Penny spanks Penny

Hello! I’m here, don’t worry. :) I’ve just had a rather demanding week and the bratty batteries (the bratteries) needed recharging a bit.

So what’s been happening? Apart from boring stuff, that is (even Naughty Little Writers have to pay the bills and do the laundry). Well, the other evening I took full advantage of my re-earned privilege and had a deeply filthy time. BH was out, so I got changed into one of my dress-up outfits – a baby pink Jane Jetson-style minidress and long white socks – went into the bedroom armed with my wooden ruler, threw myself over the end of the bed, flipped my skirt up, pulled my panties down (just down past my bottom; for some reason I was really in the mood for that rather than having them round my knees or ankles) and gave myself a jolly good thrashing. I know I have BH, and he does a wonderful job of spanking me, but I do sometimes spank myself too. It’s different, somehow, psychologically and/or emotionally speaking: it feels like a form of private indulgence, a bit like sinking into a hot bath with a good book. Only naughtier. And it’s also different because, as both spanker and spankee, you are in complete control of what happens and can give yourself just exactly what you want. It’s like having a mind-reading spanker. It’s a strange, unique and guiltily exciting sensation, inhabiting both roles at once. And I love it.

Maybe it says a lot about my overactive imagination, but I find when self-spanking that I always imagine a scenario, such as a school or domestic discipline one (though just a simple “you’re for it now, my girl” one, centred on the moment of punishment), and I always imagine that someone within that fantasy is spanking me. I even imagine their scolding words, and my pathetic responses. I’d be interested to hear from other self-spankers on the things they think about. Do fantasies come to you too, or do you stay in ‘reality’? Am I especially crazy?

A couple of dozen hard, deliberately-paced swats – I love a long pause – then I really let myself have it. Hard, fast, relentless; unforgiving wood stinging my defenceless skin with pitiless rapidity. Isn’t it great, the variety that a spanking can have within it? Alternating cheeks, rhythm, varying the target area, going to the thighs, delivering a succession of swats to the same spot. (This last one always has me pleading to my imaginary spanker for mercy, to no avail).

Once my rear was suitably red and sore, I gave myself a post-spanking scolding (or rather the imaginary disciplinarian who had just roasted my hide did) then sent myself to the corner. There I stood, hands on head, feeling very small and unclever, for at least, oh… two minutes, before the urge for release grew too much. One hand slipped down between my legs, and the other down onto my hot little bottom, and I stroked and caressed and fingered myself shamelessly. Masturbating in the corner always feels so incredibly illicit and furtive; it has such delicious overtones of wickedness. Qualities that, of course, only make me go even weaker at the knees.

Bathing in satisfaction on the bed afterwards I reflected upon my outrageous behaviour and decided that I would definitely have to give myself another good hiding sometime. Or, if BH ever reads this, maybe not.

Some have brattiness thrust upon them

I won! I won! (Just about). Thank you to all who voted to grant me the privilege of touching myself again*, now that I am free** and ungrounded. I am very grateful. Rest assured that I will be a good girl and frig myself silly (as soon as the opportunity presents itself) in dutiful compliance with your wishes. To be explicit, I am going to lock myself in the bathroom, sit on my sparklingly clean toilet, hike my skirt up to my waist, spread my legs and slip my hand into my still-up panties. And I will feel very naughty indeed.

Bratty expressions of triumph and relief aside, I’m sure you will all be glad to hear that I really have learned my lesson. Honestly, cross my heart. Being grounded for a week isn’t something that happens to me very often, and it was a genuinely humbling experience, even before I suffered the embarrassment of having my blog taken over and my naughtiness publicly exposed. It was, to use one of my favourite words, interesting: certainly intense; I would go so far as to say profound. It was a similar feeling to one I had when I was set homework tasks as punishment earlier in the year, a sort of mini-grounding I described as “a journey into an immersive state or an alternate reality.” Similar, yet more powerful, more immersive, as it was for an entire week with no let up. Day in, day out, there was no escape from the grounding routine; from Sir Daniel’s watchful eye and scolding words; from the thoughts and feelings that came from being kept under strict control.

So many emotions. Arousal, humiliation, shame, excitement, regret, pleasure, desire... all swirling around and competing for my attention. So much interplay between right and wrong... arousal at my own abjectness, and shame at my arousal. (I honestly did get my innocently white ‘school’ knickers soggy every day). And the ageplay-infused loss of status, of autonomy, and all the deeply affecting yummy/painful feelings that came with that... I felt sorry to the bottom of my stomach for being a naughty little girl; sorry for breaking a promise. And I felt at once wretched and glad that I was being punished for it. It was intense.

And, at the risk of sounding pretentious, I have to say that the grounding pushed my intellectual buttons as well as my emotional and sexual ones. It certainly resonated with one of my principal writerly concerns, namely the blurring of the boundaries between ‘fiction’ and ‘real life’ (a threshold I frequently tiptoe along with this blog). I think that playing with these things makes for an interesting reading experience and an interesting philosophical exercise (what is real? How do we construct reality around ourselves and in our own minds? What assumptions do we make about the things we call reality and fiction, and the demarcations between them?) And, speaking personally, it is always strange and exciting when things spill out of the realm of ‘make believe’ and into my own life. The Penny in Sir Daniel’s story – a fictionalised version of me – was punished in her own textual world. The Penny sitting here, typing this now, was punished in the physical world beyond that story because she was tardy in showcasing the story on her blog. Disciplined whether she wanted to be or not; treated, in fact, exactly as a misbehaving teenager in a spanking story would be. And, as I’m sure many of you know, it is very real and ‘centring’ (and, somehow, simultaneously thrilling and dull) when you are standing in the corner, bare-bottomed, listening to the slow ticking of the clock and holding your soggy panties to the wall with your nose.

I could write more, but suffice to say I enjoyed being grounded very much. And I hated it at the same time. And I’m sure you know just what I mean by that.

*And yah boo rasp to all those meanies who voted the other way. Ner! :P

Funny that the poll results only add up to 99%, though... I wonder where the other 1% went? Maybe Ana hid it. I wouldn’t put it past her. Or maybe it’s just more of that Google expertise.

**Free! Free! Next year I’ll be four. Haha.

Grounded little writer

Hello everyone. This is Sir Daniel, author of the tales of naughtiness blog.

Penny cannot come out to play today as she has been sent to her room for naughtiness and bad behavior. There she sits now, blushing with embarrassment as she knows that all of her friends are going to read this post, and the letter she has written confessing her misdeeds, and know exactly how naughty she truly is.

Penelope Hasler is many things: a smart young woman; a talented writer; a delightful penpal; as British as afternoon tea. As readers of this blog we get to see the smart and grownup side of Miss Hasler quite often. What you may not realize is that she is also, at least sometimes, very truly a naughty little girl. Here on her blog she might play at being a naughty little girl, but it is usually just that: play.

This was not the case last week. As you may know, I am the author of this guest post. I had actually sent the post to Penny nearly two weeks before it was posted, and in that time she had twice assured me that she would post it within a couple of days. Both times, that did not happen. Naturally, she was punished for this, and quite thoroughly. She was grounded for a week and treated just as she had behaved: like a naughty little girl. She will go into more detail in her letter, but suffice it to say that by Friday afternoon Penelope Hasler had the cleanest toilet bowl in all of the Commonwealth. I am now confident that there will be no more broken promises.

However, Penny still managed to be naughty even as she was being punished. You see, every single day of her grounding Penny went to bed having stained her pristine white schoolgirl knickers during the day. Between all the scolding and all the punishment, she couldn’t help but be excited, and no matter how much I warned her she simply could not stay dry. She even once asked me for permission to touch herself. Naturally, I refused, and she has not touched herself, nor, to her credit, asked again.

Since Penny continued to do something so naughty and shameful as wet her knickers despite my repeated warnings, I decided the proper response was to showcase her bad behavior and make a public example of her. This past week, she was undoubtedly a little girl, but she could still have been a good little girl. Good little girls, amongst other things, keep their panties clean, and they certainly do not stain them from undisciplined excitement every day for a week. Unfortunately, this is exactly what Penny did, and so now she must be disciplined again.

To that end, Penny has written a letter confessing and apologizing for her bad behavior, which I am sharing with you all below. In addition, Penny must submit to your judgment: included with this post is a poll asking whether or not she should be granted the privilege of touching herself once her grounding ends Monday morning. While Penny is a very cute and endearing little girl, I ask that you not be gentle with her – only grant her that privilege if you feel she has earned it, or else she may never learn her lesson.

*****

Dear friends,

I have a confession to make. My panties are wet. They are wet because I am a very naughty girl who gets off on being punished.

I am being punished because I was naughty and broke a promise to Sir. To teach me a lesson on the importance of keeping promises, Sir has grounded me for a week. Grounded for real, as in the punishment given to a misbehaving child.

Each night this week I have been tucked up in bed, teeth brushed, lights out, at 9:45pm.

I have been given extra chores (including cleaning the bathroom and tidying my room) to complete. I hate cleaning the toilet, but I have had to do it every single day. And my room has never been tidier nor my bed neater.

I have also had to sit and write a thousand lines: ‘When I break a promise I will be punished’. That took AGES. And I had to write them sitting on the naughty chair with my skirt removed and my panties round my ankles.

And, worst of all, the only panties I have been allowed to wear all week are plain white school knickers. Sir says this is to remind me that I have acted like a naughty child.

I have done my daily chores. I have gone to bed at the time set. I have written all of my lines and been careful to make them perfect. I have worn a fresh pair of plain white knickers each and every day. And, to my shame, I have made those knickers wet each and every day. I know it’s wicked of me but I can’t help it – I just love the feeling of being kept under strict control. It makes me feel so tingly to be grounded like a little girl: it feels all squishy... in my heart, in my tummy... and between my legs.

I fibbed to Sir on Tuesday when I reported to him, as instructed, on the state of my knickers. I know that telling a fib was a childish thing to do, but I was ashamed of myself for making my knickers wet, and I didn’t want Sir to be cross with me. He had told me off for getting them messy the day before, and I didn’t want to be told off again. Of course, my attempt at evasion only landed me in more trouble and earned me an additional punishment. Before starting my chores on Wednesday night I had to wash my mouth out with soap. I had never been made to do that before and I am very sorry that I now know what it is like. I certainly felt very sorry for myself as I knelt cleaning the toilet, the HORRID taste of soap still in my mouth.

I don’t want to confess this next bit, but Sir says I must.

I want so badly to be allowed to put my hand down my knickers and touch myself; I have been desperate to all week. I asked Sir days ago if I could but he was very cross and told me I couldn’t. Sir says that as my grounding is now nearing its end he will leave it up to you, my readers, to decide if I have earned that privilege back. He has created a poll that you can vote on. Please vote to let me!

I have to go now as it’s corner time. Please know that I am a very sad and sorry girl right now, and that I really wish I had kept my promise. I will try my best to be good from now on.

Thank you for listening to my confession.

Penny xx

*****

Poll: Should Penny be allowed to touch herself?

Baby, bathwater, window

Sorry to write a little blog-related post but I’m so cross I have to vent.

Google, owners of Blogger (the thing I use to host my blog), revamped the Blogger interface (the thing I use behind the scenes) earlier this year. I know that these things are subjective, but to me the new version is horrible. Just really bleh. Whereas the old version is great, and suits me down to the ground. Admittedly that isn’t a long way, but still.

So why the crossness? There has, up until now, been the option to stick with the old version. Perfect: everyone is happy. But guess what? As of today that option is 100% gone, history, so everyone has to use the new interface whether they want to or not. And I, personally, don’t want.

I know this probably sounds silly, but I am really upset at this happening. The interface to my blog is (or was) like any other part of the furniture, part of my life: it was certainly as much a part of this place as anything else is. And now it’s gone; thrown out against my wishes. And so I essentially have to get used to sitting in a different chair. At a different desk. In a different room. Using a different typewriter, with all the keys in different places. It’s very unsettling.

Sorry to moan, but like I said, I’m upset.

To anyone who works at Google: I tried the new interface the first time you switched me to it in April. I didn’t like it and switched back. What makes you think I might have changed my mind in the meantime? You’re just like a pushy telesales caller. And I don’t respond well to those.

If Google had an ass I would spank it. There, sneaked a bit of kink in ;)

Edit: While I’m on the subject of blog annoyances, I just want to flip the bird to whoever is sending spam comment after spam comment with links to dodgy websites. They’re never going to see the light of day, you know, so you might as well stop trying. Oh, and your choice of post to target – that is, the one I wrote about my Mum being unwell – makes me feel quite inclined to track you down and taser your testicles. So kindly desist.

Spanky sports: virtual edition

A two-in-one kinda post today. Firstly, I have been introduced to – and am very proud to link to – a trio of great blogs. Big hugs and bratty salutations to my new friends Ian & Lillie, Ludwig & Kaelah, and Underling! (I’m not exactly sure what a bratty salutation might consist of, btw, but I imagine it involves blowing a smiling raspberry at some point... ;P)

Secondly, I know I’m a day or three late but I just have to showcase and applaud a lovely little piece of spanko creativity by the aforementioned Underling: a spanking video game! This is the thing that first led me to his blog, in fact (via Ana, via Kaelah). Spanky sports in the comfort of your own home – how neat is that?

The game, ‘Smack and Yield’, is a simulation of Olympic Spanking (lol), with women beating the buns of naughty boys with some fearsome-looking paddles. Underling has very kindly given me permission to host his wonderful game here, so here it is (Flash required):

You play it by bashing your left and right cursor keys: the faster the keypresses, the faster the swats! There are three difficulty levels, and I think I found my natural level (the middle one) instinctively. The first round was an easy win, but the semi-final and final were won by a whisker. Here’s a snap of one of my victories. Take that, Canada! :P

I haven’t tried the hardest level yet, because I suspect it might be a bit too much of a challenge for me. And I’m not the world’s most gracious loser. But then, maybe losing wouldn’t be such a bad thing... I could always have fun imagining what happens to the defeated team when they shuffle, shame-faced, back to their strict female coach...

Hmm. I wonder if Mr Underling would ever consider making a custom version with Maria Sharapova roasting a naughty little ballgirl’s behind?

Guest post: Miss Hasler's extraordinary initiation, by tales of naughtiness

One of my favourite story blogs, for the all-too-brief year it was active, was the wonderful tales of naughtiness. Great writing and such hot fantasies; just my cup of tea. So imagine my delight when I received an email from that blog’s author with a scene starring Miss Hasler, the young and beautiful (:P) English teacher!

Hint: I was bouncingly happy.

I am equally happy to say that I have been given permission to share this lovely piece of writing with you all, and it is with pride that I do so below. (Pride and a fair amount of humility, actually, as I was given a hundred lines to write and made to sit in the naughty chair for ten BORING minutes before I could do so). I hope that the little introduction that follows does your story justice, Sir...

*****

Miss Hasler may be in charge in her classroom (more or less), but she is just a junior teacher at her school. Diligent and modest, she did not expect to attract the attention of the school’s more senior staff. Imagine her surprise, then, at finding a note left in her mailbox, cryptically signed ‘The League of Extraordinary Teachers’:

Attn Ms Hasler

We are a group of experienced, dedicated teachers. As a young and new teacher at our prestigious school, we take particular interest in your progress and the progress of your students. As you know, we adhere to the strictest standards of conduct and excellence here, and expect the best of both our students and our faculty.

Your performance so far has been satisfactory, but we believe there is room for improvement – and perhaps even an opportunity for you to join our group, if you can prove yourself. We are aware of the most recent test you administered to your class and its results. We would like to discuss these results and demonstrate some methods for achieving even better results from your students. And yes, this will include corporal discipline.

We cannot compel your compliance, legally, but we trust you will recognize the value in having a circle of senior teachers mentoring you through the early days of your (hopefully long and prosperous) career. If you are willing to submit to us, we will make you a better teacher – if you are not, then there will be no hard feelings.

We will wait in room 17 for ten minutes after the final bell. You will not receive another invitation.

The strange message occupied Miss Hasler’s thoughts that whole afternoon. A few minutes after the final bell had sounded and her class had made their noisy way out of her classroom, she took the little note out of her desk drawer and read it over once more. Curious, and more than a little afraid, she left her room and made her way down the corridor...

*****

Room 17 had clearly been rearranged during the final class period. Miss Hasler could not recall whose room this was, nor, in fact, ever seeing it in use. The layout of the classroom was certainly unconventional. At the front of the class was a wooden table, with a single wooden chair on either side of it. Behind that was a semi-circle of desks and chairs. All the desks were empty, and the table had only a thin cane and a thick ruler on it.

“Shut the door,” came a gruff voice from the back of the room. Penelope turned with a start to see Mr. Jordan, a middle-aged teacher, still well-respected and surprisingly fit, standing in the back of the classroom. Behind him was a door that led from the classroom to an office, and as Penelope shut the door she had come in from, a procession of teachers followed Mr. Jordan into the room. She was silent, and so were they, but where she was unsure and nervous, they seemed confident and almost indifferent. The teachers all sat at the desks except for Mr. Jordan, who went to the front of the room and stood behind the table.

“Sit.” He motioned at the chair on the other side, and Miss Hasler made her way over, doing as she was told. She smoothed her skirt underneath her as she took her seat. She found herself looking up at Mr. Jordan, dressed in a formal suit and tie with broad shoulders – his presence was imposing, and his demeanor seemed as hard as the chair that her rump was on. Confusion and curiosity gave way to second-guessing.

The older teacher sat down across from her, his hands clasped in front of him. “By coming here, you have signaled your willingness to submit to our organization in order to become a better, more disciplined teacher. I am going to lay out some simple rules now, and you will state your acceptance of them. The group behind you will serve as your witnesses. You may choose to refuse these rules and leave, but we both know you won’t do that. After you have officially accepted the rules, you will be inducted into the League as a probationary member. The induction process involves disciplining you as if you were a very naughty young pupil. Only after you have acceded to such a process can you be trusted to discipline your students with a high degree of rigor.”

Penelope held her breath, not daring to speak and not knowing what to say in any case. Mr. Jordan halted his rapid cadence only long enough to verify that she was not, indeed, leaving.

“Good, then let’s begin. One: you will obey senior members of the League entirely with regard to academic and scholastic matters. Two: you will never allow a student to fail through lack of discipline. Three: you will submit to scheduled and unscheduled performance reviews in front of a committee of senior League members, and any discipline that may result from these reviews. Four: you will submit to any and all discipline imposed upon you by the League in a way becoming of a growing member of our organization – that is to say, with respect, acceptance, and swift obedience. Do you accept these rules?”

Penelope could only squeak out a small “Yes.”

Mr. Jordan stood and walked around the table, saying only “Good.” With her still seated, he pulled her backwards several feet, and then turned her around to see the ring of teachers she was now in the middle of. “Stand up,” he told her, in a voice that had only the tiniest sliver of patience. She obeyed, and he immediately sat down, taking her arm and standing her to his side. Her feet shuffled nervously as he held her forearm tight. “You must accept the entire discipline process in order to become a probationary member. If you cannot do so, then your invitation will be rescinded, and will not be reconsidered.” She started to nod her understanding, but found herself being dragged across his lap before she could even raise her head.

“Penny, you need to understand exactly what happens to naughty students,” Mr. Jordan began as he rolled up his sleeves and lifted Miss Hasler’s skirt, revealing her panties for all her colleagues to see. His hand landed on her bottom with a loud thud, flattening her adult cheeks repeatedly until she was gasping and squealing like a naughty little girl. “Students who are disobedient or misbehave will be dealt with strictly, young lady,” he scolded as he continued to punish her bottom. Smack, smack, smack, smack, rang out in the classroom, and soon the dignified teacher had disappeared, replaced by a red-bottomed and red-faced little girl drumming her feet on the floor.

“And students that can’t show respect for their teacher or their peers, they need to be punished strictly as well.” Penny felt his finger inside the waist of her panties, and whimpered as her naughty rear end was put on display, but she knew better than to try and fight. Her panties were lowered to her knees, leaving her no modesty as the spanking resumed and she, quite against her will, kicked her legs into the air. Soon her bottom and thighs were red as a cherry, and finally the spanking ceased.

But the reprieve was short-lived, as Penny found herself on her feet, her skirt being tucked into the waist and her panties falling to her ankles. Mr. Jordan stood and retrieved the ruler from the table. “Now, Penny, you will learn what happens to naughty children who disrupt class. Hold out your hands, palms up.”

Penny desperately wanted to rub her bottom, but she obeyed, aware of how exposed she was. She couldn’t even shut her legs completely after the attention her inner thighs had received. So, it was a very chastised and sorry Penny who stretched out her arms and exposed her palms for penance. Mr. Jordan took hold of one wrist at a time and snapped the ruler down hard, ten stinging smacks on each palm, leaving them both red and hot.

Mr. Jordan set down the ruler and led Penelope towards the table. “Now, for the final lesson. Sometimes, little girl, students simply refuse to mind their manners or follow authority. There is only one remedy in these cases.” Penny whimpered as he picked up the cane and swished it through the air.

“Please...” she pleaded.

Mr. Jordan put a firm hand on her back. “Oh, naughty little Penny, you’ve gotten yourself in this far, it’s much too late to back out now.” And with that, he pushed Penny down over the table, her bare bottom once again the central focus of the room. Her panties were still around her ankles and her skirt still tucked in, which somehow made her feel even smaller than if they were just removed.

“I’m sorry...” she offered, hoping for some, any, leniency. She was ignored, though, and soon the cane bit into her butt. “Count your strokes, Miss Hasler, and say thank you.”

Penny cried out, shaking her backside with no dignity, but managed to say “One, thank you!” between gasping breaths. Her caning continued like this, with the next stroke just a little below the first, thin parallel lines of dark angry red contrasting against her already blushing bottom. The fifth stroke landed just between her thighs and bottom, and poor little Penny howled, her punished hands clutching hard at the opposite side of the table as her legs kicked and stamped.

After some time, she heard “We’re waiting. I don’t like to wait, and I like repeating myself even less, young lady.” Penny blurted out, “Five, thank you!”

“And the last one...” Penny squeezed her eyes shut and gripped the table as hard as she could. The cane exploded across the tops of her thighs and again she howled, squirming wildly as the cane was set down. Penny was only vaguely aware of her surroundings as she was stood up, and then made to sit in the chair, once again at the table. She winced and squirmed as her punished bottom made contact with the unforgiving wood, but no one offered any sympathy. A sheet of paper was sat in front of her along with a pen. Finally, her panties were laid down across the table – they had apparently gotten kicked off during her caning. Penny realized she should be embarrassed, but was simply too sore to care.

Mr. Jordan leaned across the table, his face in hers, and his hands on top of hers. “Naughty little children have to have privileges taken away and be made to earn them back. You, little Penny, are going to have to earn back your panties. You are going to write a hundred times, ‘I will be a good teacher.’ You will number each line, and if you make a mistake then you will start over. You will not leave here, nor will you get your panties back, until you have completed this task.”

Mr. Jordan stood upright, his eyes never leaving hers. “Begin.”

Penny Hasler really naughty

A comment that TFD made on this poetry post, in which he suggests that search terms are “the most concise and accurate map to a person’s passions,” reminded me of an earlier post I scribbled (pretty much exactly this time last year, in fact) about word clouds. Word clouds, in case you don’t know, are visual representations of word frequencies in pieces of text: the more often a word appears in the text, the bigger it is in the cloud. And I thought that it might be interesting to gather all the text from my blog posts this year and make a word cloud from it. See at a glance what my passions are, kinda thing.

Et voila:

This is definitely a spanking blog! Interesting that the word ‘little’ is the biggest. And ‘Daddy’ is very big, too... I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about that. (N.B. Words like ‘the’ and ‘and’ are discounted from the count: they would be the biggest by a mile otherwise. Also, I assume that there is a minimum count requirement as not all words are shown. Wot no ‘Doggie’! Maybe it just shows the top hundred words).

The prominence of ‘time’ I can understand, as the lack of it is one of my preoccupations. And I obviously write about things I ‘like’. But I’m not sure what the big ‘one’ is all about. Or the ‘just’... I guess that it’s just (ha) a verbal tic of mine.

It’s fun trying to ‘read’ it, isn’t it?

Fun and unfun

I whacked my right elbow on a doorframe earlier (don’t ask) and now it really hurts. Wah. I walked into a door handle yesterday. Ow. I’m always bumping into things. I think maybe I should live in a wigwam. Or a nice, soft, padded room.

But, klutz though I am, never let it be said that I let a good elbow-banging go to waste. Because, sitting immediately afterwards nursing my aching arm, I found my thoughts wandering off into a kinky think.

There is fun pain and unfun pain. Kinky people know this, of course; it is a self-evident TTWD truth. Belt to the ass: fun pain. Stub your toe: unfun pain. Like, duh. But non-kinky people? I’m really not sure they understand the concept at all. To be fair, I figure that there is a sliding scale of understanding, or perhaps acceptance, going from those who get the appeal in a theoretical sense (“It’s not my thing but I can see how it might turn other people on”) right the way over to those who simply can’t comprehend how anyone could ever find pleasure in pain. To these latter types, a spanked bottom is just exactly the same as a banged elbow: pain is pain, right? Or, to put it another way, how can someone moan about a sore elbow when she loves to have a sore bottom? What is obvious and natural to me is baffling (and even perhaps a sign of depravity) to him or her. It’s a fundamental divide in understanding, and that’s without even touching upon the psychological and emotional aspects of TTWD, or the complex and individualised boundaries between play and discipline.

And I think that this is so – that is, I think that a non-kinky person can never really ‘get it’, however much they might wish to – because ‘it’ is something that is felt. And of course, whether you’re kinky or not, you can think about kink as much as you like, but at heart it’s a matter of something feeling good or bad, right or wrong, fun or unfun.

As my elbow reminded me today, in vividly direct fashion.

Dark-stemm'd beneath the shade

I’m in a poetry mood again today. As a change from my usual limericks, I thought it might be fun to make a ‘found’ poem.

Found poetry is where you take bits of text from existing sources and put them together to make something new. And – here’s the clever, 21st century bit – what better source material to use than the search terms people type in to find my blog? (If one wishes to write a poem about a naughty girl being spanked, that is...)

Lights, please. *coughs delicately*

thrashing naughty penelope hasler

naughty little girl being mean to her daddy
i want to be spanked like a little brat

young lady you are going over my knee
no daddy i promise to be good

remove short skirt
blue school knickers

bend over you're getting a paddling

daddys little girl
bends over naked

insolent bottom
waiting to be spanked

i'm sorry please don't spank me

paddle meets rump
naughty bare backside

wack wack smack smack
if you act like a brat i will treat you like a brat

spanked by daddy crying naughty
over the knee good hard spanking

tanning
blistering
howling
kicking

little girl in the corner
spanked bottom exposed

daddy's naughty angel

Little Penny: real-life edition

Isn’t it funny, the things that you remember? I’ve been thinking back to my school days and in particular right back to the earliest ones. The passage of time has blurred much of that period and the events within it (that doubtless seemed so terribly important at the time) into an impressionistic haze, but certain moments stay with me.

I think I remember them because they were unexpected, and they shook me. (Don’t worry, they’re nothing heavy: they’re more ‘Peanuts’ than anything). The thing is, I was a good girl at school. Certainly at primary school, I would say I was very good. Quiet and gentle, I listened intently to my teachers, I always tried my best with my work, I never threw fits or teased or fought with the other kids. A model pupil, in my own humble opinion. Yet every so often I would be told off and/or humiliated by teachers as if I was a naughty little tearaway; scolded really harshly and disproportionately (to my mind) for minor and unintended offences. I didn’t understand why I was being told off at the time, and I must say I still don’t... maybe the schools I went to just had an unusually high number of bitter and twisted teachers. Or maybe my sparkiness was taken as cockiness, something that I figure is like a red rag to teaching professionals. I dunno.

Anyway, one such incident occurred when I was six. I can’t remember exactly what our task was, but it was definitely a writing task. It might have been to copy words down from the board, or maybe to write about our parents, or maybe about the job we would like to do when we were all grown up. (I love that expression. Oh, and I wanted to be an astronaut). Bottom line, it involved pencils and exercise books. (Ah, writing in pencil! Those were the days. I still remember the sadness I felt at having to move up to writing in ink).

Much deep thought and leg-swinging later, I had written whatever it was I had to write. However, being an inveterate tweaker/perfectionist (even then) I found I wanted to change a line or two. I didn’t have a rubber (‘eraser’ to my American readers), so I used some six-year-old-style initiative and used my finger instead. Rub, rub, rub, write, write, write, sorted. I took my work up to the teacher’s desk, smiling and grubby-fingered, and waited my turn to have it marked.

This is where the crazy teacher bit comes in.

When my turn came, I don’t remember the teacher saying a single thing about what I had written – you know, the actual content of the exercise and the point of us both being there – I just remember her letting fly at me for the heinous crime I had thoughtlessly committed. “And what is this supposed to be?” she cried (and I mean really bellowed). “You don’t use your finger to rub work out, you stupid girl! Use a rubber!”

I’m six years old, remember, and now blushing and trembling at the front of the class as my teacher shouts at me. The rest of the scene is a bit of a blur in my memory, though I know it basically consisted of her lambasting me for my wickedness a while longer at an entirely unnecessary volume, me wondering why she was overreacting so much (and wishing I had used a rubber), and a sad trudge back to my seat, deeply stung and not feeling very clever. One particular thing she said I will always remember, though I don’t think I will ever understand why she said it: “You’re not as popular as you think you are, young lady!”

???

What has popularity got to do with not having an eraser? I was one baffled six-year-old that day.

Over (to) the sports desk

Another kink-lite post (sorry!), on something that probably doesn’t get mentioned on spanking blogs all that often... American football!

So, er, why am I mentioning it? Because an email penpal has (amongst other, saucier things) extolled the virtues of the game at length to me and I thought I’d give it a try. (Watching, not playing!) Actually, that isn’t quite true: he has ordered me to watch. And of course, being a good little submissive penpal, I will! As luck would have it, Brit TV now shows it so I can have a gander without travelling halfway across the world. The season apparently starts tonight, with two teams whose names I forget playing each other.

But never mind them. The team that is going to win this year is my newly adopted one, the New England Patriots. Here’s their insignia:

That’s a hell of a quiff. Bit of an Elvis profile all round, actually. Maybe he was a fan.

My friend did explain the rules to me but I must confess I’ve forgotten pretty much all of it, so I will no doubt spend the duration of the Patriots’ first game wondering what is going on (and making up my own storyline in my head). It’s all about yards, or something. And I do know that football has cheerleaders, so I guess I can enjoy looking out for them if all else fails. (If I had been born in America, I so would have been a cheerleader...) American readers are of course welcome to enlighten me.

Returning to my favourite sport for a moment (but funnily enough staying in the US), I am very happy to report that the lovely Maria continues her march to the US Open title: she has just won a very close quarter-final against the very annoying Marion Bartoli. Ha! Take that, you unsporting cow. Next up is that chump Azarenka, who thinks she’s all that (but isn’t). Go Maria!

Here’s a photo from the match, or more exactly of Maria giving a very sexy and unamused look during a rain delay:

“Where’s that idiot Penny with my bottle of water? I’ll give the crowd something to watch when I get hold of her!”

Tis the season, sort of

A little ‘PH files’ kind of post today (I’m really not sure what label to put to these posts; ones in which I write about general/real life stuff. Suggestions welcome).

I saw Christmas stuff in a shop the other day. Christmas stuff! In August! Are they getting earlier, or is it me getting older? I know that Chrimbo is the most important time of year for retailers, and I know we’ve had an insanely cold summer, but I’m sure they used to wait a teensy bit longer. I mean, even Halloween is still two months away!

Anyway, seeing it reminded me of my little blog (of course) and a festive page header that I made for it last year. Most of you won’t have seen it as I had about one reader back then (hi Mum!), but trust me, it’s magnificent. It probably sounds silly but I’m really looking forward to putting it up again. Cos it’s all, y’know, snowy :D

And then I got to thinking, when is an appropriate time to put tinsel up on your blog? December 1? The middle of November? Maybe I should be rebellious and put it up in September. But then that might get me put on Santa’s naughty list.

Speaking of which... did I ever mention that, amongst my many and varied dressing-up items, I have a ladies’ Santa outfit? I was spanked in it during the holidays last year, as part of a lovely bit of roleplay where I had been a very naughty Mrs Claus (slacking on my chores, teasing the elves and putting them off their toymaking) and Santa needed to teach me a lesson. Fantastic fun! And that rotter BH even said “Ho, ho, ho!” as I sucked him off post-spanking. Tsk!