging at one time or another. Any public scene he plays will draw a crowd, and he invariably receives compliments on the grace and power of his flogging style for the rest of the evening.

During the same evening on which I earned a whipping with the quirt for keeping him waiting and making him late, he also used his floggers on me - a couple of floggers made of soft, heavy, straight-cut leather thongs, and a cat o' nine tails with harsh, plaited leather tails, which he swapped in when he wanted to step things up a notch. This was at the club, long before my punishment later in the night. It wasn't the first time he'd flogged me, but it was the first time he'd done so on a night when I was submitting to him alone, and neither of my Doms were present. Here's what I wrote about it in my personal diary:

The dungeon was crowded and not very well arranged, but we created a space and he put me on the cross for a flogging scene. We'd done this once before (at Torture Garden eight months ago), but I was his tonight and it made all the difference. He's very skilled with floggers. The florentine strokes started light, teasing me, drawing my hips back towards him as I ached for deeper sensations, and then pushing me back with sharper force that left me limp. The crescendo built to tidal waves of sensation that crashed over me. I floated in place, helpless; feeling as if I was being washed up on a shore, like driftwood, again and again. But he never quite let me drown - always catching me as my mind was going blank under the onslaught, soothing me, bringing me down before he started to build up the pace once again. He played me like a puppet and my body danced on the cross.

It ended with a series of blows that built up and up until I felt like I was standing under a waterfall, just letting the unbelievable force of it rain down on me, offering myself up to it. On the last crack between my shoulder blades my whole body sagged and I felt the tears start to flow. He stroked me, soothed my skin and took me into his arms, and I was laughing and crying, almost incredulous at the emotional force of what he'd done to me. It felt like catharsis, like a floodgate in me had been opened, leaving me weightless and shaking and completely blissed out.

Flogging doesn't really tap into my kink in some ways. My masochism responds to it, but it doesn't awaken that desire in me, that serpent uncoiling at the base of my spine, that other forms of CP and BDSM do. It seems almost asexual in some ways: a powerful physical and emotional act, like a meditation or a massage... intimate, deeply submissive and yes, the endorphines flood through me. But the sensations aren't erotic per se. It's subtly other, and I can't explain it. But it's intensely powerful.

I was spaced out for ages after that. I sat on his lap, still topless and the skin of my back hot to the touch, relaxed and happy while he talked to people. He got a lot of compliments and I talked a little about the scene and how it had affected me. We both agreed there had been a very intense connection between us. I remember some of the strokes communicating themselves to me like words, and the arcing of my body in response, like a conversation or like sex. I remember saying his name aloud in my head over and again as I let the pain wash over me.

workhouse whippings

Spankboss of Spanking Blog posted a link this morning to this collection of illustrations which accompanied early editions of the book Nell in Bridewell. I haven't read or heard of this book before, but apparently it's a famous late Victorian story about workhouse whippings. Spankboss is after some higher resolution scans of the twelve plates, so please do comment on his entry if you can help him out. These illustrations are, however, completely new to me. I like them rather a lot.



I think the strong appeal of the above image (and the one following it) is the unusual combination of position and implement. I've seen images of girls stretched out flat and restrained on whipping benches before, and the lifted bottom in the first picture, presumably over a wooden block, is a particularly nice touch. But lying down is a position I would normally associate with more domestic punishments - with hand spanking, tawse, paddle or cane. The cat o' nine tails, birches and single-tail whips of the Nell illustrations are far more commonly associated with victims restrained in a standing position, arms above head - and with whole body or bare back punishments (which we do in fact see later in the series). I love whips, and I love upright whippings, but it's nice to see this conjunction of one of my favourite implements and a very traditionally erotic corporal punishment position.

Bare-back whippings are hot, for me, in a different way to punishment applied to the bottom. Back whipping is sexy because of context, realism; because it fits into a fantasy or a historical setting. It doesn't provide that instant jolt of desire, that masochistic surge, that bottom whipping does. Or at least, not in the same way. It's kind of hard to describe.

(Funnily enough, I had a dream the night before last about bottom whipping using just such a short single-tail whip - a signal whip or similar. The setting of the dream was an old-fashioned boy's public school in which fagging still took place. A bullying prefect had lined up some younger boys who had displeased him for punishment. Trousers down, the boys were perched on a row of playground swings with their bums vulnerably hanging over the edge of the seat. The resulting angle of the swing put them on tiptoe, thighs supported by the wooden seat and upper bodies tipping forward for balance. Their tormentor paced behind them with the coiled whip, giving each a slow, hard six lashes across their exposed cheeks. Some of the strokes were so hard that they made the victim stumble forward, losing their balance and pitching onto the ground in front of them. I have no idea if such a position would be workable, but it was an intriguing image.)