This wooden delight is a serving dish for canapes, cookies, veggies, fruit, or just about anything else. The picture I showed you earlier was of its backside.
Thanks for playing Guess the Implement. See you next time!
It's time to get out your crystal balls once more. Any guesses on what this lovely object might be used for, besides reddening my bottom?
Please leave a comment with your opinion, suspicion or inspiration.
I'll leave you in suspense for a day or two before I reveal the true nature of this beast.
These are excerpts from two early chapters in 9 1/2 Weeks by Elizabeth McNeill. It's before they start the serious BDSM part of their relationship, but it's imminent.
We're doing errands: supermarket, liquor store, dry cleaner's, drugstore. It's a lovely Saturday...in early June. We spend a long time at the toothpaste counter: he is giving dramatic recitals of competing TV commercials...Twice I ask out loud, "How can I be so happy?" Each time he smiles at me, a delighted grin, and shifts both shopping bags onto one arm to hug my shoulders with the other.
We are both laden down with packages when he says, "I have to get one more thing." And hails a cab. We end up in Brooklyn, at a small, obscure hunting store. There are two clerks, one dignified and elderly, one in his teens, no other customers. He is pricing insulated vests, the kind to be worn under windbreakers.
I put my parcels on a chair, walk around, get bored, sit down on the edge of an old mahogany desk, pick up and leaf through a three-year-old New Yorker, which miraculously looks brand new.
"This one, I guess," he says. I look over at the counter, he is looking back at me. He is holding a riding crop.
"I'd like to try it out." There is a peculiar shift; from one second to the next I have become disoriented, I am on alien territory, in a foreign century. He walks a few steps to where I am half-sitting on the desk, one foot on the floor, the other dangling. He pulls my skirt up over my left leg, which is resting on the desk, steps back, and strikes me across the inner thigh. The searing pain is an inextricable part of a wave of excitement that robs me of breath and speech and the ability to move; every cell in my body is awash with lust.
It is silent in the small, dusty room. The clerks behind the counter have frozen. He slowly smooths down my skirt and turns to the older man, who is wearing a suit and still looks like an accountant, though a deep flush is spreading upward from his shirt collar.
"This one will do."
.
.
.
He fed me. He bought all food, cooked all meals, washed all dishes.
He dressed me...
He read to me endlessly...
Every three days he washed my hair. He dried it with my hand dryer and was clumsy at it only the first two times. One day he bought an outrageously expensive Kent of London hairbrush and beat me with it that evening. Its bruises persisted beyond all others. But every night he used to brush my hair. Neither before or since has my hair been brushed so thoroughly, for such long periods at a time, so lovingly. It shone.
He ran my bath every night, experimenting with different gels, crystals and oils, taking an adolescent girl's delight in buying great varieties of bath products for me... I never stopped to contemplate what his cleaning woman thought of the whip lying on the kitchen counter, of the handcuffs dangling from the dining room doorknob, of the snakes' heap of narrow, silvery chains coiled in the corner of the bedroom. I did idly wonder what she thought of this sudden proliferation of jars and bottles, nine barely-used shampoos crowding the medicine chest, eleven different bath salts lined up on the edge of the tub.
This weekend has been absolutely phenomenal in terms of weather. The temperatures are seriously higher than seasonal, and it feels like midsummer instead of early spring. We have all been spending long hours outside, and after a frigid winter of staying indoors where it's warm, we are intoxicated by the fresh air and sunshine.
Fluffy, our crazy young dog, runs laps around the yard when he isn't chasing squirrels and robins. Fang, a sedate older canine, enjoys strolling and sniffing for squirrel poop. When he finds some, he rolls in it blissfully. Crookshanks the cat watches them both disdainfully from the window. Ron and I have been raking, cleaning, and otherwise preparing for another busy season of gardening, barbecuing and enjoying the backyard.
All this sun and exercise takes its toll. By late afternoon we all feel quite exhausted. It isn't so much the activity as the fresh air. We have had our fill of moving around and doing things. We will adjust to outdoor activities in a week or so; it's only the first few days that affect us this way. But I suspect that any spanking I receive this weekend will be delivered and received by two sleepy people with their eyes half-closed, stifling yawns between the swats. And the dogs won't even notice; they'll be fast asleep!
Instead of hunting for Easter eggs, you just might find me curled up under a bush beside one. Happy egg hunting, and happy Easter!
When it absolutely, positively has to be there overnight.
One of my favourite bloggers, Erica Scott, has a regular Friday feature called Correspondence Hall of Shame. Erica is not only the star of some excellent spanking videos, she's also a copyeditor and proofreader. CHoS is a distillation of her best (or worst, depending on your point of view) email, IM and text messages, with all their typos, grammatical infelicities and rude comments. Especially their rude comments. And Erica always gives as good as she gets, if not better.
When I saw this on Fail Blog, I though of her. So Erica, this post is for you.
Click on the image to see it in a larger size.
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