Necessary Roughness

“Men with tools fixing shit all manly like.”
 
That is a “fetish” — a term used loosely in this case — on FetLife. Yes, I have that on my list. I love a man with a tool. You know, in his hand. Over my car. Or…whatever.
 
Candles, guitar-playing, wine…rose petals. That’s all nice, but how are you going to spank me with your junk tucked up between your legs?
 
Don’t misunderstand. There is a time and a place for romance. I am a romantic girl and appreciate those overtures. But most of the time I like my spanking how I like my fucking: yank up my skirt, flip me around, and push those panties down as casually as you would if you were popping your car hood.
 
All manly like.
 

Image from Little Miss Spankypants

I’m overheating and I need your immediate attention. I’m fixed only after you administer elbow grease. Don’t ask for permission*. Only you can decide the right color of my cheeks tonight.
 
Be as aggressive with me as you were with that wrench I saw you working earlier. Move me. Squeeze me. Twist me.
 
When all else fails (and it will) smack me on my bottom while you wipe the sweat from your brow.
 
And grunt.
 
 
*Assuming that permission has previously been granted, of course.

The Opportunist

Do you think it’s an accident that he walked in to find me leaning over the bed, naked from the waist down, reaching for my pajama bottoms?
 
It wasn’t. I’ve timed his arrival; I’ve set the stage.
 
Some people light candles. Me? I bend over, the glow from my cheeks providing all the romantic ambiance we need.
 
The only thing scripted is the opportunity I’ve created. All else is left to him. He can decide what to do, or not do, with me.
 
It’s the “doing” that interests me.
 

Naked Donna

My panties quit before I made it to the kitchen.
 
I tied the apron in the mirror, saw my breasts overflow the halter top, twirled to look at myself from the side, the back. Nothing underneath, I decided, as I pushed the now damp panties to the floor, readjusted the bow behind me, and emerged from the bedroom as if nothing was amiss.
 

Just another evening in the Pink household — nothing to see here.
 
Two steps into the living room all normalcy changed.
 
D, no longer watching the game he’d been glued to, zeroed in on my breasts spilling from the inadequate top, my cinched waist, my naked thighs. I stopped to let him stare. With one finger, he motioned for me to turn. Picturing what I’d seen in the mirror — the hint of ribs giving rise to hip bones, my naked back, the blue bow that framed my pinkish bottom — I modeled the 50s style apron. With a curtsy, I faced him.
 

“Turn again. Slower,” he commanded. In my most exaggerated catwalk turn, I pivoted incrementally, my heart on fast forward as I looked at him over my shoulder. “Nice apron. What’s for dinner?”
 
Really? He expected me to cook in this?
 
“Meatloaf, dear,” I answered sweetly, incarnating the Donna Reed from my childhood.
 
“What’s our appetizer?” He asked, taking hold of my hand as I passed.
 
Ah, here we go.
 

“Me,” I purred. “Would you like it now, or after the meatloaf is in the oven?”
 
With a yank on my arm, I had my answer. He deftly steered me over his knees and clucked his tongue in appreciation, his hands immediately on my bottom, caressing before he began my spanking.
 
“Mmmm…this feels more like dessert,” I noted as he landed a particularly hard smack. “We should….ahh….probably…ow….save room for multiple courses.”
 
In true 50s style, we had a full course meal. There was the appetizer on the couch, whine in the kitchen, tenderloin on the table, and finally meatloaf on our plates.
 
For dessert? Some sweet cane sugar.

Seven Habits of Highly Spankable People

Let’s face it: spanking can suck.
 
Have you ever dragged your feet around the kitchen, waiting for him to realize that there’s a willing bottom present? Or sighed loudly and emphatically, hoping to get his attention, only to be answered with a snore on the pillow beside you?
 
Every relationship has its lulls, but perhaps it’s time to recharge. Perhaps it’s time to be spankable.
 
1. We are inquisitive. New methods, new implements, new positions — we read about them and add them to our to-do lists. Although steeped in tradition, spanking is not formulaic and we seek ways to keep the excitement alive.
 
2. We are confident. Sure, our bottoms may not be as round, small, squishy or toned as we’d like. We can concentrate on the pleasures of spanking instead of obsessing about the angle that best complements our bodies. Give us a tight pair of pants and we can work those buns in a mouth-watering dance– and we know it. This makes us super-sexy and infinitely spankable.
 

 
3. We seek opportunity. We are always on the ready for a well-spanked bottom, whether the conditions are ideal or not. A public bench is not so public at 2 am (or 2 pm depending on where you are). A backseat doubles as a hotel room in a spanking emergency. Guests are coming in 30 minutes? Time enough for the hairbrush. We are game.
 
4. We think of spanking often. A shapely bottom in front of us, a casual phrase spoken in the office, the way our panties hug our cheeks, all arouse desire within us. That desire is communicated through lip twists, hair twirls, and flushed cheeks, which greatly increase our spankability.
 
5. Our wit is sharp. Rarely do we neglect the chance for a kind-hearted challenge during a discussion about mundane affairs. Some may call this bratting. I do not. I call it spankifying.

6. We are passionate. Eating, sleeping, laughing, loving, living — you name it, we attack it. This vibrancy attracts people to us and increases our spanking appeal.
 
7. We move to tease. Understanding that spankos are highly visual and tactile beings, we strive to appear touchable and inviting. It is not an accident that you saw the tops of our thigh highs when we bent to pick up the newspaper. Nor is it an accident that we dropped the paper in the first place.
 
You won’t find the most self-explanatory way to achieve complete spankability on this list. It’s too obvious to warrant a number: just ask.
 
There is nothing as spankable as a bottom asking a willing partner to spank her (or him). It works nearly every time.
 

Photo Finish

A mere .002 of a second separated first place from second — not even a blink, hardly discernible to the naked eye. It appeared that Jimmie Johnson and Clint Bowyer finished at the same time at Talladega’s April 17th race, but the camera tells a different story. Johnson emerged as the clear, albeit narrow, victor.
 
Not much of a race fan myself, I still have an appreciation for the tight competition and photo finish, particularly as it applies to my sex life.
 
Finishing simultaneously is obviously a goal. Finishing .002 of a second apart would be a rare success.
 
And so there we were, exhausted after our 13 hour drive home from the Talladega excitement. Despite my fatigue, I could not fall into the sleepy peace that so easily found D.

Snuggling in close, I whispered against his neck, “I need something.”
 
I’m not normally so selfish to rouse a sleeping man so that he may deliver an orgasm. In doing so, it wasn’t my intention for him to actively participate in my pleasure. However, I didn’t want him to disapprove when I spasmed and purred beside him, particularly when I desperately wanted the lazy (and loud) guarantee of the Hitachi.
 
Can a woman have an affair with her vibrator? It felt a little like that, so I woke him.
 
Of course his assent came with a price.

Fully awake now, D ordered me on my knees, chest pressed flat against the mattress, naked bottom high in the air with my arm underneath as I worked the vibrator between my legs. Then he started spanking — a rhythmic, unrelenting barrage that pushed me harder and harder against the vibrating head.
 
Proving how great my need was, and how impatient I can be, it didn’t take more than a dozen smacks to feel myself cresting. Sensing the time was near — perhaps my cries of “I’m close!” were an indication — D didn’t break rhythm and spanked me through climax.
 
Open-mouthed and panting against the pillow, it was a surprise when I felt D slide between my legs, the vibrator still pulsating against me. With hard, downward strokes, his hand continued its rhythm against my bottom as his hips found a rhythm of their own.

With each of us hurtling toward completion at speeds rivaling any race car, it’s hard to tell who edged over the line first.
 
One shudder provoked the other’s; each spank and thrust elicited responding wriggles and moans. Until we emerged, both victorious, both spent, both exhausted from our own photo finish.
 
Approximately .002 of a second later, we were asleep.
 
 
I’d like to offer condolences and wishes for safety to those in Alabama, the beautiful home to Talladega, and the neighboring states affected by the ongoing storms.

Mooner Madness

The moon has not been in a position to appear this large since 1993. Not only is it closer to the Earth than it has been in 18 years, it is full. It is a fluke — excellent timing. The last time this happened, I was too young and self-centered to care.
 
Combined with tonight’s coincidental full moon, we can expect a dramatically large range of high and low tides. Will this be accompanied by strange behavior — nymphs beckoning for more upon the shores of desire? Will men turn to wolves at the stroke of midnight?
 
Did you know that a full moon only lasts a moment but that the moment is imperceptible to ordinary observation? The shaded areas of the moon are not perceived by the naked eye, thus making us believe that it is full for hours instead of moments.
 
For hours I want to be spanked. I want to be spanked, then teased, then ridden and spanked again. I want to moon the moon, raise a toast to my sister. We are partners in crime tonight.
 
Tonight any coastal storm will most likely result in minor flooding. His sheets will need to be washed in the morning.

Fixation

Pardon my indelicate phrasing, but did you know that your cock is connected to my ass? No, not like that — although being your dirty girl certainly has its rewards.
 
No, it’s when you spank me, when you satisfy my most urgent craving, another craving takes its place. I am obsessed with you spanking me, with any implement, in any position, for any reason or no reason at all. It’s what we both need. And when you’re done?
 
Let me thank you.

I want to close my eyes and imagine what you see: me on my knees between your legs, bright red ass waving in the air, my hair veiling my face as I refrain from taking you, all at once, into my mouth.
 
Unless you tell me to hurry, I want to take my time.
 
A student of geography, my tongue will relearn the topography of your cock so it can later draw a map. I’ll lick a slow, soft circle around your tip, and then my tongue will dance along the ridge between tip and shaft. My nose will nuzzle the base of you on an inhale, then exhale a whisper as my lips hug one ball, and then the other.
 
Only then will I begin.

Firm plans

With the luxury of a versatile schedule, it is rare that I know exactly what I’ll be doing at any given time.
 
However, I know with absolute certainty my plans for 5:15 5:14 this evening.

 
I will be right where D instructed, and not a minute late: naked, with my nose pressed into the southwest corner of the bedroom, awaiting his arrival.
 

I. Heart. Bondage.

When I wrote the post about D ripping my clothes off of me, I had some inspiration.
 
I want to share that inspiration with you, but must first give you warning. At The Pink Report, I try to leave as much to the imagination as possible. I pick photos designed to tempt and arouse the mind, and leave the rest to you. You usually won’t find the “money shots” here; I don’t typically enjoy the ins-and-outs of the more traditional porn. And although D and I dabble in the rougher stuff (I like it), I don’t love watching it.
 
However, months ago he sent me this video and I keep circling back to its hiding spot on my desktop. The full length version, from Sex and Submission, is nearly 40 minutes and quickly escalates to hardcore where this clip leaves us. If you like it, head over to their site and explore the offerings.
 
It is hot. It is graphic. You’ve been warned.
 

 
I’m not a fan of elaborate jerry-rigging or rope burn, but simple bondage by the man I trust, to have no choice but to follow his lead, is an incredible turn on for me.
 
And…ahem…did you see the way he ripped her dress and then used it to gag her? I might even break my no gag rule for that display of creativity.
 
I’m a simple girl, D: tie me up, flog me, rip my dress and buy me a sausage dinner. That’s what I call a date.

‘Orange’ you gonna spank me?

Some women create drama to get spankings. Some courageous women just ask. And at least one woman I read about years ago wears orange socks to signal her need for some lap time.
 
If this policy were in place in your own spanking relationship, imagine opening your top drawer and seeing the neatly stacked orange socks, waiting to be worn. Reach out a hesitant hand and touch the soft cotton. Contemplate it. Close your eyes and picture answering the door, dressed in normal attire except for the conspicuous orange toes peeking out from beneath your jeans.
 
Imagine his reaction, his pleasure at your bravery. Would he notice right away and make comment? Or would he make you wait, heightening your anticipation for the moment when he would finally grant your silent request? Would he make you stand in the corner while staring at your traitorous, wiggling feet, with you questioning the wisdom to choose those socks on this day?
 
Imagine kicking your bare legs, your orange feet dancing like exclamation points, while over his lap. He’d, of course, make you wear those socks for the rest of the evening, pulling you into position whenever the mood struck and pointing to your socks as explanation.
 
“You asked for it,” his shrugging shoulders would say. And with a theatrical sigh he’d freshen up your bottom during commercial breaks, half-times and any pause in the conversation.
 
I rarely need to ask for a spanking, as D is always “armed and ready”. However, if we instituted a similar rule, it’d apply to black socks, a color I wear most often.
 
I wouldn’t want to be the crazy, kooky lady who, on a daily basis, wears the inexplicable orange socks with her suits and dresses — now would I?