The scent of spanking

I dunno, you co-write one little blockbuster spanking book and everyone wants a piece of you. Endorse this, appear on that: if I had a PA she would have been run off her feet dealing with all the calls. Of course, I’ve played hard to get – I’m not the sort to put my name to just any old thing – but the offer from one particular fashion house was just too good to turn down. My own weight in jelly worms! Wheee! :D

So what fine product have I graced with my moniker?

Penny perfume! Check it out:

Cute bottle! (I wonder where they got the idea from?) And the smellies-spiel is pretty cute, too:

The fashion-forward, kink-conscious young woman of today needs a playful yet sensual scent. A scent that says “I'm a woman and I like to be spanked. What are you gonna do about it?” Red by Penelope Hasler and Spanky Couture is that scent. Fresh accords of tangerine, rosewood and water hyacinth complement the heat of freshly-swatted female skin and the tears on your blushing face to keep you smelling divine as you sob in the corner with your ass on fire.

Red. Like your heart. Like your butt.

Speaking from experience, wearing one’s own fashion-forward fragrance provides little comfort when you’re facing the wall in disgrace, holding your skirt up to show off your naughty, glowing bottom. If anything, it makes it all the more humiliating.

I thoroughly recommend it! ;D

Do any of you have ideas for other spanking-related product tie-ins? Aunty Andrea kitchen utensils, perhaps? Vitsky leather belts? Taste for Disgrace pasta sauce? :)

I know my panties say that, Sir, but...

Now, I’m sure that this news will come as a frightful shock to many of you but I’ll come right out with it: I have been getting spanked quite often of late. Often, and hard. It’s almost as if BH doesn’t care that I’m a world-famous author... more than once I have been tempted to cry “You can’t do this to me! Don’t you know who I am?” as he takes me over his knee and flips my skirt up. But I don’t, because I know that it wouldn’t make any difference: BH always has an answer to my protestations. The rotter. And his retort to that particular line would probably be something like “I certainly do know who you are – you’re a naughty little brat who needs a good spanking!”

Darn that silly, circular Top reasoning!

Anyway. This is just my way of saying that I have summoned the nerve to present another bit of Penny porn for your delectation: a snapshot of my poor, innocent, much-abused bottom, taken – here’s a first – mid-spanking. Here it is...

Now, I ask you. Who could ever bring themselves to punish such an undeserving behind? To slap such an unappealing derriere? To make a sweet, pigtailed, thumb-sucking little girl such as I kick and squeal and plead for mercy? (Don’t answer that). I mean, it’s so unfair! I get forced to dress in all-too-authentic school uniform; made to sit and write lines as if I were a wayward fifth former; talked down to and scolded if I dare answer back... and as if that treatment wasn’t outrageous enough (sensitive readers might want to sit down for this bit) I get turned across the end of the bed and spanked! Me, a grown woman!

And get this! Even as I yelp and squirm and promise in my humblest voice that I’ll never be naughty ever again, my cruel, mean, horrid teacher has the audacity to tell me that I NEED to be spanked – for my own good! How does he work that out? So okay, on the occasion pictured I had been a teeny, tiny bit cheeky during detention, pouting and teasing and making eyes and accidentally dropping my pen and bending over to pick it up in a deliberately provocative fashion. So I was dressed in my school gym kit with an adorable little pleated skirt and sexy knee-length socks, a combination guaranteed to put lead in my strict teacher’s pencil. So I was wearing panties that have ‘spank me’ written prominently across the butt. That’s still no reason to smack a brat!

Erm... right?

The picture above was taken quite early into the spanking, as I’m sure the trained spanko eye can tell. My panties are still up, for one thing, and my bottom is just starting to blush from the attentions of a hard hand. Trust me, it got redder. And sorer. Especially when the spatula was applied.

I hope you like it. (And I hope all you meanies clamouring for poor ickle Penny to be spanked are happy... sniff, sob!)

I could probably do with a new pair of ‘spank me’ panties, btw: the ones pictured have seen better days. But it’s BH’s fault – he pulls them and stretches them and yanks them up and down, the beast! :(

Fame, fortune and corner time

You know what it’s like. One star-studded book launch party after another; glitz and glamour and limousines and red carpet and cocktails and cute little snacks brought to you on silver platters. Photographs and interviews and TV appearances; meetings with reps from fashion houses angling for endorsements (“The ‘Penny’ line of pleated miniskirts, for the modern woman who never wanted to leave school”); tours of one’s humble abode for the press (the Hello! guy has awfully roving hands, be warned). And all the while looking radiant, carefree and flawless. (It’s a good thing I have a team to take care of that. Where would I be without my eyebrow technician?)

It’s almost enough to make a girl big-headed.

Lucky for me, then, that I have BH to keep me grounded. And spanked. And writing lines. Without him to yank me to one side and tell me I’ll be getting it good who knows what I would get up to... I’d likely be splashed across the papers after every party, pictured on the floor with my expensive dress hitched up, locked in a hair-pulling fight to the death with the bitchy critic who gave my book a thumbs down.

Still, he is a bit over-zealous sometimes. So I maybe had a few Martinis at the last bash and got a bit lively... so I maybe said I was going to give that snidey cow from Cosmo a slap... so I maybe sat on the floor in the middle of a toast and started singing ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’, merrily pulling a pair of invisible oars to and fro*...

...does that really warrant being spanked before bed and given ‘detention’ for a week?

*Pre-BH, I went out with a rugby player. He and I apparently did this for hours at a house party. I was too *cough* stoned to remember much about it.

I'll never predict anything again*

Argh. Shows what I know. Maria is out of the Aussie Open, “thrashed” by Li Na. (I wish the news outlets wouldn’t use that word when it isn’t Maria doing the thrashing).

Talk about an unexpected upset. I’m not an especially superstitious person but I think I might have jinxed it. Sorry, Maria! :(

I will of course submit to any punishment you deem appropriate.

*There’s a joke in there somewhere.

Go Maria!

More sports news, but this time of a happier (and sexier) stripe. The lovely Maria Sharapova is – naturally – cruising through the field at the Australian Open, thrashing opponents left, right and centre without a hint of mercy. She has done so brilliantly up to now, in fact, that she has actually broken the record for the fewest games dropped en route to the semi-finals. Of course there are two more matches to win before she gets her hands on the trophy for the second time, with the second of those matches a likely meeting with last year’s winner Victoria Azarenka, but I’m positive she can do it. And she definitely owes Azarenka one.

In honour of Maria’s great run I would like to share a picture that a reader (hi Timmy!) very kindly sent me. All I can say about it is Oh. My.

Oh.

My.

Well, all right. I can think of a few other things to say, actually...

*****

Maria had never looked so beautiful; so statuesque; so incomparably delicious. I yearned with every ounce of my being to touch her; to run my hands over her soft skin, to feel her lips against my own, to let her know with my endless caresses how completely I loved her. And yet I could do nothing but watch her walk away! What unspeakable agony!

“Oh! Maria!” I helplessly cried after her, my gag transforming my words into a pathetic, indecipherable moan. My goddess glanced back over her shoulder at me, a look of disdain on her beautiful face.

“Quit your whining, wretch!” she snapped. “You only have yourself to blame for your position. And you’ll stay there, like the filthy little whore you are, until I decide to unbind you.”

I didn’t mean to whimper in response but I couldn’t help it: my heart ached for Maria and it ached at the thought that I had angered her. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall. What a pitiful sight I made in contrast with my glamorous Mistress. A naked slut, bound and kneeling in disgrace, collared like a pet.

“I’m warning you. Make one more sound and I’ll beat you,” she said.

My tearful look of subjection wordlessly expressed my obedience. Though barely able to move I willed myself to kneel in as humble and inoffensive a manner as I could, my tightly bound wrists and hands resting on my thighs, my chin abjectly lowered against my own chest, my eyes gazing up at Maria as artlessly as a child’s. Maria looked right through me with that icy stare, then turned and carried on toward the stairs.

My heart leapt when, a moment later, she glanced over her shoulder again.

“You’re looking up my skirt, aren’t you?” she cried. “You little pervert! It’s a beating for you when I get back – one you won’t forget for a long time.”

Dear Google

Stop messing around with Blogger! It was perfect and everyone who used it loved it but you obviously have lots of developers who think that they have to fiddle with stuff to look like they’re doing something and every new thing they do to it makes it less good. (I still hate the new interface, by the way). I could take it when you made life more awkward for me behind the scenes because that didn’t affect my readers. But now you’ve messed up the comment form, GRR!

Just look at it!

What a mess. Is it ‘bring your toddler into work and let them play with the code’ day today or something?

And even if everything you messed with didn’t end up worse, how would you like it if every hardware store kept changing the design of the screwdriver so you had to relearn how to use it every six months? Or if every author reinvented the alphabet in every book, or ordered the pages 1, 7, 64, 3? Not much, I bet!

Here’s an axiom for your brains trust: ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’. Or, to put it in even simpler terms, stop fiddling already! :o(

To my dear readers, I’m sorry about the silly comment form and I hope it doesn’t put you off leaving me naughty notes xx

Close but no banana

Aw. No Super Bowl appearance for the Pats. They lost 28-13 in the deciding match to the Baltimore Ravens, who I now hate, even though they have a cute little bird for an emblem.

Still, I think the Pats can be proud: they did well to get so far despite so many injuries to important players. Get well soon, Mr Gronk! Keep that arm safe.

And, I know that boys don’t much appreciate this sentiment (if BH is any guide), but there’s always next year :)

Oops, I spanked it again

So when, you might ask, is this ‘spanking fiction author’ going to get off her caboose and author something? It’s been ages since the wondrous Spank! sullied graced the world of literature, after all. Well! I reply. Finger your pearls in surprise and make room on your e-bookshelf cos here’s a sequel for the ages. Forget Wide Sargasso Sea, forget Scarlett, forget, even, Legally Blonde 2.

Ladies, gentlemen, children, household pets, I give you... (drum roll, please)...

Spank!...

...2!

Ooh!

It’s got spanking, it’s got dressing-up, it’s got more metaphors than a poetry festival (did I ever mention that my Dad was once a market trader? Getyer spankin’ stories, lovely fresh spankin’ stories): it’s got six short stories filled with playful naughtiness and good old-fashioned filth.

Fancy having your fancy tickled? Here’s a snippet from ‘The Maid’ (by me):

He spoke very sparingly, and when he did speak, there was a glass-like quality to his voice; a stern coolness that spoke of high breeding, authority, and power. Somehow it seemed that being called a wicked girl by such a figure stung far more than the cook’s coarse denouncements ever did. And the Earl’s refined demeanour did not mean that Mary’s bottom was spared its due. He slapped her trembling buttocks as forcefully and implacably as one of his servants might have beaten a rug.

Here’s one from ‘Costume Party Catfight’ (by Becky):

Alice planted a firm hand on the small of Dorothy’s back. The surge of satisfaction from exacting her revenge was overwhelming. At first, it took all of her concentration to hold Dorothy in place and deliver hard, heavy smacks to her squirming derriere, but Alice was a fast learner and was soon spanking her enemy with carefree aplomb.

And here’s one from ‘Sabine’ (me again):

Clearly still full of mischief, she made a dreadful spectacle of herself as the leather scorched her skin. But if she had thought that her performance might make me relent, she was mistaken: her desperate writhing and muffled screams only induced me to beat her harder. It was obvious that she badly needed to be taught a lesson, and the wretched little slut quite rightly felt the crop’s sting a countless number of times to her back, her bottom, her legs, and even between her legs.

Nastay! And written from experience.

So, yeah – Spank! 2: it’s basically like Spank! but with new stories in it. Buy it if you like, don’t if you don’t: the ickle fluffy bunny who edited it promises he won’t take it personally and cry and go off his lettuce. But then he might just be saying that.

Squeak, squeak, whimper.

An incident in the dorm room

INCIDENT REPORT

Entered into student’s permanent file on the 17th of January, 2013
Incident reported by Sir Daniel, Headmaster

STUDENT: Penelope Hasler
OFFENSE: Self-defilement

FULL REPORT
On Monday, January 14th, 2013, we carried out a surprise inspection of the dormitories. Per procedure, these inspections consist of a single knock on the door, followed by immediately opening the door, unlocking it with my own key if necessary. It is common for our students to feel that their dorm rooms are somehow off-limits to the staff. In our school, our girls are afforded limited privacy only as a privilege. Uniform inspections during the school day are routine, including of the girls’ underwear, and public punishments are also common. Despite our best efforts to instill in the girls an understanding that nothing they do or have is off-limits to us, many still expect for their rooms to be ignored. These surprise inspections are deliberately invasive in order to dispel that notion.

Upon entering Miss Hasler’s room, I found her laying on top of her bed in her underwear. This itself is nothing unusual; it was what Miss Hasler was doing in her underwear that was unacceptable. I was shocked to see her with a hand down the front of her panties. The reason for this was unmistakable - she was in mid-gyration when I opened the door, and the outline of her hand made it quite clear what exactly she was doing. I had caught the young student defiling herself.

Miss Hasler seemed to be in shock and simply stared at me slack-jawed, one hand still down the front of her underwear in a most tell-tale sign of her own misbehavior, and the other hand holding up her phone. I must confess that I found myself staring in shock as well, and that a long silence filled the room. Fortunately, I recovered my wits before the child could and I quickly grabbed the phone from her, afraid that she might be communicating with some stranger somewhere in a most lewd way. Taking the phone from her hand seemed to break her shock, and the shame of her situation appeared to wash over her. Her hand immediately flew out of her underwear and grasped the sheets in a death grip, as far from the scene of the crime as possible. She went a deep red from the top of her head all the way down to her shoulders. And, finally, she let out a wretched little moan, knowing perfectly well that there was nothing to be done and that she would truly be “getting it” at this point.

On her phone was a picture of a young woman grinning at the camera while wearing only panties. I recognized the background as one of our locker rooms and remembered then that Miss Hasler is one of our tennis players, and that her partner is Maria Beltram, who I also realized was the girl in the photo. Miss Hasler had taken a photo of her tennis partner changing and then used it for her own self-gratification and defilement.

Miss Hasler at least had the sense to look pitiful, humiliated, and more than a little fearful. She still lay silently on the bed, in just a bra and panties. She had changed since classes ended, and was no longer in her classroom uniform underwear. Instead, she was wearing a pair of thin briefs, yellow with little red hearts on them. If not for the visual from a minute earlier, she would have seemed nothing more than a sweet child, lying on her bed, blushing in her underwear. But there was still one clear sign that she had in fact been very, very naughty: on her panties, in a direct contrast to the girlishness and childishness of the cartoon hearts, appeared an obvious stain where her hand had previously been.

Having taken stock of the situation, I took action. I grabbed her by the arm, yanking her up out of bed. I could see that her fingers were sticky and wet. Still holding her arm, I dragged her from her room and into the hall, scolding her quite clearly for her shameful behavior. If she hadn’t already been redder than a tomato, than she surely would have been after I dragged her into the bathroom, lecturing her all the while about the vulgarity of defiling herself. She was taken to the sink and told to clean the filth off of her fingers, and every girl in the hallway or in the bathroom now knew that Penelope Hasler had been caught masturbating. Girls hurried to exit the restroom, their faces a mixture of curiosity and pity.

After Miss Hasler had washed her foul hands several times, I informed her that she had ruined her panties by getting her filth on them, and instructed her to remove them and toss them into the trash. With a sad, small whine, she obeyed. Finally, I made her go into a stall and wipe herself clean with the toilet paper. Once I was satisfied that all of the filth had been gotten rid of, I marched her back to her room, this time only in her bra. She was instructed to place her hands on her bed, forcing her to bend over with her naked bottom out. She was told to not speak unless spoken to and to not move.

Every hall has a large punishment paddle hanging from a wall in the common room. I instructed a nearby girl to bring me theirs, and she quickly obeyed before hurrying off, clearly not wanting to be anywhere the implement. I left Miss Hasler’s door open, as I felt it appropriate that her punishment be public, so that her shame could be known and spread - this humiliation is often as effective a punishment as the initial spanking.

To that end, I quite loudly and clearly asked her if she had been masturbating, and when answered in a quiet and meek voice I made her repeat her answer louder, so that everyone passing by could hear. Then I gave her a stroke of the paddle, causing her to gasp and cry out, her nude bottom wiggling as immodestly as her fingers had earlier. I continued on like this, making her confess in increasingly shameful and humiliating detail the exact nature of her crime in between painful and increasingly unbearable strokes of the paddle. I would flatten her bottom and then, as she wiggled and waved her reddening bottom, I would make her explain exactly what her hand had been doing underneath her panties. By the tenth swat, everyone in the hall knew that she had “diddled” her clitoris and that she had penetrated her vagina with her own fingers, and that she had done this while looking at a picture of another girl, and finally that she had done all of this before, many times.

There was no doubt by the end of her paddling that Miss Hasler knew that further strict intervention was necessary, no matter how sorry and regretful she seemed at that moment.

I waited for the sobbing girl to recover, and allowed her to do the inevitable, childish dance that all girls do after a painful spanking. Then she was sent to stand with her nose against the wall and hands on her head while I browsed through the pictures on her phone. At this point, it came as no surprise that there were more pictures. There were multiple pictures of Maria in various stages of dress, as well as pictures of Miss Hasler’s roommate Emily in similarly compromising positions. There were pictures of most of the tennis team and cheerleading squad in the locker room. All in all, I discovered about twenty lewd photos on her phone.

I took her from the corner and sat her down in her hard desk chair, ignoring her wincing and pained shifting. I made it clear to her that her conduct was absolutely unacceptable, and I made her go through her phone and delete every lewd photo on it. I then informed her that for the next week she would be on a very strict clothing restriction - she would not wear any trousers, skirts, dresses, or any other clothing that would cover her underwear, and she would be forbidden from leaving campus during that time as well. I made it clear to her that this was so that it would be obvious if she were to get her panties filthy again, and that her teachers would have instructions to check from time to time. She would also be forbidden from shutting her door, and there would be regular check-ins to make sure her hands and panties were clean during the evenings. She moaned sadly but had no other option than to accept her punishment.

It has been three days, and I must unfortunately report that Penelope Hasler has already been sent to my office with filthy panties twice. I have no choice but to add a note to her permanent record that she is prone to masturbation and lust. Without regular and strict correction, I fear that Miss Hasler will go nary a day without filthy panties and sticky fingers. Her phone has been confiscated and her teammates and roommate informed of her proclivities. They seemed oddly accepting of the news and unsurprised. I wish to believe that they simply suspected it all along, but I must accept the possibility that this shameful behavior is not limited to just one girl.

There is a possibility that my academy has been overrun by wanton, decadent, and immodest tarts, sharing lewd images and “diddling” themselves. Perhaps their depravity has even gone beyond solo acts. This is an alarming possibility, and one that must be investigated to the fullest possible degree. I will not rest until I have exposed every shameful, indecent, and lewd girl in my academy.

I expect to be very busy, indeed.

Six of the best (blogs)

It’s a lovely expression, ‘six of the best’. Like OFG, I don’t know whether it’s purely an Anglocentric thing or whether folks elsewhere get the same lovely shiver of excitement at its mention, but for me at least it always instantly conjures up thoughts of school and canings and all kinds of nice kinky things.

Speaking of nice kinky things... :) On my recent meanders through the blogosphere I have stumbled, Bambi-like, upon not one, not two, but six wonderful, shiny blogs, and I would like to welcome them with open arms into my kinky linky fold. So howdy! to:

James Stephenson’s Spanking Blog
Blissful Dwelling Place
Facets of k
Mr Tawse
Spanksalot
Incessantly spanked

So many clever, naughty people! I do feel lucky to have found you all. Please help yourself to cookies and feel free to leave a scolding comment any time.

This web page is truly pleasant

Odin’s beard and Easter Bunny’s nose, I get a lot of spam comments. I’ll be quite honest: the whole thing baffles me. Who are these people? What do they want? Do they honestly think anyone is going to click on their dodgy links? Baffling.

I’ve fished out a few typical ‘comments’ to give you a flavour (and hopefully a chuckle):

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I will not! But thanks for the politeness.

The best part about these grills is the speed. Lechon baboy (litson) or whole roasted pig is consider as Filipino traditional recipe, it is usually feature typical Filipino picture on rural areas roasting whole pig stick on bamboo pole. For instance, you probably would not want to purchase the biggest press on the market for someone with a small apartment kitchen and limited storage. Here is my page ; double sided grill

There’s barely room for two people in my kitchen at the best of times. A pig on a bamboo pole would really complicate things.

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I’m sure that won’t freak her out one bit, her big brother (or sister) pointing her to a blog post about ageplay.

I get loads of these every day: most end up safely in the spam comment vault where they can’t annoy anyone, but some get through. Still, it’s not a big whoop to zap them myself. What is more of a worry is that genuine reader comments can apparently be mistaken for spam and put in the spam folder with all this crap. The sheer volume of spam messages means that I would be unlikely to spot the proverbial needle in a haystack and so the good would be deleted along with the bad.

I hope that this has never happened, and doesn’t ever happen, but if it has I am very sorry. I never knowingly delete reader comments, so if you are a zappee please don’t think it was because I didn’t like what you wrote.

Oh, and to my anonymous spamming friends: GO AWAY! Or I’ll set Ana on you.

Emily in the Asylum

A little fiction for you today, prompted by an interesting search phrase someone used to find my blog. The phrase in question was “I’d love to own an institute for the discipline and spanking of naughty adult women” – a rather revealing wish and not, I would venture, all that uncommon a one!

The phrase immediately brought to mind a postcard I picked up a while ago on a trip to Bath (lovely place; another, like York, that lives and breathes millennia of history): the image below is a scan of it. I have never found the building from which the photo was taken, but that’s all right. I can imagine...

Emily stumbled along the dank, cold corridor towards the laundry as fast as her legs could carry her. Which wasn’t terribly fast, in truth, for she was tired and the bundle of bed linen she carried was enormous and heavy. A quick swish of the crop, scorching her soft behind, put a little extra spring in her next few steps. “Move it, girl!” barked a hard-faced warder, lurking in the shadows, holding his crop aloft in readiness for another blow. “Get them sheets to the laundry, you slattern!”

“Yessir!” Emily gasped, hurrying so as to avoid another taste of the crop.

Poor Emily. Cold, dirty and hungry, her life in the Asylum was one long, miserable day of drudgery, stretching back and forward in time to infinity. Her experience was of course that of every inmate, young women all: worked to the limits of endurance, denied the simplest of comforts, starved of human affection. Yet this bleak existence was perhaps hardest of all for Emily, for she had fallen far further than the majority. From a spacious country house with sweeping grounds to a tiny cell in a forbidding institution; from a life of leisure and refined pursuits to one of menial, unending labour: the change in her circumstances had been dramatic and most unkind.

Each and every moment in that place was a painful one. Even sleep, when it came, offered no relief. The nightmares she had! And her pain was not, sad to say, confined to the emotional sphere: the Asylum’s many warders had instructions to discipline any girl deemed to be disrespectful, to be working too slowly, or to be exhibiting any other sign of dissoluteness, and they carried out their duty with relish. Poor, delicate Emily, unsuited to the rigours of domestic work, was treated to the thoroughly indelicate ministrations of her keepers on a frequent basis.

How impossibly idyllic those lazy afternoons in the garden with Papa seemed now! What she would give to be back in the family home, enjoying a piano recital! But it was all gone, gone forever!

The next instant her senses were assailed by the acrid smell and oppressive heat of the laundry. Wearily, she unburdened herself, adding her linen to the mountain to be washed, and rested for a moment. She should have known better: the poor exhausted girl was immediately taken by the arm, given a brace of smart smacks to her seat, and sent on her way with a shove to collect a new load of dirty linen. “No slackin’, Lady Muck!”

Poor, destitute Emily!

Lose weight with Penny

You know when you catch a glimpse of something and it makes you double-take? I just had that with a banner ad above my rarely-used Yahoo! mail inbox. I only saw it for half a second before it vanished, but I glimpse-read it as ‘I have all the tools I need to lose weight – Penny Hasler’.

Eh?

I couldn’t make the advert come back, but a little Google detective work revealed that the name on it wasn’t Hasler but Haslam: ‘Penny Haslam, Presenter & Journalist’. A quick scan of this near-namesake’s blog suggests that she is very keen on weight loss and/or is being paid by Weight Watchers to advocate it. Quite different to me, then! ;)

Maybe I should pop in and say hi? And send her this nifty tip for staying trim:

I’m sure she’d appreciate it.

I apparently do have a double wandering about, btw. A girl came up to me in a pub a couple of years ago and started happily chatting away like we were best pals, about people and events I had never heard of. It took me some time to convince her that no, I wasn’t Sarah, I just looked an awful lot like Sarah. Or, as my new friend would have it, exactly like her. You ever had that happen? Or run into the double of someone you know?

Poor little rich girl

One of the very best things about having a naughty little blog is that it helps introduce me to very talented, creative people. And kinky ones at that!

John S MacLeod, erotic fiction writer and Hasler-watcher, is one such creative spark. And I am delighted to say that John has written a fantastic story in which a spoilt, horse-riding young lady by the name of Janae Ryder is taken firmly in hand by the man whose car she carelessly canters in front of.

Reader, there is spanking, and sex, and all sorts of kinky fun, but what I love most about the story is the beautiful way it is written: the atmosphere is simply electric and the whole thing just throbs with elegant eroticism (and barely-contained lust). Oh, how I want to be in Janae’s riding boots!

I was privileged enough to receive each instalment by email as it was written and now John has created a blog so everyone can enjoy this wonderfully arousing tale. Here’s a naughty little excerpt to whet your appetite:

Even with the shirttails, following Janae up the stairs made John’s mouth ache, the slight tan of her calves fading quickly to pure white, her complexion taking on a translucent quality as it rose on her thighs and met the cotton of her blouse which, draped over the slight swell of her bottom, curtained his soon-to-be target. Similarly the firmness of her calves acquired a softness as his gaze progressed upward, with his mind’s eye filling in its natural conclusion. Each step was dramatic; tempting and teasing, full of mystery and promise, nearly but never revealing. John could tell by the restrained spring in her step that she would normally climb these stairs two at a time - an image that made his tongue curl with longing - but she had no intention of being that brazen this evening.

Do go read the whole thing. Trust me, you’ll love it!

http://theryderstory.blogspot.com/

Bye-bye baubles

Aw. It’s time to put the Christmas decorations away for another year, and that of course includes my cheery little blog header. I’m always saddened by this day: it’s (naturally enough) like the opposite feeling to putting everything up. But then I suppose that Christmas would lose its meaning (and the pretty decorations their appeal) if it lasted all year. And I guess that this ending-of-festivities ritual forms an important life lesson, and even at a push a metaphor for life itself: things come, things go. Enjoy the nice things while they’re here!

Still, it’s sad. And just to make it sadder I’ve got a cold, too. Wah!

Dream girl

Quiet night in tonight: I’m a bit partied out just for now! And thank goodness it’s the weekend. Isn’t it hard getting back to the grind of work after a break? The holidays never seem quite long enough. I really think bears are onto something with the whole hibernation idea... take the entire season off! (On a not entirely unrelated note I have the biggest bar of choklit I have ever seen in my life to demolish (thanks Mum): it’s as wide as my keyboard! 0_0 I’ll be okay if I get snowed in).

Anyway, get to the point Penny.

I had a kinky dream one night over the holidays. A spanking dream, even. Yeah, so? So... this is not so much unusual for me as unheard of: as unlikely as it sounds I had never, ever had a kinky dream before. Or at least I can’t remember ever having one (I won’t get into the whole Freudian latent vs manifest dream thing here). This one I certainly do remember, and I even got that strange sensation midway through where part of your mind chimes in with the observation that you are in all likelihood having a dream (and, in so doing, ruins the atmosphere: thanks, mind! :P)

The scene was a hall or a gymnasium of some kind, with a vaulting horse or spanking bench in the centre, and me in position over it. There were two women present, one either side of me, one with a cane. I don’t remember what either of them said to me – it might well have been that gobbledegook dream-speak where the words don’t matter – but I was in no doubt that I had been bad and they were going to punish me. And they did! Well, the one with the cane did: stroke after hard stroke was applied to my defenceless behind, the cane swishing through the air again and again, with no other sound in that sparse, echoing chamber but my squeals and the scolding words of my discipliners. It was just the most erotic and unrelentingly severe atmosphere (even with my conscious mind muttering away in the background); something, perhaps, like the reformatories of spanking fiction lore. This was a punishment, not play. As far as I know I began the dream in position over the bench, and I felt as if I would remain there for an indefinite time: for as long as my betters wanted me to, basically. Which was HOT. I just felt so wonderfully situated, and powerless, and abject.

And then it was gone, and I was awake the next morning, in bed at my brother’s house. I didn’t mention the dream to him, btw!

Do any of you have naughty dreams? If you do I’d love to hear about them.

P.S. That massive choklit bar is a little less massive now. I think we must have raccoons or something.

Unsporting behaviour

I don’t really do the resolution thing but I swear that next New Year’s I will definitely take it easier, definitely... thank heavens for headache pills and one last day of holiday time!

So what to post about first in this bright, shiny new year? A silly tennis happening that I bookmarked pre-Xmas? Why not? :D

The happening in question was an exhibition match in early December between Caroline Wozniacki (Danish top-10-ish player) and Maria Sharapova (goddess and all-time great); nothing unusual about that. What made the match noteworthy was Wozniacki’s impromptu mid-match stuffing of towels into her tennis outfit in order to humorously impersonate Serena Williams (serial Grand Slam winner and friend of line judges). Serena is a tad on the well-built side for a tennis player, you see:

Verily, thighs of thunder and boobs of, er, largeness. Still, just look at this naughty girl’s antics:

Now, Caroline isn’t a particular crush of mine, but I must say I do rather enjoy the fantasy of taking her in hand for her childish and unladylike prank. (Just as I’m certain that many male readers to whom these pictures are new will enjoy the sight of a young lady comporting herself in such a manner). That towel would certainly be taken out of her skirt quick smart once she was over my knee courtside!

And I’d definitely spank her for winning the point she played as ‘Serena’ – the cheek of it! (Maria won the match though, of course). But then perhaps it would be more appropriate to let Maria exact retribution herself... mmm, now there’s something to think about...

On that note, do any of you have thoughts about how the young Miss Wozniacki should have been rewarded for her clowning? Bent over the net right there and then, perchance? Skirt up, knickers down for a spanking from the umpire? Sent to Serena’s house post-match with a note of confession and a paddle? Dealt with by all the girls in the locker room? So many yummy possibilities... :D

BTW, this post about the naughty behaviour of a famous person should in absolutely no way be construed as an attempt to divert your attention away from my own conduct on a certain recent evening of festivities. No sir.