Dare I say…

…it’s ABOUT FUCKING TIME???

Yup… eleven days past the actual event, finally got my birthday spanking. 😀

Wednesday I got email from D. He was trying to move some things around at work, and he could come over the next morning — was I available?

Was I available? Is Donald Trump orange?? I mean, yeah, I had work and stuff, but everything was flexible. So I answered, very simply, “Yes, please.” Especially to the part where he mentioned “bare-assed punishment.”

I’ve come to realize something: my views on the word “ass” have definitely changed. Years ago in my book, I wrote that I didn’t care for it, I thought it was crass, and that I preferred “bottom.” But now, it seems that my feelings about the word are dependent upon who is saying it. From a stranger on Alt.com, it’s still kind of overly familiar and icky. But from someone I know and like, in the right context? It’s pretty damned hot.

Anyway — we set it up for 10:30. I got up at 8:00, made some coffee, but declined to eat breakfast for obvious reasons. Once I was ready, I worked until he arrived, looking handsome as always in his suit. This time, he had a backpack with him and had brought a pair of board shorts, so he could change out of the hot and heavy suit. Good idea (although I missed watching him roll up his sleeves). He went into my bathroom to change, and came out wearing the shorts and an undershirt. Fortunately, it was much cooler here than it had been the last time he visited.

Oh, and he came with some chocolate. 🙂 I don’t remember this, but I guess at some point I’d mentioned that I love peanut M&M’s, and he brought me some of those. Happy me! But that was for later. We had other things to attend to.

(I didn’t put out any implements this time. Hey, he didn’t tell me to. Yeah… bad idea, Erica. It’s a hell of a lot easier to just put the damn things out beforehand, than to have to stagger into the bedroom half-dressed mid-scene — TWICE — to retrieve them.)

As before, we made use of nearly every area in my living/dining room area — the couch, the recliner, the dining room chair, my desk. On the latter, I tried to move everything aside, but as we progressed, I could hear things crashing onto the floor — my WiFi modem, a small framed picture, my mouse. Oh well. Wreck the place, I didn’t care at the moment. I’d deal with it later.

Our play gets a little bit better each time, I think. He is more familiar with me, has more confidence in knowing what I like. And I am more relaxed, letting go immediately and feeling the endorphins soar. Every time I feel his fingers snaking up the back of my neck, I know that fist is going to tighten in my hair and mmmmmmmmmpphhhh… He has incredible hands. Way, way back when I wrote my very first spanking ad, I included the question: “Do you have hands that can both caress and chastise?” D definitely does.

I wanted to play hard yesterday. It had been six weeks since I’d seen him, I didn’t know how long it would be until I see him again, and I wanted to make our time count. I felt very connected to him and trusting. When we’d been at it for a while, I noticed he wasn’t ramping it up quite as much as he had before. I waited, hoping he would, but it wasn’t happening. I really hate topping from the bottom — I know it seems like that’s something I do a lot, with bratting, but truth be told, I’d rather not once the scene is to the point where I just want to shut up and feel. But I couldn’t help it; at one point, during a flurry with my wooden paddle, I blurted, “Oh, please, harder!” He obliged readily, and that did it — I felt that push, that challenge, dancing on the line between pleasure and pain, between just enough and too much. “Thank you,” I breathed.

He must have heard the change in my voice, the wavering, the sounds more pained. “Almost done,” he murmured. The last bout was back over my desk with my leather paddle, fast and hard, my back bowed, my hand over my mouth to stifle the reactions. I did not cry this time, but I shook all over. My legs would barely hold me up. He dropped the paddle with a decisive thud and gathered me into his arms, where I trembled and clung. So good. So. Damn. Good.

He hung out a while, gave me a nice massage with lotion, we chatted a bit, but unfortunately, he had a 1:15 conference call waiting for him back at work and had to get going. (sigh) I’m grateful he was able to carve out some time. It sounds like all he’s been doing lately is working, and working some more. I reluctantly said goodbye to him. Thank you, D. ♥

After he left, I thought, oh, damn. We forgot pictures again. Since I still had plenty of color, I once again tried the bathroom mirror selfie thing. My first try was somewhat decent, but not great:

So I tried again. And again. And a few more times. Until I finally got this one and said okay, good enough.

I realized I was ravenously hungry, so I inhaled a bowl of cereal and then attempted to settle down into work, but I was feeling so spacey and blissful, it was hard to concentrate. How many times have I expressed that I wish I could capture that bliss, that euphoria, and keep it a while? I need to remember how it feels. So, putting work aside once again, I attempted to capture my mood in another selfie. I think I did pretty well.

This is pure joy. This is peace. This is a fulfilled and happy woman. When my old buddy depression stomps into the picture again, I can look at this and remember — yes, I can feel good too. No matter how weepy/droppy/utterly blech I get, to the point where I can’t remember feeling any other way, I can look at this.

I suppose some people out there would feel sorry for me, thinking, “Sheesh — she needs pain to feel like this??” Ah, they’ll never understand. It’s not about pain. It’s about the connection. It’s about the trust, the chemistry, the mutual attraction, the endorphins. (Okay, and about the pain, too. But that’s just part of it.)

Later in the afternoon, I felt peckish again and was going to have a protein drink. But then I looked at the package of peanut M&M’s. I noticed the calorie count was the same as a bottle of Boost. And hey, there is protein in peanuts, so… Yeah, don’t judge me. They were delicious. 🙂 And besides, D told me later that he had indulged in a chocolate whoopie pie and even sent me a picture of it. So there.

(And you’ll all be glad to know that despite the distractions, I got all my work done.)

Today, I am tired and sore and still feeling the afterglow. Taking my good mood into the weekend, and looking forward to celebrating John’s birthday (tomorrow!). I have presents and treats for my sweetheart and will take him to dinner tomorrow night.

Oh, and speaking of birthdays, here’s a Flashback Friday for ya: Today is my beloved Danny Chrighton’s birthday! Those of you who have been with me since my MySpace blog days, remember this little incident we had with his birthday cake? 😀

Ah, memories.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Good things DO come to those who wait

And thank you to a dear friend who just told me that and gave me my blog title. ♥

The waiting ended up delivering; I heard from both B and D on Tuesday morning. First, I am in possession of a flight reservation up north next Wednesday to see B. Now that all the travel unknowns are knowns (yeah, I know that’s not a word, too bad), I know I will still have butterflies, but more of the good kind, as opposed to the “how many different ways can I eff this up” kind.

But that will be a story for next week. Yesterday, I played with D for the first time.

He emailed me on Tuesday morning and asked if I could play Thursday at around five. I had some things planned, but I was able to shift stuff around and I told him yes. We exchanged some more emails — he said maybe you can pick out some implements you like and put them out on the side for me to use after I warm you up. I replied that I could, but maybe I could just leave them where they are and if he wanted them, he could get them himself. 😛 Testing the waters, you know. I still wasn’t quite sure how he feels about playful bratting; I thought perhaps he liked it, but you never know until you actually do play. He also mentioned that he’d seen some of my video pictures where I was wearing garters and stocking, and if I was comfortable doing so, would I wear some for him. That was an easy enough request, one I was happy to do. My final note to him on Tuesday evening was “*sigh* Is it Thursday yet?”

The next day (Wednesday) I was climbing the freaking walls. I had set aside the whole day to just stay home and get stuff done; laundry, some cleaning, and lots of work. But the whole damn time I was squirming in my computer chair, with this endless litany in my head… Why isn’t it Thursday. Why isn’t it Thursday. And in the midst of this, an email popped in from him, one line:

Don’t worry, Thursday is approaching fast. I shall see you soon.

OMFG. What timing. How did he know??

Yesterday arrived. I got up early, had breakfast and did a couple of hours of work. Or I tried to, at least. He was torturing me, sending me a picture of a ruler from his desk. He said that rules — and wills — are meant to be broken. I sent back that so are ruleRs, and I was notorious for breaking things, sending a pic of me with a snapped cane.

Around noon, I gave up on work and took a break to do a workout, which I would have done anyway, but I really needed it now. By the time I was done with that and had showered, it was 2:00, so I still had time to do some work before I got ready.

My friend J was texting me to tease me a bit; at 4:00, I get “Only one hour to go!” I texted back: “Do you know how hard it is to put on makeup when your hands are shaking??” It’s true. I thought I was going to put my damn eye out.

By 4:30, I was nearly ready, and I was too wound up to work, so I went to catch up with Words With Friends. When I pulled up my move, I saw my letters were E B E T H R A. I don’t believe in messages, but if I did, this surely was one. My mind instantly rearranged the letters, and I got this:

A good reminder, no? (I was able to play the word, too, tacking the second E onto the T in TALE.)

And speaking of shaking hands, I had forgotten how incredibly difficult it is to hook garters onto stockings. It occurred to me I never do this by myself — I don’t wear garters unless I’m on a shoot or all dressed up at a party, and in those cases, there’s always John or someone else around to hook them for me. So I wrestled and fumbled and cussed mightily, but finally got the damn things situated in ten minutes. Just in time, too. Once again, he was on time, texting me. My apartment is security and rather than have him fussing with the intercom, I told him I’d come down and let him in.

He brought me chocolate. Two kinds. Both milk, my favorite. I don’t know how he knew; I hadn’t told him which kind, only that I loved chocolate. ♥ I know a lot of bottoms get gifts from tops, but I never expect them, and I’m always so tickled when I get a surprise like that, much like when B showed up with that espresso pot for me.

He was still in a coat and tie from work, so I took his jacket and went to hang it up, but he stopped me for a second, and then pulled that same ruler out of the pocket. Uh oh. By the way, I had kinda sorta done what he requested. I did select four implements — but I didn’t lay them out on a table. I put them where they belonged — in the trash can by my desk. 🙂

We didn’t spend too much time with preliminaries. He stood up, taking off his tie, and proceeded to unbutton his cuffs and roll up his sleeves. Slowly. Deliberately. I damn near died right there. “I hear you’re having a problem focusing,” he said. He sat down, and over his lap I went.

First times are always a little strange, in that we don’t know each other, he doesn’t know how much I can take, I don’t know what will spur him, he doesn’t know my body language and my various “tells,” etc. As one would expect, he started out very lightly. I have no issue with that; erring on the side of caution is better than jumping right in and tearing someone’s ass apart from the get-go. He picked up the ruler after a while with his hand — and after a few swats, the thing broke. No lie. The metal guide thingie running along the edge flew out, he said. “I told you I break stuff!” I cried, laughing hysterically. Time to get serious here.

Next, he had me lean over my desk so he’d have more swinging range, and explored the trash can’s implement contents. At first he was light with them, but then I put my hand on my mouse like I was going to open something and said, “Do you mind if I do some work while you’re busy back there?” Yeahhh… I think that did it.

He moved me around a bit, had me on all fours on my couch, kneeling at his feet while he sat in my recliner — and then he settled into a dining room chair, picked up my heart-shaped wooden paddle, the one that had been made for me years ago, and said, “Come over my knee.” The remainder of the scene took place there, and things ramped up exponentially.

You guys know when I am really starting to feel it, I can’t keep my feet still. Both my shoes flew off. He was a little concerned with how red I was turning. We took a brief time-out and he asked if I was sure I shouldn’t go look at it. No, I said. I’m okay. I get really red, and then it fades. I appreciated that he cared, and I took a chance then. I know some would say this is topping from the bottom (I hate that expression), but I thought it was more like giving someone new to me a bit of guidance. So I quietly said, “You can go harder and faster if you want to.”

He did.

His hand wandered up my neck and his fingers went into my hair… and then his fist tightened. The paddle was coming down faster. And then it slipped out of his hand and landed on the floor out of his reach, but within mine. “Would you hand that to me, please?” he asked.

Taking the chance to catch my breath, I gasped out, “Give me one good reason why I should do that.” He laughed, and answered, “So I can continue your spanking.” In reply to that, I picked up the paddle… and tossed it a few feet away.

Again, I was taking a chance. Some tops don’t like that kind of playfulness. But he responded well, powering down again with his hand. Next break, he said, “I guess I’m going to have to go get that paddle.” I was already in transition, so I murmured, “I’ll get it for you.” And I did.

We were nearing the end. My legs were trembling, my feet were twisting together, I had my hand clamped over my mouth to muffle my reactions. I suddenly reached a point of breaking, and I blurted, “Oh my God, D, please, please, PLEASE!”

He stopped. Right in time. More would have been too much. He went exactly where I needed him to go.

I slumped to the floor, and he gathered me up into his arms, where I clung to him and trembled all over until he pulled me up and guided me to the couch. There, he soothed me, caressed me, whispered to me. “You let go of all the bad stuff, didn’t you,” he murmured. Oh, yes.

After I’d calmed down a bit, he asked for some lotion, and had me stretch out on the couch so he could massage my butt and lower back. I felt very comfortable stripping off my dress, and that massage was heaven, so comforting.

“Would you like some pictures, so people can see how red your butt is?” he asked. My first thought was, “It’ll be faded by now,” but I said sure. Yeahhhhh… turns out I was quite mistaken.

I was really surprised. And very pleased. “Remember — you asked for it!” he reminded me. I assured him I most certainly did, and I don’t regret a single swat of it. I needed that. I needed that so, so badly.

I put my dress back on, and we relaxed for a bit, eating some of the chocolate he’d brought, talking, and then he had to go. It was 7:15. I sent him off with warm hugs and thank you’s, texted John to let him know I was okay, straightened up the living room and took a shower. The rest of the night was floaty, spacey, in that surreal place. I did a little more work, answered email, and crashed in front of the TV. I was ravenously hungry and food tasted so good. And more chocolate.

This morning, I woke up to find a very sweet follow-up email, checking in on me, sharing his thoughts about our scene. I especially liked the sentence, “I thought this was a nice start.” The word “start” implies that there is going to be more, yes?

I don’t know what will happen and how we’ll work it. He lives close, but works far. He works two jobs. And I’m unavailable on weekends. So it might be challenging. But I am hoping he wants to play more as much as I do.

In a strange place today, emotionally. Still kind of floaty, but more focused. Very, very sore, but happily so. And feeling a bit of disbelief and unfamiliarity with the sense of well-being. I feel like I’ve been waiting for it for so long. What with the issues from last year, plus my shoulder and my back giving me trouble, I didn’t think I could ever feel really happy, really blissful again. I thought the two times with B were a fluke. Even yesterday, there was a niggling little part of my brain telling me that D might cancel. There’s always going to be that glass-half-empty side to my psyche, I’m afraid. I get something good and then wonder when it will go away, and how.  Enough of that for now, dammit. At this moment in time, I feel good. Some doors have closed, but finally, it seems windows are opening. John always says, “Stay in the day.” Hard to do sometimes, but he’s right. This day is all we have.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Play at last! Play at last!

And it’s about damn time! How long has it been, a year? Okay, okay, just a month and a half. (I’m not counting the double session I had with Alex a couple of weeks ago, because that was so light and playful.) But it feels like forever. Steve used to say that I needed spanking like I need oxygen. A bit of an exaggeration, but you know, sometimes…

I have Mr. Woodland’s permission to link to his FetLife page, so if any of you are members, you can read about him here. Our first time together one on one was fabulous, I thought.

He came by around 2:30. I’d been working since 8:00 on my various projects, so it was a good time to take a break. We slipped easily into conversation and I think close to two hours went by before we even mentioned playing. I like him; we seem to be on the same page about a lot of things, both scene-wise and everything else-wise. Because we’d played before, there wasn’t that first-time awkwardness, that shy dance of wonder and anxiety (Is this going to be great? Or is this gonna suck??). Finally, we began.

I had told him I hadn’t had any sort of intense play since Shadow Lane, so he very kindly and considerately started with a light warm-up. Of course, I appreciated that… but I wasn’t about to let him know that. 😀 So when he paused and asked how I was doing, I said, “I’m sorry… did I give you the impression that I enjoy tickling?”

“What was that? Excuse me?” And there it was, he went right into sputtering incredulous top mode. “I’m trying to be a gentleman, giving you a warm-up because you haven’t played for a while, and you tell me I’m tickling you??”

Yup. Game on, honey. I couldn’t answer him, as I was giggling too hard.

So much for warm-up, and things escalated quickly. But you know what? I soaked it all up like a sponge. A happy, eager, thirsty sponge. My skin, my body, my psyche craved it, couldn’t get enough of it. Gimme gimme gimme. At one point, he paused again, blew out a breath and said, “Wow. I just gave you ten of my hardest and all I’m getting from you is a purr.”

That’s me — happy kitty.

He said he was going to have to bring some of his toys next time (Next time? YES!), and then I had to open my big stupid yap and say, “I have some toys!”

“Well, go get some!”

(Damn, I missed my opportunity to answer, “Make me.”)

I scrambled up, went into the bedroom, collected two OTK implements — my Lexan paddle and a small leather one — and brought them to him. Aaaaand that’s when I realized that I had been plenty tenderized by his hand and now these damn things hurt like a mother.

“Still tickling?” he taunted. Uh… no. But I was still enjoying it. He said he was going to dub the Lexan paddle the “tickle monster.” Har har har.

I had mentioned earlier that I loved strappings with a man’s belt over my ottoman, and while we were in the middle of hurts-so-good hell, I said “We can do that next time, maybe?”

“Hell, no!” was his answer. “Let’s do it now!”

Oy. Again, me and my big mouth.

I’m always a tad leery when I’m about to be strapped by a top for the first time. I love, love, love a leather belt. I love the feel, I love the sound, I love the imagery. However… a lot of people can’t do it right. They can’t control the strap — they’re too high, they’re too low, they wrap, they hit the right cheek over and over and not the left, etc. And it ends up being rather unpleasant. I get so tense, wondering when the misfires are going to hit, I can’t relax and sink into it.

Not so this time.

Holy crap. This man is magic with a belt. Spot on every single strike. Even knows the trick of switching sides so each cheek gets equal brunt. I forgot about bratting and blurted, “You’re so good at this!!” For a brief while, my whole world shut down and focused on his belt and nothing else. Gone was the stress, the work, the political quagmire, the losses I’ve endured lately, the money worries, all of it. Just the bliss of impact, of endorphins, of pleasureful pain. I seem to recall murmuring at some point, “You are making me so happy right now.” He has joined the ranks, in my mind, of the top strappers I know — Dr. Lectr, Paul Kennedy, InspectHerHide, and a few others.

But of course, my true colors never fully disappear. He had decided I was getting forty more, twenty on each side. When he was finished with the first twenty and switched sides, once again he teased, “How’s that tickling feel now?”

To which I replied, “Oh, fuck off.”

“Oooh, bad idea,” he said. “You just got ten more.” And he delivered; no breaks for an excited utterance. :-Þ  First the original twenty more planned, and then an additional five on each side. Can I take a moment and admit how utterly fucking hot that was?? (sigh)

This picture does not do the redness justice, at all. But y’all get the idea.

He stayed for a while longer, we talked some more, but then reluctantly I had to get back to work (and he had to get on the freeway at rush hour, which sucked, but he seemed to take it in stride). The rest of my evening, it was hard to focus on work, but I had to force myself to, even though I was feeling blissed out and giddy. Slept like a baby. And sang in the car today on my way to get a hair cut. I haven’t done that for a long-ass time. Funny how kinky people are. Most people get like this after they get laid; I do after an ass-whooping.

Our consensus was, “Why did we wait so long to do this, and let’s not wait too long to do it again!” I hope he had as good a time as I did. 🙂 Thank you, Mr. W.

Guess what’s on my brain?

It’s been a while, kids. Two weeks ago when Steve and I had our outdoor adventure, the focus was more on exhibitionism and very little on spanking. Last week, Steve was away on a ski trip. And this week, he has a cold.

In times like these, I find that pretty much anything and everything makes me think of spanking. Can any of you relate? I’m sure you can.

Yesterday, I had my first appointment with a new chiropractor. I have lifelong back issues and I have been seeing one chiro or another since I was twelve. Recently my regular guy closed his practice, and I’ve been searching for a new one. Finding a good chiropractor can be quite the needle search, as many of them want to claim your body and soul and have you lying on their tables in perpetuity.

But I liked this new guy. He was quite jovial, but clearly knew his stuff, and he’d gotten several five-star Yelp reviews. He kept marveling at how “little” I was, which is ridiculous, but I guess he does get to wrestle some rather sizable bodies. Plus, he’s a big bear of a man at about 6′ 3″. “What do you weigh, about forty pounds?” he joked as he manipulated my spine.

At one point he left me for a minute or two while he checked on another patient, and then popped his head back in the door.

“You doing OK there, little girl?”

I am embarrassed to admit the ridiculously intense jolt of arousal I felt when he said that. Of course, because it’s a phrase a grown woman might hear during spanking play. Even though I’m not into age-play, the phrases “young lady” and “little girl” have always pushed my buttons. I covered up my embarrassment by answering, “Wow, it’s been a while since anyone has called me that.” (Actually, it hasn’t.)

It was pretty amusing when he was checking out my sciatica and commented that I had a lot of tightness in my butt muscles. Gee, I wonder why. I wanted to ask if twenty years of regular ass pummeling affects the surrounding muscles and tissues, but refrained.

Then last night, Jimmy Fallon had one of his “Tight Pants” skits. For those of you who are unfamiliar, it’s one of those comedy bit that is so dumb, it’s funny. Basically, Jimmy lives in a small town where he’s the only one who wears tight pants, and so he dances around in tight white jeans, a brightly colored shirt and a bowl haircut, bragging about his tight pants. Then someone else — a guest star — will challenge him, also wearing tight white jeans and a bowl haircut. Challengers have included Will Ferrell, Christina Aguilera, and of course, the greatest ass in tight pants, Jennifer Lopez. Jimmy always ends up getting threatened and chased out of town.

In case you’d like to see the short sketch, go here (it’s worth it just to hear Lopez call Fallon “a little bitch”). But be forewarned: the inane “Tight Pants” song will worm its way into your brain and never leave.

So of course, all this business of tight pants and butt wriggling makes me think of next week’s spanko extravaganza in Vegas, where I will get to wear my own tight pants (and have them taken down). I want and need this party so badly, I’m jumping out of my skin.

And finally, a blast from the recent past — remember my Spanking Court clips? I had mentioned a while back that although the studio was out of business, their entire clip library was being re-edited and re-released, little by little. Last week, I saw on Twitter that they released one of mine — the one where the judge ordered the court disciplinarian to give me 200 strokes with a heavy wooden paddle for mouthing off. Holy crap. I think that was the hardest scene I’ve ever done on video, and it was the first one where I cried on camera. You can read about it here. Aptly, the clip has been named “For Crying Out Loud.” So of course, memories of past shoots have flooded my brain.

So there will be no pre-party warm-up for me. But it’s OK. Just have to get through this week and next, and my massive itch will be scratched repeatedly.

Hurry hurry hurry February 25!

Implement Aversion

The other night, Poppy posted a poignant blog about losing an implement she loved. Not literally misplacing it, but having it taken from her, because a miserable excuse for a man ruined it for her with an abusive scene. She asked us if we’ve ever had our feelings change drastically about an implement because of a bad experience.

It got me thinking. Most of us have our “hard limits” when it comes to certain implements. But why? Because they scare us? Because they simply hurt too much? Or is it because we have a negative association with them?

I have to say, I’ve never had the misfortune of having some asshat ruin a beloved implement for me. But I did have someone turn a soft limit into a hard one.

You all know I prefer leather over wood, but all wooden implements are not created equal. Thicknesses, types of wood, etc. all make for a variety of sensations. But I’ve never liked those heavy, rectangular paddles, the “frat” style. They thud me down to the bone and they feel horrible to me, with or without holes in them. They don’t even make a satisfying sound — instead of a hearty smack, they land with a dull thunk. When I thought of those paddles, one word came to mind: brutal. And brutality was never something I enjoyed in my spankings. But still, I played with them now and then, at parties and so forth.

About four or five years ago, I met a man from the old SIN board. We did the usual coffee thing, talked, etc., and then he came back to my place to play. I liked his style and his scolding, but toward the end, he was way too touchy-feely and I had to tell him to stop. When we spoke afterward and he wanted to know if I’d like to get together again, I said yes, but he needed to keep the sexual touching out of it. He said he would.

The next time he came over, he had a bag with him, which he handed to me. “I got you a present,” he said. The bag was from a local adult toy store. When I looked inside, my heart sank.

He’d bought one of those frat paddles — it was huge and thick, exactly what I hate. The price tag was still on it, and it wasn’t cheap. But wait, there’s more. Also in the bag was a Pocket Rocket vibrator. WTF? I barely knew this guy — what the hell was he doing buying me something that personal?

OK, kids. Here’s where I ‘fess up and say yes, even with years of experience, we can still screw up. I should have followed my instincts and told him sorry, but I’ve changed my mind. Take the gifts back, I don’t want them, and I don’t care to play after all. But I didn’t. I felt bad because he’d spent all that money, and I figured the least I could do was to have another scene with him.

It was dreadful. No, he didn’t try the wandering fingers thing again. Instead, he just beat the hell out of me with that @#$%ing paddle — too fast, too hard, too everything. He did stop when I cried. But they weren’t the good tears. They were tears of pain and frustration with myself and that sense of betrayal and violation we feel when someone hurts us.

The guy was utterly freaking clueless. After I calmed down a bit and we were talking, he asked, “So, did I give you what you needed?” Wha…?? Needless to say, I was a bit shocked by the question, and I replied, “Well… maybe a little too much.”

I didn’t say it in a snotty way. But he then reached over, grabbed my hair and snapped, “Are you being smart? Because I’ll beat your ass all over again if you are.”

(shudder)

Another one of my red flags — when the spanking is over, it’s over. You don’t get to be harsh during aftercare. That’s the time when you’re supposed to be nice.

“No,” I said meekly.

The cherry on the sundae was his suggesting that I use the Pocket Rocket he’d given me… in front of him. I declined. “Perhaps I should spank you until you do,” he threatened. That did it. “NO,” I said, very firmly. “Perhaps you shouldn’t.”

After he left, I felt sick. I hurt. I was marked. I looked at that effing plank of wood he’d left behind and I wanted it out of my sight. Without overthinking it, I took it down to the Dumpster and chucked it. I suppose I could have given it away… but I didn’t want anyone else to suffer from it either. If I’d had a fireplace, I would have burned it.

Oh, and I tossed the Pocket Rocket too. I know, I know. Wasteful. I didn’t care. It was all tainted with his ickiness.

After that, frat paddles became a hard limit. Not that it’s a great loss, though, because I never really liked them.

I have every confidence that Poppy will move past her aversion, with time and patience and proper treatment from her current, most excellent top. What about others? Do you have a story behind your implement aversion? Do you want to get over it, or does it not matter?

Lights, camera…

…sore bottom! Guess who brought a video camera along with his toy bag tonight?

Since it had been two weeks (and I was in big trouble for my “helpful hints”), I decided to welcome him sweetly and got all dressed up — black dress (one I can’t wear in public, but it’s great for play), garters, stockings, the whole bit. How timely, as it turned out I was going to be on camera. He’d asked me a couple of visits ago if I’d like to shoot one of our sessions sometime; I said sure and then forgot all about it.

You know, for an amateur, first-time thing, we got something fairly decent, I think. I should have turned off the stereo in the background; you can barely hear our dialogue as it is. But live and learn. We turned on every light in the room, and it seems the brightness was sufficient. And ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first: New Guy is a ham!! He was totally playing to the camera, ramping things up, making clever comebacks to my sassy comments.

Him: I think it’s time to bring out the paddle.
Me: No-o-o-o-o….
Him: No? Who are you to tell me yes or no?
Me: Hey, I still have a voice!
Him: You may have a voice, but you don’t have a choice.

Argggghhhhh.

The final 20 with the paddle reallllllly pushed my limits. Ow, ow, ow. Had to count them, too. He cut me a little break — earlier in the scene, with 20 of the big strap, I had to count them and say “thank you” after each one. But for the finale, I just had to count, nothing else. Whatta guy, huh? (I didn’t help my case any by saying “fuck you” instead of “thank you” at first. We had a few do-overs.)

He did the last four strokes in rapid succession, and #20 made me thrash around so hard, I rolled off the side of the ottoman and tumbled onto the floor. No, I did not do that on purpose. Came out looking pretty funny, though.

Nothing funny about this, though:

Yikes. Yes, it’s as sore as it looks. But amazingly, despite this outrageous manhandling, I’m feeling quite relaxed and in my happy place. 🙂

See, don’t I look blissful?

Night night…