Wednesday, 25 September 2013

Getting what you ask for

Just a little post to keep you abreast (and abutt) of my kinky activities, and I guess to serve as a little addendum to my post on submission. I probably don’t say it enough, but I really am a very lucky naughty girl in that I have a partner who understands my needs and indulges me when I tell him I need a damned good hiding. Which is precisely what I did on the Sunday just gone.

What I wanted – needed, in truth – was a no-nonsense beating, with none of the scene-setting roleplay we normally do. (Great though that is; I just wanted to get right down to it this time). I had it exactly in my mind. He would be sitting on a chair in the bedroom, waiting for me. I would go to him, look timidly into his stern gaze. Have my jean shorts taken down as I stood at his side, ashamed beyond words. A brusque command, “Over my knee,” and suddenly I am face down, helpless, hard smacks stinging my bottom.

Scolding words; unfeeling reproaches for my all-too-late apologies and pleas for clemency. “But-- it stings!” And over and over that hard hand brings the lesson home. A good, sound spanking for a richly deserving girl.

I am told to stand, as curtly as I was told to bend. I sorrowfully, and unwisely, rub my sore bottom. I am spun and smacked where I stand; reminded of my place.

“That was just a warm-up.”

He stands, paces past me coldly, retrieves a cane. Cuts the air with it as he returns, making me tremble. Making me wish I hadn’t been so very bad.

The chair is turned round. My knickers are taken down and I am bent over it. “If you lose position you will be sorry.”

Six, or perhaps seven, agonising strokes and I leap up and clutch my backside in pain. Wicked, wicked girl. Back over the chair, angry words ringing in my ears, to begin all over again. Yelps, then sobs, as the cane is arced viciously against my skin.

Ordered into the corner, a shuffling wretch, hands on my head, tears of regret streaking down my face. Shame-filled whimpers as I am touched, my arousal impossible to conceal.

“Filthy girl. You will not enjoy your punishments.”

Led by the arm back to the chair; pulled down across his lap. Spanked without pity. A helpless, bawling, disgrace of a girl.

Just exactly as I had wanted it.

Thursday, 19 September 2013

Round Table Discussion: Submission

Those clever gals at Spanking Romance Reviews have recently begun a very nifty thing called 'Round Table Discussions', a multi-blog initiative in which topics of interest to kinky folk are pondered. And I am proud to say that I have been invited to pull up a chair and participate!

The topic this time round (ha! Round!) is ‘Submission: in or out of the bedroom, or both?’

Which is quite the question. In response I would start by saying that, even though I am not in a D/s relationship, submission plays a role in my life every day. In fact I would say, quite unequivocally, that submissiveness is my default setting, in and out of the bedroom. It is reflexive; it feels as natural as breathing. Which makes perfect sense to me as I believe that such characteristics are things that people are born with, like blue eyes or dark hair. And it is this inherent quality that is crucial, I think: it is this innate core from which submissive urges arise, quite unconsciously, and to which the act of submission speaks.

Yet I also have to say that, as familiar as the sense of submissiveness is to me – as familiar as my hands – it is somehow also like an unknowable force of nature, almost like something outside of myself. Certainly something beyond my rational control, and something vast and forever new, an ocean to be explored. What I do know is that when I submit I feel satisfaction, wellness – deep, wordless, primal – as if a basic need has been met. Which, of course, it has. It’s comparable, I think, to eating when hungry, or sleeping when tired. And, while it might sound an obvious thing to say, I find it instructive to bear in mind that similarly fundamental drives have a degree of influence on everyone’s actions and feelings, wherever an individual might be on the kinky spectrum. (A side point, but I think it is such underlying drives that give kinksexual things the quality of authenticity: when these are absent it is so easy to tell that someone is just going through the motions).

Submissiveness is a key part of my sexuality, and is central to my relationship with my partner. And, even though it is not expressed within a recognisably D/s context, it necessarily forms an element in all the play we have in the bedroom. The specific act of submission might vary, as might the explicitness of my submission, but the same basic impulse lies behind each one. When I go across my partner’s knee for a spanking, I am submitting, even if I make a show of struggling defiance (and even if my spankings are always part of 'play' and thoroughly enjoyed). When tears come, and I give myself utterly to the experience, my submission deepens and becomes more complete.

I submit when I kneel at his feet and look up into his eyes. I submit when we make love. I submit when I nestle in his arms, passive and peaceful. In each case I am giving of myself to him, and trusting him to love and protect me. And that is a wonderful, cathartic, enveloping feeling. It is in these moments, I think, that the universality of submission (that is, its transcendence of the kinksexual context) and the inseparability of submission and trust feel most apparent. I know that many people reading this will understand the sentiment that, in order to submit fully, you have to trust completely.

As I mentioned above, I think that my submissive tendencies readily manifest themselves outside the bedroom, though they do so in less overt ways. (I have yet to be bent over and spanked in a shopping mall, anyway. Though I might well fantasise about that). I tend to be the quieter and more passive one in our relationship, and I instinctively consult with my partner on things, rather than acting unilaterally. In discussions, big or small, I tend to defer to his judgement. Which is actually an occasional source of irritation to him:

BH: “Where should we eat tonight? And don’t say it’s up to me!”

Me: “Up to you.”

BH: “Argh!”

But it’s just my nature. And it comes as part of the same package that means I will do whatever he wants in the bedroom, so I don’t think he minds too much.

Beyond our relationship, i.e. in other social situations, I am unassuming and happy to go with the flow. Little miss team player, that’s me. If the gals want to meet at 8, I will fit my plans to suit, and I wouldn’t dream of making them change their plans to suit me. And, while this might not seem as obvious an instance of submission as when I play the naughty sex slave and beg my pretend-master to stripe me, to my mind it is all part of the same thing: another reflection of my submissive nature. I yield, rather than impose; I respond, rather than initiate; I instinctively place the desires of others above my own. (Not, I’d just like to add, as the result of some calculation, nor in the hope of gain further down the line, but simply because it is my nature).

Of course, I could be completely wrong on all of the above. I am just speaking from experience and trying to put the things I feel into words. It’s a fascinating thing to think about, anyway :)

Do please share any thoughts you might have – I’d love to hear them. And do please visit the round table and check out what other bloggers have to say on the matter! (But don’t touch the peanuts. They’re mine).

Wednesday, 18 September 2013

Penny Does a Runner: Part X

If Penny was to avoid being recognised by Miss Harper she would need a good disguise, she knew. But what? A clown, perhaps... no, that was no good: the clowns had already performed, and she would stick out like a sore thumb wandering around the stalls by herself. She needed some kind of exotic costume... something that would allow her to wear a headdress or suchlike and not seem out of keeping. Conscious that her absence might soon be noticed she wandered round the circus in an anxious daze, racking her brain.

“Oh, of course!” she suddenly cried, startling a couple at a nearby hoopla stall. She would dress as an acrobat! No-one would think it strange to see a girl in a leotard and headdress serving snacks at a circus; they would just assume she was dressed that way to add to the general gaiety.

Penny dashed to a caravan she knew was home to a pair of female acrobats and, her knock on the door going unanswered, let herself in. The girls she had met earlier were both about her size, and they were bound to have spare costumes somewhere... with this hope at the front of her frantic thoughts she rifled through drawers as if her life depended on it. With a yelp of delight she came upon a leotard, and she wasted no time in taking her usherette dress off and pulling her new outfit on. It fitted like a glove: she smiled in satisfaction, twirling in front of the mirror. But oh, she thought, putting a hand to her head – what about a headdress?

She searched and searched but none was to be found. She would just have to find one somewhere else, and quickly: she had been gone for some time and would have to get back to her station. She took up her snack tray and headed back outside, glancing around herself once more, wondering which caravan might contain her salvation.

The next moment she was startled by a man’s voice, and a hand upon her shoulder. “Come along, you!” the man cried. “You’re due on in a minute!”


Saturday, 14 September 2013

Paris Hilton does bondage

A thoroughly enticing title but, alas, a misleading one: I’m afraid I don’t have any snaps of a hogtied Miss Hilton to share with you. But in my defence the title is taken directly from an article I spotted today on a celeb news site (feel free to put scare quotes round the words ‘article’ and ‘news’ in that sentence) that amounts to a plug for Paris’s forthcoming music album. (Which promises to be a treat, of course). The ultra-tenuous connection to bondage seems to be that Paris wore “S&M style” lingerie for a publicity photoshoot.

Which is fair enough: she can wear what she likes and promote herself how she likes. The thing I’m interested in is the idea of kink as a style, or a marketing gimmick. First and foremost it seems to me that, whether a celeb is actually a practicing kinkster or not, a surefire way of guaranteeing attention and column inches is to slip into a “racy” outfit and hint at a degree of kink.

It isn’t the first time Paris has done so, as this photo from 2008 illustrates:

The word “racy” was, of course, used in the articles covering that appearance, too. Which hints at the single most vital factor in the kink-style phenomenon: the media. In an era when mainstream audiences are less easily shocked than ever before – when they have, in a superficial sense at least, seen it all – the media machine still needs things to ‘shock’ people with. And it seems that kink (or watered-down, family-friendly kink-chic) fulfils that function right now.

Speaking personally, I’m not shocked or offended in the slightest by seeing someone famous in PVC. The thing that jumps out at me – the thing that gets closest to offending me – is the emptiness of the whole exercise; the studied cynicism of it. It feels like kink stripped of all its meaning; kink as nothing but a fashion statement. And it always does feel cynical; like a marketing ploy where none of the players have any investment beyond getting paid. The celeb pretends to be kinky, the media pretend to be breathlessly shocked (and faithfully copy and paste the relevant press release, with all the key buzzwords), the audience pay attention for two minutes then click onto another story.

And, while I would never claim ownership of all things kinky or seek to bar anyone from expressing themselves, I can’t help feeling somehow... cheapened by that.

Thoughts welcome!

Friday, 13 September 2013

Eeeek! It's... Friday!

Hm. This only posting on Fridays thing is getting to be a habit. Rest assured, I shall do my utmost to break it! I’m just about back to normal health-wise now (thanks and hugs to everyone who sent kind wishes) and I have a couple of days off work next week, so that bodes well for new scribbles.

As for this here scribble, I thought I’d muse and ponder a bit about matters superstitious. It is, after all, Friday the 13th – the unluckiest sort of Friday there is!

Apparently. To be honest I have no idea why Friday the 13th is considered unlucky. Let’s look it up on Wikipedia.

Hm. No real reason at all, it seems! (Sorry for the spoiler). Friday is thought an unlucky day in some cultures and thirteen an unlucky number. Put them together and presto: an ‘unlucky’ day. I did learn something from the Wiki article, though. It turns out that the Spanish equivalent is Tuesday 13th. And the Italian one is Friday 17th! Those crazy Italians!

Which just goes to show how silly and arbitrary superstitions are.

Still, I will confess to not being immune. Whenever I see a lone magpie (supposedly bad luck), I whisper “Hello Mister Magpie, how’s your wife?” under my breath; an incantation that (supposedly) counteracts the bad luck. I know it’s silly, and I feel silly as I say it, but I still feel compelled to. And that’s how superstitions work, of course: they circumvent our rationality and speak to something more primal.

The above musings may or may not be a sly indication of a theme that I mean to work into a spanking story; I couldn’t possibly say. That’d be bad luck.

Friday, 6 September 2013

I yam the lizard queeeen

Bleh. Been another hectic week and now I’m coming down with something. (The title of this post is a Simpsons reference, but it applies pretty well to an ill Penny. Definitely feel like some kind of swamp creature).

Braincell not really up to much right now so here are a couple of things that – in the best Blue Peter tradition – I made earlier: cute/ageplay-ish wordsearches!

Hey, it was that or another photo of my butt. Enjoy :D