Do those letters mean what I think they mean?

For entertainment I like to visit Bored Panda.  Every so often I get an email full of links to fun articles on the site. At the end of each article, there is a short bio of the staff member who put it together. I don't often bother to read the bio's, but here's what I saw on one of them.

... has master's degree in Economics he got long time ago in a city far, far away. [He] also worked as a university teacher, sports writer and a BDSM* specialist for several IT companies.

Wait, what? A BDSM consultant for IT companies? What does BDSM have to do with IT? Then I noticed the asterisk after BDSM. I had to click the "read more" to expand the bio, where I found this:

* Business Development, Social Media Marketing

That explains it. Disappointing, though.

Glory to Ukraine

What, no discipline?

We recently traded in our 10-year-old (but still perfectly reliable) car for a brand new luxury model, and Ron let me choose the colour. I call it a computer on wheels. It has so many bells and whistles the noise is deafening! Besides the heated seats (ooh!), it has two display screens, two clocks (analog and digital), a backup camera, and very clever windshield wipers that adjust their speed according to the amount of rain coming down. The steering wheel itself is a mini-control panel; heated and padded, it contains a host of buttons that control the sound system (I think). I've learned all I need to know—how to make it start, run and stop, and how to find CBC on the radio—but Ron will spend hours sitting in the car with the instruction manual, learning about all the fancy features.

There are lots and lots of lights, both inside and out. The dashboard display lights up like a Christmas tree, and various cryptic letter combinations appear, in a rainbow of colours, to warn you of impending doom or reassure you that a safety feature is in place. Recently I noticed a group of letters I hadn't seen before: BDSM. Was that a warning that a spanking was imminent? Or maybe the reassurance that this car, along with everything else, was kink-friendly?

But wait. On closer inspection the letters turned out to be BSM. What, no D? No dominance or discipline? This car wasn't going to be as much fun as I thought.

From the Top Shelf - Getting Away

"Getting Away" is a story by Lay Lawrence, from a spanking compendium by Lawrence and E. Edmund Debarquet called So Spank Me. It has more elements of BDSM and sexual activity than most stories I post here, and I have had to edit some of the more offensive (to me, anyway) language and remove some overly graphic passages. Not to worry; there's still plenty left to titillate.

The elevator doors opened and we stepped inside. No one followed so I pressed the button for the fourth floor. The moment the steel doors closed, you smiled. Swiftly, remarkably deftly, you unbuttoned my top to reveal my naked breasts. The elevator pinged as we reached our destination. You posed a question.

"Do you think there will be someone there?"

I replied with utter certainty. "Yes."

The doors opened and we stepped out into a narrow, windowless hall where an East Indian maid clattered a cart load of cleaning necessities, barring our way with mundane unconcern. Smartly wrapping my top across my chest, I stifled a giggle and squeezed past the woman whose life did not, would not, could never involve clandestine sadomasochistic liaisons in drab inner city hotels.

I like to be beaten with a riding crop.

You used the plastic key card to open the final door, the door to all earthly delights and unsuitable, improbable passions.

I like to be slapped with the palm of your hand.

We started doing this last Halloween, after several months of virtual correspondence, courting one another on the world wide web. I sent you web cam snapshots... I named you my Satyr. When you took your son to Florida, I sent you my panties care of your hotel. Silk boxers rewarded my gift of musky lace...

We sat down on the nubbly couch and I squirmed onto your lap, letting my shirt fall open again, my big soft tits hanging loose. I wasn't wearing panties and my thin skintight leggings were little barrier to feeling the hardness in your crotch. I live to make you hard. I sat on your knee and put my arms about your neck.

"Shall I give you a lap dance, sir?"

"Why not?"

You're always so restrained, a little reserved, as if you're holding something back. I like that. Slowly, sensuously, I began to grind my pussy against the steadily swelling bulge in your crotch.

"You're getting hard, sir!"

I giggled and threw my head back, arching my spine, thrusting my wobbling breasts towards your chest. You sat, quite impassive, like a real guy in a gentlemen's club, who knows that he can enjoy the view but should not touch the merchandise. Your cock was a hard, fat cylinder between my spandexed thighs. I stroked his length with my mound of Venus, giving him a firm massage.

"Am I a naughty girl, sir?"

You did not reply but smiled enigmatically. Teasingly, I slipped my cotton shirt down to reveal my soft white shoulders. I turned my head to one side, letting my hair fall in a gentle wave, glinting auburn and gold in the bright summer light. Still, you did not move, nor touch me, nor speak. I wondered what it took to drive you wild. I increased the pace of my dance, tossed the shirt on the floor and pressed my boobs against your face. Your hard dark stubble felt sharp on the delicate flesh... Almost lazily, you took one nipple into your mouth and sucked... Moaning softly, I pushed my fingers through your hair as you suckled on me, fully immersed in the hot velvet of your tongue. Then the tip of one finger found my anus and I cried out.

"Oh, please… Please…"

You know how to torment a girl.

"Take off your leggings and sit on that desk."

I looked questioningly into your eyes. You merely nodded at the desk. Slowly, I eased myself off your lap, then self-consciously peeled off the black spandex pants that clung to the wet place between my legs. No panties. Naked. My raunchy striptease bravado dissolved as I stood before you on the rug. You crossed your legs and folded your arms across your chest.

"What did I just tell you to do?"

"Oh. Sit on the desk."

"Then do it."

"Yes, sir."

My face was flushed as I pushed aside the large 'phone book and settled myself on the leather trimmed blotting pad. The long, fine net curtains blew gently in the breeze and I shivered, suddenly almost cold. My nipples, already swollen from your attentions, firmed a little more. You placed one hand under your chin, as if thinking hard.

"I want you to think about punishment, Jay. In a few minutes, I am going to take off my belt and strap your bare bottom until you cry. Until I do so, you will sit quietly and think about what is coming to you. And when I have finished, I'm going to parade you on the balcony for all to see. Think about that too."

I could not look at you. My heart was beating so fast and so hard that my breasts shook slightly with the pulsing rhythm. My hands were on my thighs, palms turned downwards, moistening rapidly... There was a radio alarm clock on the bedside table and I watched the red numbers slowly change. The room was quiet but for the distant hum of traffic, the city sounds. My mouth was dry and I thought of the wine I had brought, your favorite, a dry French red.

"Right."

My heart leapt as I heard you unbuckle your belt and slide it slowly through the loops of your pants. Although I did not watch, I knew you were doubling it. You crossed the room, grasped my ankles in one large hand. Suddenly, I lay on my back on the large flat desk, my legs held high like a snared hare in a hunter's cache. You towered over me, huge, invincible and I closed my eyes, my whole body quivering at the prospect of the strap.

"Are you a tease, Jay?"

Your voice was distant and cold. My stomach seemed to turn to water and I could not speak.

"A naughty girl?"

I gasped as your fingers probed my pussy, then my ass.

"How many men have you been with?"

I groaned as you withdrew your hand from my crotch and slapped me hard across one trembling buttock.

"I'll show you what I do with naughty girls."

There was a brief, terrifying pause, then I heard you grunt and the belt hit the backs of my thighs with a resounding crack. I cried out in pain and tried to evade the next stroke but you simply held my ankles in a tighter grasp, raising my bottom up into the air, legs over my head. Each time you whipped me with the strap, I screamed, my entire body jolting with the cutting lash which felt hot and sharp and heavy all at once.

"Oh, please, sir!"

You're so much stronger than I am, there was no way I could wriggle out of your steely grip. Up went my legs, pink and bare and plump, exposing my rapidly reddening buttocks to the searing caress of your belt. I know you like it when I try to struggle. You'd hate to have a passive sub. Like me, you enjoy a bit of a fight, a tussle, but your sheer dimensions put me at a physical disadvantage. Helplessly, I beat the palms of my hands against the sides of the desk, savoring the thrill of being caught. I'm the kind of girl who loves a rape fantasy and you love to oblige.

"Your pussy is dripping."

I didn't remove all of my pubic hair, as you don't care for that nude, prepubescent look, but I took off as much as I could. My pubis was round, pink, plump, smooth, with just a dusting of fine golden curls. My syrupy cleft was open to you... like ripening fruit. I wriggled my bottom and gasped at the sharpness of your heavy leather belt. After a time, you paused and smiled.

"You should see your ass. It's scarlet."

I looked up at you, looming over me with implement in hand. You like to whip me in the supine position so you can see the pained expressions on my face. You enjoy the blushing, the grimaces, the occasional tears. You also like to have full access to me.

"Yes, let's take a good look at that stinging rear."

You're very much into humiliation. Slowly, a little shakily, I clambered down from the desk and you walked me to a nearby door. Beyond the billowing net curtain, there was a balcony, overlooked by other hotels and apartment buildings. You looked down at me and grinned. You were clothed, in cotton pants and a long sleeved shirt. I was naked.

"First, look in the mirror, Jay."

There was a full-length looking glass on the wall and I stared at the white skinned creature with the burning face. Embarrassed, I tried to avert my gaze but you placed your hands on either side of my head and made me look. Then you turned me around, so my rear faced the mirror.

"Bend forward and look between your legs."

I did as I was instructed, clasping my ankles, seeing a vista of crimson buttocks. You say I have a lovely bottom, like one of Rubens' less corpulent models. It looked rather plump from my lowly viewpoint but deliciously chastised. It throbbed rhythmically, stung with the divine needling of a dozen hornets, felt as centrally heated as if two little furnaces belched out their fire just above my thighs. Mmm.

"Now, let's exhibit you to the populace."

I groaned, inwardly. I haven't quite decided if I'm an exhibitionist or not. I can see the attraction but, well, I maintain a modest side. Really.

You pushed me out onto the balcony, a little cool and breezy on a west coast summer afternoon. I could feel the fine sea mist drifting in from English Bay. Above me, to the left, was a tall hotel, its many windows a hundred voyeuristic eyes all focused upon my trembling, shivering form.

...You gestured to a plastic chair and I sat down, wondering what dastardly scheme you had devised to torment me. From your pants pocket you extracted three silk scarves, the ones you gave me as secret bondage props. One for the wrists, two for the ankles. You like my hands together and my legs spread wide. Swiftly, you bound my wrists behind the back of the chair, then you paused to appraise your captive nude. My burning bottom felt lovely against the cool smoothness of the plastic chair. High up above us, faint voices emanated from another balcony on the nearby hotel. Smiling, you lifted my legs and placed my feet upon the steel rail of our balcony.

"Spread 'em."

I opened my legs, stretched up and out, an inner city panorama between my glistening thighs. Quickly, you wrapped the remaining scarves about my ankles and then tied them, like little silky slings, around the balcony rail.

"Now, everyone can see..."

My body was a rippling ocean of goose flesh, my nipples full and firm. I looked down at my breasts, at my belly...I could barely wriggle an inch, such was the tension of my bondage, my legs stretched straight and opened wide, exposing me to an urban world of restaurants and clubs and bars.

"Perhaps I should charge. A peep show. Now, there's an idea. But there's something missing."

Suddenly my world became dark and I realized that you'd slipped a blindfold over my head. Your voice continued, calm and conversational.

"That's better. Now, I think I'll get my book."

I strained to listen as you stepped back into our room, but could hear nothing but the distant hum of the traffic, a faint clattering of pans from the open kitchen door of a nearby restaurant. Voices drifted upwards, every juvenile hoot seemingly directed at my plight. But how visible was I? To someone with binoculars, very much so. To the average Joe in the street, I could be sunbathing in pink. Most likely, he wouldn't even see me, oblivious with his own concerns.

"A fascinating vista, is it not?"

A prolonged scene of sexual teasing, tension and ultimate release follows, which, dear readers, you would find too explicit. You would, wouldn't you? If not, you'll just have to use your imagination. Finally, the spell is broken.

I heard you step into our room and there was the faint, cheerful fumble and pop of a bottle being opened. Your voice returned to the doorway.

"Would you like a glass of wine?"

Soon, we'd have to return to our everyday lives. But we have our wild weekends, you and I, like so many others who cannot live the BDSM life 24/7. We have "vanilla" partners, unmet needs. There are plenty of reasons for weekend kink. It's a compromise, I suppose, but many of us realize our darker proclivities fairly well on in life, after other choices have been made.

You raised my blindfold but didn't bother untying my hands.

Carefully, you put the glass to my lips and I took a sip.

"Well, um – bottoms up!"

I snorted at your witticism and the luscious Burgundy surged up my nose, rushed down my chin and spattered my breasts.

Wednesday WIN

Today's pictures are edgier than usual. If BDSM doesn't appeal to you, look away now.

Still here?

Secrets in the Suburbs

Last week's Dateline show - an investigative journalism program that explores a mysterious crime, with various twists and turns along the way - was based on a theme near and dear to my heart. A woman was murdered in an upscale suburb of Detroit, and the investigation revealed that her husband had a secret life and was known as "Master Bob"  in the local BDSM community.

The narrator made much of the fact that the activities were all about sex, describing the other woman in Bob's life as his "sex slave", and repeatedly calling the dungeon a "sex dungeon". The obvious intent was to turn it from a common-enough occurrence into something horrific that naturally leads to violence and murder. At one point, the book 50 Shades of Grey was mentioned, along with a picture of the cover, as an example of BDSM becoming more common. It was a nice plug for the book, I suppose.

They interviewed a woman who had joined Master Bob and his slave in the dungeon for her first session, and had later written about it on her blog. One of the excerpts from the blog had me laughing. "The first time I felt his belt, it was ecstasy." When the reporter said the word "vanilla", you could almost see the quotes he put around it, as an unfamiliar term. The interviewee used it quite comfortably. At one point the reporter asked if it hurt. Doh!

Ron and I watched it with some amusement. It was a good thing we were alone and not watching it with anyone else.

"Just imagine, people doing that," Ron said.

"Well, I never!" I pretended to be shocked. Then I laughed, "I want to hear more about that belt."

When interviewed, the husband said that he and his wife had an "understanding" about certain things, and she accepted the fact that he had another woman but did not know about his BDSM activities. I wonder...

I was glad to hear that in preparing the case for trial, none of the information about the BDSM activities would be used. It was decided that it had nothing to do with the facts surrounding the murder.

Here is a preview of the show.

Another BDSM Kitteh

Kinkeh kitteh!

Subby Kitteh

Having a Ball

Recently I found myself sitting around a table with a large group of acquaintances. The conversation was about this and that - nothing particularly interesting. Until, that is, the man sitting opposite me, who had been telling us about a recent encounter with someone, said - and I forget his exact words, but it was close to "Get me a ball gag."

My first reaction was surprise, then I laughed nervously but looked around to see if anyone interpreted my laugh as understanding. That's when I began to examine the reactions of the others around the table.

A few laughed loudly and appreciatively. Some merely smiled. More remained silent and impassive. I wondered about that last group. Did they understand the term? (It isn't exactly a common household item in most homes, and it's only since I have been actively reading spanking blogs that I've become aware of their existence.) Were they shocked? Disgusted? Mystified? Oblivious? It was all over in an instant, so maybe some of the group missed the reference.

Then I wondered how my own reaction had been interpreted. Was I someone in the know? Or just someone laughing along with the group? Did I look like I was offended? Finally I pondered the possibilities concerning the man who started it all. Why would he think of referring to a ball gag if he wasn't familiar with them, or if he didn't think his audience would understand?

What do you think is the best way to handle an unexpected reference like that?

A Scary Search

The other day I received a disturbing email from Ron. He had Googled my real name, and one of the hits was something that he was sure I wouldn't want other people to find associated with me.

I've always been very careful to keep my spanking and blogging interests separate from my everyday vanilla life, so I had to see it for myself. I typed in my name and was amazed at the number of hits.

Most were reasonable, and referred to various organizations and activities I'm involved in. Some were from websites I manage and one was work-related. But a very unexpected hit was on a large online bookseller's site: it was my wish list. Unfortunately, the book at the top of the list was about spanking, and the title made that very clear. A person looking for me would not even have to click on the link to see what I liked to read; the information was all right there in the search results.

I quickly logged on and brought up my wish list. The book in question wasn't even on it. Nevertheless I deleted everything on the list, then repeated the search. The offending book still appeared in the search results. Even scarier was the fact that the date of wish list was over two years ago. I clicked on the link in the search and deleted the book. Phew!

I'm so grateful to Ron for finding this virtual finger, pointing to my kinky interests, and I thanked him cheerfully, although I did feel rather embarrassed. Still, I have to wonder. Why was he Googling me? I have no idea. What did he hope to find? Who knows. I hope he found what he was (or wasn't) looking for.

The moral of the story is, even when you think you're safe, you can never be sure. I would advise you all to try Googling your own names, and I hope you don't find something incriminating.