Bottoms Up

Ron and I went shopping for groceries together earlier this week. When we got to the cash, I noticed that new card-swiping machines (for want of a better term) had been installed since our last visit. After the cashier had rung up the total, she asked how I would be paying.

"American Express," I replied.

"Swipe your card," she said, indicating the little machine before me. Up until then, customers didn't swipe their own cards, but handed them over to the person on the other side of the conveyer belt. This was a new procedure but I figured it wasn't a big deal. I looked down at the screen.


Welcome

Swipe your card


I swiped.


Invalid action  
Try again


I swiped again.


Invalid action  
Try again


I swiped for the third time.


Card is invalid
Transaction aborted


"No it's not!" I protested, and glanced around to see who was watching and thinking I had exceeded my credit limit or worse, that I was using a stolen card.

The cashier said, "Let's try it again." She reset the machine, then took my card and swiped it, running the card through the slot with an upward motion, in the opposite direction to the one I had tried. The screen blinked, thought a moment, then flickered.



Approved



So that's the trick. Swipe the other way," I remarked.

"Bottoms up," Ron commented. "You should be able to remember that." He leered knowingly at me.

The cashier and the customers behind us must have wondered why we both thought that was so funny. We chuckled all the way to the car. I have a feeling that we are going to refer to that particular grocery store as "bottoms up" from now on.

Wednesday WIN

Another round of images inspired by the Dat Ass meme at Cheezburger.

 In this corner...

 Dr. Mario will see you now.

 Blue Woman Group.

 Naughty bus.

 Those squashed bugs are hard to remove. Scrub harder.

Naughty Kitteh!

Thank You Bonnie!

The good people over at A Domestic Discipline Society decided that after reading the wonderful interview with Bonnie on Ana's blog, we all owe Bonnie a big thank you for all she has done for the spanko blogging community. I wholeheartedly agree!

Like many of you, My Bottom Smarts was one of the first spanking blogs I found. Bonnie welcomed me, corresponded with me and answered my many questions, encouraged me to write about my own spanking experiences, and gave me a wonderful introduction when I finally launched my own blog.

Bonnie has done so much for the online spanking community with her wisdom, encouragement, fairness, positive attitude and good humour. He blogroll grows weekly as she seeks out new spanko bloggers and makes their blogs known to all. Her weekly brunch is a chance for anyone who wishes to, to join in and speak. I consider her a very good and dear friend, even though we have never met face to face.

If you wish to join in the tribute, simply copy the image above and paste it into a blog post, give the post the title "Thank You Bonnie" and write as little or as much as you choose about our spanko leader.

Bonnie, this is your day to hear this phrase echoed around the interwebs:

Thank you Bonnie!

From the Top Shelf - I Can't Believe What I've Done

Over the Desk is an exciting new site for spanking fiction, and it's bursting with stories of every imaginable kind. I found several that I enjoyed, and you can be sure I'm going back for more. I chose a portion of my favourite story (so far) to share with you. 

I Can’t Believe What I've Just Done and Why

by Robert Dingley


It all started about 2 weeks ago. I had been to a great party in Norwich. Much of the fun of a party is the anticipation and preparation and I had gone to my friend Nicola's flat to prepare. Now I was returning home to Woodbridge in my Mazda MX-5 sports car with the top down and with my auburn hair hanging free behind me after a long girls chat (and coffee) after a long and detailed review of the evening.

Coming out of a side road a huge motor bike suddenly seemed to appear out of nowhere, lights glaring at me as if in accusation. In what seemed like slow motion I watched as the back wheel smoked and the rider seemed to lose control only to regain it a moment later to guide the machine round the front of my car coming to rest 25 metres or so further on. It all happened so fast I hardly had time to breathe. I climbed shakily out of the car.

"You silly man! Are you ok? Why were you going so fast?" I called out to the leather clad rider of the motor bike, walking towards him.

He had taken off his helmet and was kneeling down at the rear of his machine looking, I quickly realised, at his tyre and not, as I first thought, in a recovery position reflecting on the near miss. "No thanks to you," he replied.

"Why were you going so fast?" I asked again accusingly.

"I was not going fast," he replied standing up. Mentally I noted that he was 4 inches or so taller than my 5ft 5 inches. "You may have noticed that it is warm, dry and…" he looked at his watch, "4.15 or so in the morning on mid summer’s eve so 50 miles per hour, the legal speed limit, is perfectly acceptable." And he glared at me.

"You were going far faster than 50," I responded. "Everyone knows motor bike riders are reckless and go far too fast anyway. I mean look at all the rubber you have left on the road on the other side of my car."

"Lady," he said. "You," and he poked me hard in the stomach, "came out of that side road without looking. Have you been drinking?" He put his face close to mine and sniffed.

It seems she has. The encounter escalates, they argue, then she attempts to leave.

I had climbed into the car when he reached in and took the keys out of the ignition. "Mustn't drive under the influence," he said. I struggled out of the driving seat again and chased after him as he walked back to his bike.

"Give that back!" I demanded as fiercely as I could.

Laughing he reached underneath his jacket saying: "I'll just phone the police to come and breathalyse you."

It was not the threat of the breathalyser which made me see red but the fact he laughed in my face. I slapped him as had as I could and his head jerked back. I laughed. "That will teach you not to smirk at me," I said.

 His jaw clenched and he clutched one of my arms tightly and dragged me a couple of steps to the motor bike. He lifted his leg over the back to sit astride the machine and pulled me face downwards over the front seat. "Hey let me go you brute!" I protested into my shoulder bag which was now jammed between my face and the machine.

With one hand firmly pressing down on my back he lifted the bag and hung the strap over the handlebars with the bag itself resting on the ground. Now I could view uninterrupted the word "YAMAHA" on the side of the bike.

"Let me up," I demanded again.

He did not reply but brought his hand down sharply on my buttocks. I was wearing a yellow summer frock, fairly demur with a hem 4 or 5 inches above the knee so felt reasonably well covered. "Ouch! Let me up now!" and I struggled to lift myself.

"Stay down," he said firmly, pressing me down in the small of my back. He continued slapping me and I tried to protect myself with a hand. The dress was not as effective as I first thought. Also, room on the seat was at a premium and it was not easy to move arm or body. My bottom could go up and down though and it did. One of his hands was grasping the one hand I had managed to put behind me and was pressing down on my back whilst the other right hand continued slapping steadily and hard.

It hurt but was bearable so I mentally resigned myself to what was happening. "This is not working," he said and began to yank up my dress.

"Stop that!" I yelped and, freeing the hand behind my back, pulled the hem down.

"It’s a pretty dress. If I can't pull it up carefully I shall have to do so roughly and if it is torn, hard luck!" He said.

I lifted my hips muttering: "Bully," and other more colourful epithets.

All I was wearing was a thong with good silk stockings. "Oh very nice," he said. "But why did you protest about a public display. It’s a delightful pair of buttocks and quite becoming in red. It’s about to become even redder too." He brought his hand down hard and I yelped. "That's better," he said.

...Stephen began a regular tattoo on my now practically naked posterior. "Ow, ow, ow!"  I yelped, wriggling and trying to avoid his hard and persistent hand.

After a time this assault stopped and I heard Stephen say: "Something still missing here. Let's see what is in this bag of yours."

What does he find in her handbag, and what does he do with it? Read the complete story here. 

Guess the Implement - The Reveal

The mystery implement is a corn cob striker, used for calling wild turkeys.

No, not that Wild Turkey...

This kind of turkey, native to North America.

It is popular in some locations to hunt them in the fall, although personally I can't imagine why anyone would want to shoot such an elegant bird. Wild turkeys communicate with a series of gobbles, squeaks, chortles and other assorted vocal sounds. Hunters use various devices to imitate these sounds and lure the turkeys into firing range.


Here are a few more strikers, all made of corn cobs, although strikers can also be made of wood.

I've never seen one in action, but I believe the idea is to tap or rub the striker against a piece of slate with a sound box attached, and emulate the sound of a wild turkey.

 
I suppose you have to have heard what a wild turkey sounds like to know if you're doing it right. I haven't had the pleasure.

Thanks for playing Guess the Implement this weekend. See you all next week for another Complete the Caption.

Guess the Implement

We haven't played this game for a while so it's high time we had another round.

What could this be, and what kind of impact might it have on the unsuspecting bottom?

Leave your guess as a comment and I will reveal all in the next post.

Friday FAIL

Games and toys that were sold several decades ago somehow don't seem right today.

Dad and his son are having an exciting naval battle while Mom and daughter slave away in the kitchen while cheering them on to victory.

Every child's favourite game? I suppose so, but it's only fun until someone gets hurt.

This one is a newer toy, and at least it is correctly labelled for adult use. Exactly what are those animals up to?

Kinky fun for pre-adolescents? This is all kinds of wrong.

Visiting Disneyland will never be the same again. Which one is Minnie?