Wednesday WIN

Last Friday, I showed you a magnetic sign that I found offensive.

Today, I have three more from the same source, and I had a different take on them. Gee, I dunno why!








I am strongly tempted to put the next one up on the wall of our office boardroom.

The Phantom Menace

Those of us at the office who carry a BlackBerry in a holster hooked onto a waistband or belt can feel a vibration every time we get incoming messages. The interesting thing is, we also feel that vibration on our hips from time to time when we are not carrying a BlackBerry. This phantom vibration is something each of us thought was only our imagination, until we started discussing it among ourselves.






Sometimes I feel a similar sort of phantom feeling, a bit farther back and lower down. If I am anticipating a spanking, I can sometimes feel the sting and burn on my bottom, as if it has already happened. Of course, I know how it will feel, but I really believe I experience a bit of the sensation as a delicious, tantalizing glimpse into the near future.






Does anyone else seem to feel the burn before it becomes a
reality?

Do you still...

I found this eye-catching gem on one of my favourite humour sites, failblog.org. Although it originated on an online forum, it was obviously destined for greatness, as "Your Answer" indicates.





Click on the image to enlarge it.

From the Top Shelf - Serving Time, Part VII

When we left Fern last time, the illicit caning she had been administering was interrupted by the returning guard.

Since then, Fern was found in her hiding place. She denied having been the giver of Sylvie's extra stripes but was found out after Dr Marshall gave her a chance to add to Sylvie's punishment, and noticed her beginner's technique.

"That's why I had you brandish the rod," Dr Marshall explained. He took her hand and pulled her closer to Sylvie's nervously twitching bum. "See those marks?" He used his index finger to trace the red horizontal blotches.


Fern squinted at them. "Yes. So?"


"These are caused by the tip of the cane. In other words, the end of it has been the main part making contact with Sylvie's backside." He pursed his lips together as he studied the different shades of pink and scarlet. "That's because you're not used to laying on the rod and have caused it to fall in a diagonal line."


The doctor turned his attention to one of the unmarked bums further down the stocks. "Watch closely, Fern, and see how a caning should be applied," he said. He lined up the reformatory rod and applied it smartly so that it landed parallel across the creamy expanse. The girl grunted low. A uniform line appeared all the way across her wicked bottom. "See?" the man continued. "A good mark, a sore stripe and no bruising - the ideal chastisement for a lazy gardener." He smiled mirthlessly at Fern. "Don't worry, my dear, I won't bruise you either though I'll give you the hottest bum."


"No - don't!" Fern took three steps back and bumped into Ms Lenn.


"Take your punishment, my dear," the older woman said. "You know you deserve it."


Fern swallowed convulsively. "But I..."


"Sneaked out the wrong door. Neglected your gardening duties," the doctor cut in.


"And thrashed poor Sylvie's backside," the guard said, looking covetously at the various canes...


Dr Marshall turned to the guard. "Can you let the others go? I'll need all my concentration to teach Fern's fibbing arse some truthfulness."


The guard nodded then walked to the wooden restrainer and freed the naked girls...


"Fern - take off your shorts," the psychiatrist said.


"Can't I just...?"


"Procrastination will earn you further punishment and that arse is already due a severe thrashing," the man continued.


Trying not to think of the sore bum that awaited her, Fern unbuttoned and pulled down her summer shorts. She kicked them off.


"And your sandals," the man instructed.


She obeyed him and stood on the warm dust in her newly bared feet.


"Now, Fern, you can't expect to get to keep your panties on," the doctor said.


"I... No, sir." Deciding that to mimic obedience might lessen her correction, Fern pulled down her white panties with pink rosebuds.


When she was naked below the waist, the man pointed to the recently de-peopled stocks. "Get in the middle one, my dear. That'll give me ample room to swing the birch from any angle."


The birch! Fern quivered and felt hugely aware of her bare little bum. Hadn't the birch latterly been used on only the most intractable British criminals? Hadn't it eventually been banned?


...Fern walked towards the wooden stocks. She put her fingers to the upper section and pushed, surprised at how well oiled it was. She stretched her neck and arms into the required grooves.


Seconds after she got into position the hinged wood slid down, holding her in situ. How ingenious, Fern thought, moving her fingers and toes. She felt fully restrained, yet almost comfortable within the stocks' confines. Not that her bare bottom was going to be comfortable for long - not with Dr Marshall about to birch it soundly. It was about to become hot and red and sore. She winced as he walked before her and went up to the table and selected the twig-stiffened punisher. One lash would bring heat to almost half of her captive posterior, the birch was so wide. And she had no idea how many lashes she was about to get on her exposed cool orbs.


Fern tightened her lower cheeks so that she scrunched up her bum and made it as small and tight a target as possible. She held and held and held it like that until at last her strength gave out and she let her buttocks relax. Then she flinched and squealed as a smarting pain covered the top half of her arse. Damn him, he'd been patiently waiting his moment!


"Count each stroke for me, Fern, then thank me for it and ask me for the next one," the psychiatrist said.


"And if I don't?" Fern muttered.


"If you don't, I'll add a birching to the backs of your thighs to match each one planned for your recalcitrant little bottom. Your hips will be begging for mercy by the time I'm through."


She felt his smooth fingertips trace the crease at the bottom of her nether cheeks, and shivered with mixed shame and excitement.


"Thank you for using the birch on my bad bottom, sir. Please give me another taste," she whispered with obvious reluctance.


"Your wish is my command. Just think about why you're getting this," the doctor said. He used the birch a second time. Each individual twig left its hot trail, a trail which seemed to fuse with the others till her entire backside felt fiery and tight.


"Thank you for..." Again Fern acknowledged the horrid stroke, though she couldn't quite bring herself to ask for its successor. Her bottom already felt like an oven-baked apple. Would the thorough and all-knowing doctor turn it into a roasted chestnut before he was through?


...As if in answer, Dr Marshall ran the birch twigs over her bum, a caress with potential cruelty. "That's nice, isn't it, Fern? Quite stimulating?"


She shivered as the blood rushed to her pubis. She might as well be truthful, given that he seemed to read her mind with unerring precision. "I...guess so. Yes."


...Fern moaned quietly as he continued to stroke her twice-birched bum with the multi-fingered implement. Amazing that the sticks which had brought such pain could now give such pleasure to her exposed silky flesh! She could feel the gelatinous liquid starting to leave her aching centre...


She was nearing climax now, each caress with the birch sending more wanton weight to her mound of Venus. Desperate to reach orgasm, she pushed her hips back against the traitorous touch...[Dr Marshall] ran his thumb over her clitoris and kept repeating the light sure pressure.


"Ah ... aaaaah ... aaaaaaaaah!" Fern's body went into rapturous spasm after spasm as her pussy pleasured into release.


Climax here at Compulsion was unlike any climax ever known before. It intensified when the guards and the psychiatrist talked and touched her. Increased when they lewdly tormented and teased each genital itch... Fern kept her eyes and mouth tight closed, still slave to the incredible pulsing thrill between her legs and above them. Dr Marshall was exquisitely skilled in the art of making a woman orgasm. Dr Marshall was...about to birch her again.

He doesn't. Circumstances intervene once more. Isn't that always the way? But it all ends happily. Fern serves her sentence, then is offered the position of athletics director, and stays on at Compulsion, although no longer on the receiving end.

From Serving Time by Sarah Veitch.

We Heart Leather

Ron and I have probably stayed together for as long as we have because we have so much in common. We both enjoy pasta, mussels, folk music, gardening and reading. We both dislike rap music, cats that yowl at three a.m. and neighbours that howl at any hour.

We also like leather. We are smart enough not to have leather furniture. There are too many sharp nails and claws in our house. But leather seems to be our mutual choice when it comes to spanking. We have a plentiful collection of implements made of wood, leather and other substances, so we have lots to choose from. But nine times out of ten, Ron will reach for something leather. He likes the special sound that cured skin makes against fresh skin, and I enjoy the feel. Leather hurts just as much as wood, but there's a certain give to it; a flexibility that makes it mold to my bottom before it bounces off.

Just last week, I was treated to a double spanking with two paddles: one made of leather and the other of wood. After some serious attention with the leather implement, Ron thoughtfully rubbed my bottom for a minute or two, then he put the paddle down and picked up the second one from where it lay beside me. He applied it energetically but briefly, then stopped and said, "It doesn't make much of a sound."

"No, it doesn't," I mumbled, my voice muffled by the bedclothes, not making much sound either just then.

He put down the wooden paddle and resumed the session with his first choice. I had no complaints. The wood had felt unfriendly and stiff, bouncing off my taut bottom. (Not taut in the sense of toned or muscular; it was taut because it was tightly stretched as I lay bent over the end of the bed.) The leather seemed friendlier somehow. I moaned, partly in welcome, partly in pain.

Ron has also become very adept at wielding a belt. He shared the secret of his technique with me after an intense session last Sunday. (Should Tops do that?) Anyway, what he said was, at first he found the belt hard to control, because of its lack of stiffness. It wasn't going where he wanted it to. So, in addition to holding it at the buckle end with one hand, he uses his other hand to steady the folded "business" end, in order to control his aim. On the downward swing, he lets go of the tip at the last moment, and the belt lands right on target every time. (Oh, goody!)



We




leather

Friday Fail

I found this magnet at a dollar store. It's fairly large - about five inches square - and designed to be screwed or nailed to a wall as well as stuck onto a metal surface.

I find it quite disturbing that something like this would be available on the shelves. It's one thing to make playful references to spanking, but this looks quite serious. Where on earth would someone hang something like this? And why?

What do you think?

Decisions, Decisions

What do you suppose that guy is going to do with the cane?

Read the hysterical comments about this picture on Picture is Unrelated. They're all pretty good, but here's the best one:

GROOAAAN!!!That is SO bad… I think it looks like one of those ridiculous Japanese game shows… one of those derrieres is his wife or girlfriend or some body ‘famous’ and he has to guess which one….


CONTESTANT (in wheelchair): “TED, I believe the third from the left in the second row from the top is my wife.”


TED:(in game show host voice) “Are you SURE BOB? If you are wrong, you lose the big prize (and possibly your wife)!”
BOB:”I am sure Ted!”


TED: OK, IT is time to reveal… Will BOB’S WIFE PLEASE STAND UP! (try not to hit your head on the girl above you)


(the forth from the left on the third row from the top stands up)
Music cue: WONK WONK WONNNNK


TED: OH! BOB, I AM SO SORRY!! You picked the wrong butt!! You don’t get the grand prize, but TELL HIM WHAT HE HAS WON, JOHNNY!
(voice over)


JOHNNY: WEEELLLL BOB has won a business card with the phone number of a divorce lawyer on it… and from the look on his wife’s face… he is going to NEED it! Bob has also won a YEARS supply of RICE A RONI, The San Francisco treat, and a copy of the PICK YOUR WIFE’S BUTT home game for hours of family fun! (whatever family he is going to have after this debacle)

I'm Lovin' It

Marine Life

An Australian woman was attacked by a shark while snorkeling, but managed to escape after punching and kicking the two-metre-long fish until it released her. Significant damage was done to her legs and buttocks, and she lost a significant amount of blood during the attack. The victim faces at least five operations, but it's not all doom and gloom.

Her take on it? "I have to have a new remodeled bottom, so that's a positive."

Read the full story here.

Complete the Caption

Wearing pajamas in the daytime? Something must be up.

Fill in the blanks with whatever you think these fashionably-dressed, very spankoesque ladies might be discussing.

From the Top Shelf - Serving Time, Part VI

When we last saw Fern, hiding in the shrubbery, a caning had been interrupted. Let us resume from there.

"Sorry to interrupt!"


The voice seemed to come from directly behind her. Fern squeezed her knees together and closed her eyes and waited for an authoritative hand to fall on her shoulder. She opened them again as she heard the guard's voice reply.


"What can I do for you, Ms Lenn?" he asked.


"An altercation over in greenhouse three. If you could deal with it directly?" the admissions officer said briskly.


The man nodded. "I'm on my way."


He set the reformatory rod down on the ground, then turned back to Sylvie's bum with its single scarlet stripe enlivening the middle. He fondled both cheeks, and ran his palm over the backs of her tautly expectant thighs. "I'll be back soon, love. Just enjoy the sun on that wicked arse while you can."


Sylvie shuddered...


As soon as the two guards disappeared from sight Fern felt the urge to approach the hapless victims. Why, they wouldn't know who was walking up behind them, so their bottoms would be wonderfully quivery and apprehensive. In fact, they'd assume it was the guard! And if she didn't speak they'd continue to assume it was the guard. Which meant that...


Awareness sank through Fern like a leaden bomb. She couldn't thrash them hard, she told herself. Well, she could - but she shouldn't. There again, she'd had her own arse warmed whilst she was here - why not dish it out rather than accept it for a change?


Fern stood up and flexed her arms and legs to their fullest potential. Then, her limbs re-energized, she walked slowly towards the helpless row of bums... Fern stopped...as she reached Sylvie's exquisite rear.


The girl had the kind of bottom that grown men cried for. Each creamy cheek was perfectly rounded. The skin looked like the purest flesh-toned velvet. Fern cold tell that it would feel equally silky smooth. The cleft between the adorable orbs was deep and dark yet slender. The girl's thighs were equally well-exercised and trim.


Only one thing broke up the creamy poised surface - and that was the vertical cane mark. Its initial painful redness had already faded to a ragged pink. Drawn by a force that seemed not of her making, Fern reached the middle finger of her right hand towards the sore reminder of Sylvie's wrongdoing, and ran her curious digit lightly along the ridge.


Sylvie gasped in either arousal or fear. Fern took a step back, then remembered that the girl couldn't see her. Sylvie would merely be assuming that the controlling guard had returned. The guard who said, "bad girls need sore bums" and "time I taught your arse a lesson" - then did so. Did what she, Fern, could do now!


Fern picked up the reformatory cane. It was a long cane. A thick cane. A cane to be reckoned with. The type of cane that wasn't easily forgotten by an insubordinate bum. Wishing that she could taunt the girl, she ran the cool rod warningly over the helpless bottom.


"Please," Sylvie whispered. "Show mercy, please!"


They hadn't been merciful to Fern, when she was being paddled in the assembly hall or...in the dining room. Driven by a sudden desire to get her own back, she arched the surprisingly bendable cane. Sized it up with the underswell of the rump before her then flicked it sharply into place.


"Aaah!" Sylvie's entire bottom flinched, and the muscles in her thighs puckered up and smoothed out then repuckered.


Fern waited till her victim's buttocks stopped moving, then lined up the rod again. She'd teach this beautiful brat not to get complacent. She'd show this pretty young bum who was in charge!


She made the helpless backside taste the cane further up this time, so that it left its glowing mark a third of the way down the girl's writhing posterior.


"I'm sorry I was bad," Sylvie whispered, flexing her thigh backs lasciviously and trying to push herself toward her harsh caner. "I could make it up to you."


Aware that to answer the girl would reveal her true identity, Fern reluctantly kept silent. Sylvie continued to plead for clemency... A strange anger sweeping through her belly and chest, Fern swung the cane and watched the scarlet proof of her rage appear across Sylvie's disarmed buttocks. All the strength in her body seemed to surge into her mobile right arm. The girl was a shameless ease and wanton temptress. She was a goddess whom she'd reduce to the status of a waiting naked arse.


She pulled back the rod again. Sylvie's hot cheeks quivered. Fern saw a flash of grey and white from the corner of her eye and froze into place. She could see two tiny figures in the far distance - presumably Ms Lenn and the punishing guard had completed their mission. They were slowly approaching, returning by a different route...


Reluctantly dropping the punitive rod she'd been using on Sylvie, she backed away. Hurrying to her original hiding place, she ducked down behind the bushes and parted two of the leafy lower branches to create a new observation place.


Slowly the stick figures drew closer, closer, closer, gaining feature and form until they were in line with the stocks, a mere ten feet from Fern. She let out her breath and leaned forward, confident that she was fully concealed. They had no reason to suspect anything.


"Back to work," the guard said in a lilting tone... He walked toward Sylvie's waiting bum. "Now, where were we?" He stopped and stared at her reddened arse.


God, what an idiot she'd been, Fern realized, seeing what the man was seeing. She'd added several cane marks to Sylvie's previously singly-striped cheeks.


"Ms Lenn - can you fetch the dogs? We appear to have an interloper," the guard said. "A somewhat sadistic interloper."

Uh oh. Fern's in for it now. See what happens in the next installment, coming soon.

Spring Cleaning

Happy Spring! How better to celebrate our release from the grip of a long, cold winter than by a bit of spring cleaning?

My husband Ron enjoys wearing cologne, and I thoroughly approve. On Valentine's Day, I gave him a set of several designer fragrances that I had sampled and liked, and I thought he'd like them too.

A day later, as he was reorganizing the side of the bathroom cupboard reserved for him, he extricated several boxes from the back, then called me to come and look. I was amazed to see several more gift sets of colognes - each one by a different designer, thank goodness. These gifts from past holidays had been carefully stored away then forgotten. Ron selected a few small bottles and promised to start using them, and in turn I promised to be more creative in my gift selection.

That got me thinking about the implements we had scattered around the house. Were some being overlooked? Had we completely forgotten about others? Did we have some that had outlived their usefulness, or that we had outgrown?



The first place I looked was Ron's bedside table. I didn't see anything there that I wanted to part with, but I did notice a few implements that needed to come up to the top so that he would see them and perhaps become inspired to dust them off on my bottom.

Then I checked my bedside table. Unlike its counterpart on Ron's side, where the implements in regular use live, I have a few items that I would like to try but haven't yet found the courage to bring out of the darkness. A thick white rubber spatula on a plain wooden stick caught my eye. Yes, I still wanted to try that. I moved it to Ron's side. A wooden ruler. Too flimsy, and the metal edge was dangerous. A light hairbrush. Nope, it wouldn't make any impression on me. They both went into the give away bag.

Before I left the bedroom, I made sure that the implements we used regularly were arranged attractively, looked inviting and were easily accessible.




In the kitchen, I headed for the jar of wooden implements. I love picking up new, interesting pervertables in the houseware section of the supermarket, but I might have overdone it.




Some were actually used for cooking, so they could stay. But several wooden spoons and two spatulas were so light and cheap that they weren't up to much, either in the cooking pot or on my bottom. I removed them.




Decluttering is so much fun! Now if you'll excuse me, I must go sort out the slippers in the closet.

Guess the Implement - the Reveal

This month's mystery implement prompted some very creative guesses.

What is it?	Why is it coloured?
Leather shoehorn	left and right shoes
Skin file	coarse and fine
pH tester	acid and alkali
Stirrer	cold and hot
Spatula
Pregnancy tester	yes or no
Cooking implement	hot and cold
Paint stirrer	different paint colours
Spatula	peanut butter and jam
Safety match	brown burns, blue doesn't
Spatula/stirrer
Nail file	filing and buffing
Tester
File
Canoe paddle
Manicure tool	cuticle shaper
Paint stirrer

Congratulations to Anonymous for correctly guessing that it is a spatula specially designed to scoop both peanut butter and jam or jelly out of a jar.




The two ends are colour-coded so that the peanut butter-covered end doesn't end up in the jam jar, and vice versa.

Thanks, everyone, for playing guess the implement.

Guess the Implement

We haven't played guess the implement for a while, so here's a fun one.

While it might be easy to speculate on the vanilla purpose of this little paddle, why is it coloured the way it is?

Leave a comment with your guesses as to what it is and what the colours represent, and I'll reveal the true use of this "stick with a difference" in a day or two.

Worth a Second Look

Women in Control

This post will be, I hope, or particular interest to some of my blogging friends. What Throck, Prefectdt, Red, Recidavist, Burl, David and Reece have in common is their enjoyment of being on the receiving end of a spanking administered by a woman. I hope that they - and everyone who appreciates discipline from a dominant woman - will enjoy these.

From the Top Shelf - Serving Time, Part V

Another vignette from Serving Time by Sarah Veitch. If you missed the earlier ones, here are parts one, two, three and four.

Fern has now been at Compulsion - the reformatory with unique but familiar methods of rehabilitation - for some time. She works in the gardens, and is on her way now, but is told by a guard to take a different route.

"Go by the gate at the left. The fields you've been working on have been given over to some of the senior officers for a prolonged disciplinary session. You'll be cutting the lawns on the south side today."

Now that sounds intriguing, don't you think? Fern thought so too, and goes to investigate.

She heard the sound of thrashing long before she saw it. She heard the cane's savage swish, followed by a gasp of breath and a sharp high cry... Fern walked silently over to the bushes. Hunkering down behind them, she parted the foliage and peered through the newly created gap. Then she exhaled hard and bit her lip as she saw that she was a mere eight feet away from ten bare bottoms that were held firmly in place...


She saw that the miscreants' necks and arms were locked in a device that resembled the latter day stocks. Only the stocks before her were long enough to hold a dozen wicked necks and sets of arms in place leaving the related bums completely unable to protect their tender selves.


Raising her eyes, she saw a guard she vaguely recognized from her weeks at Compulsion. The man strode towards the long desk which was just inches away from the helpless inmates' heads.


"What shall it be this time?" he asked, looking at the rods, whips and martinets before him. Fern watched every waiting bottom twitch. "On reflection, I think the two-fingered tawse will warm up an arse or two," the guard continued, picking up the long leather punisher. He ran the implement through his hands then took his time strolling behind the restrained young bums.

They were very varied bums, Fern realized, scrutinizing the row of vulnerable bare bottoms. Eight of them were well-rounded and female, whilst the two more oval-shaped hirsute ones were male. The posterior immediately in front of her was slightly plump, and curved into a pair of equally curvy thighs. Each inch of flesh was lightly suntanned. Each inch of flesh was also anticipating a somewhat more painful tan.


As she stared, the guard stopped behind a slightly darker girlish derriere. The unfortunate bottom flinched as did the bottoms on either side of it.


"Putting weedkiller on the mange touts [edible-podded peas], failing to water the saplings - so many misdemeanours," the guard said mockingly. Again the waiting buttocks puckered then untensed.


The man pulled back the leather tawse then brought it smartly down over one of the helpless cheeks, creating a pink spreading punishment mark. As the girl squealed and moved her bum from side to side he laid on the implement again. "Save your whimpers till that bottom's been out in the sun for an hour, Theresa, giving me a nice warm canvas," he said mockingly. "I like to take my time turning a hot pink bum a pretty red."


Fern squinted at the furthest female backside. The soft flesh was already glowing all over, as if it had tasted the bat-shaped paddle. It writhed as the guard's footsteps moved its way.


"You needn't wriggle that scarlet arse at me and hope you'll escape further whipping, Rosie," the man said emotionlessly. 'I haven't finished correcting that wicked little posterior yet."


He hadn't started correcting some of the others! Fern sat down silently on her own bum and parted a lower portion of the bushes. She felt safer squatting on her most tender charms, carefully protecting them. God knows what this bastard would do if he found her lurking there. Her crime would be eavesdropping, and she could easily envisage her punishment. There was room for two more naughty bottoms in those hateful stocks.


"Well, young Keith, what have you to say for yourself after planting the bulbs too shallowly?" the guard asked, walking up to yet another bared posterior.


"I'm sorry, sir. I was tired, sir," muttered the youth.


"And now I have to make you sorry," the guard continued, beginning to unbuckle his belt.


Keith's bottom was still relaxed, his eyes presumably trained on the punishment table before him which held all the admonishing implements. He obviously had no idea, Fern realized, that the guard was about to thrash him with the strap from his waist. As she stared the uniformed man flipped back the belt then walloped the youth's helpless buttocks six times.


"Oh! Ah! Aaaah!" The boy's yells increased as each of the lashes were laid on...


...There was a particularly cheeky upturned girlish bum in the centre of the stocks, and Fern found herself wanting the guard to cane it hard.


At last the guard turned his merciless attention towards that particular waiting rear. "Oh dear, Sylvie, we seem to have neglected your posterior so far, don't we, sweetheart?"


The bottom in question quivered, but Sylvie didn't answer.


"I'll have to pay it particular attention now," the man said, his voice containing a smile. He walked over to the table and let his hand hover over the cat-o'-nine-tails, the variously shaped martinets and the wooden-handled razor strop. "I wonder, should we warm your arse uniformly with a nice wide paddle or stripe it with a Victorian rod?" He handled the leather, rubber and bamboo implements, swishing them through the air then slapping them lightly against his palm as he stared over at the trembling Sylvie. "Which punisher would make a naughty bottom good?"


The rod won. Smiling, he picked up a reformatory cane and ran it through his fingers. Fern could see the tension in the girl's naked shoulders increase. The main muscles in her bottom tightened up as the guard strolled round to those selfsame buttocks. After a moment or two Sylvie couldn't hold the position and had to let her muscles relax.


It was then that Sylvie's tormentor applied the punitive stick to her bare hindquarters, causing a thin red stripe to appear across the centre of the previously creamy flesh. The blond girl cried out and moved her poor bottom from side to side the little she could given her body's position in the stocks.


"Such a loud noise for such a little girl," mocked the guard, lining the rod up again.


"Sorry to interrupt!"

What could be important enough to interrupt such a delicious scene? Stay tuned....

Bedtime

I don't usually post pictures of naked bottoms, but this one was too good not to share with you. it comes from a popular site called hawtness.com.




It's a naughty pose, but isn't intended to be a spanking picture. Or is it?

I saw similar pyjamas offered in a non-kinky gift catalogue last Christmas, so they are available in the vanilla world. Do you have some, or have you considered getting them for yourself or for your spanking partner?

A Birthday Milestone

This year a cheezburger wasn't exactly what I had in mind. And as for the title of this post, I don't mean one of those major age-related milestones. Thank goodness the next one's not for another, oh, several years at least (wink!) This was a birthday milestone of another sort.

I told you a while ago about my determination to have a birthday spanking this year. Although Ron had said he would give me one - and before breakfast at that - I thought it wouldn't hurt to remind him. So three days before the event, I asked him if he was really going to celebrate the big day before breakfast.

"What?" he asked. "Oh, I was just joking."

"You were?" About the spanking or about the timing, I wondered.

"How about after breakfast?" he responded, and I relaxed. That would be fine too, and at least I had gently made it clear that I would not be forgetting about it this year.

When the big day arrived (it was was actually the same day as my blogaversary) I got a hug, a kiss, a lovely gift, a card, my favourite breakfast - but no spanking. I almost questioned the omission as I left for the office, then though better of it; if Ron had something planned for later on, I didn't want to spoil it by being too pushy.

But all day I remained preoccupied, and unwanted questions darted through my mind. I kept up a steady internal dialogue with myself whenever I was not busy with a task at work. He's forgotten. I'll sulk. Should I remind him when I get home? He's hoping I won't say anything. I'll cry. Maybe I should email him. He'll say "wait till next year". I'll stop speaking to him. I need to IM him. He's got something wonderful and exciting planned. He'll pretend he's forgotten. I don't care. Yes I do. If he says no...

On the way home I decided to think positively, and made some very pleasant spanking images dance through my mind, wiping away all traces of the negative conversations from earlier that day. After all, I reminded myself, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.




I did the usual things when I got home - unpacked my briefcase, changed, checked the snail mail - but when Ron had failed to mention spanking after about ten minutes, I decided I had to act. I was still feeling very excited and optimistic as I firmly fixed a pleasant smile on my face. In a cheerful tone of voice, I broached the subject.

"So, you didn't give me that spanking after breakfast," I began.

"Um, no..." Ron looked puzzled.

"So when are you planning to do it?" Still determinedly light and playful.

"Any time. When do you want it?"

"Any time." It felt like a tennis match. I needed to take charge. "Before dinner."

"Before dinner it is," and Ron resumed watching the news. But I still had details to clarify.

"Do you know what you have to do?" I queried pleasantly.

The puzzled look returned. "Do?"

"You have to give me one whack for each year, plus one to grow on," I explained. Ron looked relieved. I can't imagine what he thought I was going to say. I felt I had done my bit, and settled back to watch television and wait.

When the program was over Ron escorted me upstairs and chose a brown leather paddle to commemorate my birthday in the traditional manner.

"Do you want to count, or should I?" he asked. This was turning into the type of spanking I had only dreamed about. Counting! We'd never done that before. I pondered the question.

"Do you want me to?" It seemed like an appropriately submissive sort of thing to say.

"I'll count," Ron decided, and, with my pulse pounding in my ears, I pulled down my jeans and panties with shaking hands, then bent over the end of the bed.

Whack! "One." Whack! "Two." I was suddenly seized with giggles as I realized that this was fun! I alternately laughed and yelped until I realized that a birthday spanking hurt just as much as an ordinary one, and I simply didn't feel like laughing any more.

In no time at all, it seemed, we reached twenty-five. Ron stopped and stroked my pink cheeks for a while. Then he resumed the celebration. At fifty, he paused again for more rubbing before completing the final assault. He finished with a flourish for the "one to grow on" and I was both relieved and sorry that it was over. Mostly, though, I was thrilled that I had finally been granted my wish.

I was walking on air for the rest of the evening. In fact, my mind was full of the excitement of our recent encounter, and I found it difficult to concentrate. I absent-mindedly got leftover ham and scalloped potatoes out of the fridge for dinner, only to see Ron busily slicing potatoes. I'd forgotten our plan to have fish and chips. Then I opened the can of asparagus from the wrong end (oh, noes!) and got told off for that.

"No more spankings before dinner," Ron scolded playfully. "They make you stupid." I couldn't argue with that. I was giddy and glowing, and we had a delightful evening, with lots of laughter and hugs.

I can't wait for next year's birthday celebration. And I learned an important lesson; being as sweet as honey really pays off.