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All I Need to Know…

19 Jun
All I really need to know I learned from spanking:
1. Pain is inevitable. Composure is optional.
2. Be proud of your body. Even if it’s not the “right” shape, there is joy to be found in every molecule.
3. Every relationship can be improved with the existence of a safe word.
4. When you need a hug, don’t be the first to pull away. Give in to the hug; let yourself be comforted.

5. Don’t be afraid of waving the white flag. It takes more strength to admit your limits than to remain silent.
6. Short skirts have their time and place.
7. Know your way but be accepting of others’.
8. Always wear clean panties.

9. Things often get worse before they get better. Grit your teeth, pull up your socks, and don’t lose sight of the end goal.
10. Never, ever eat beans.


24 May

I imagine he would inquire about the difference in flavor between bok choy and cabbage.
Knowing the answer — the difference lying in texture, preparation and presentation more than flavor — he’d use the question as an introduction and not as a test. His hand settles decisively on the bok choy. Ah, a risk taker.
I study him. He looks to be a man versed in vegetables: lean and fierce, with an artistic air that is less calculated than natural. He is handsome, yes, but not obviously so. Distinguished, certainly. He could lead a conversation about gardening that would leave one’s thighs quaking for the moistness of dirt.
I follow him. He lingers at the ginger root, fingers it, and glances at me.
No, not so quiet, this man.
What if I were to write a hotel name on my deli receipt and slip it in his pocket, pausing to make my presence known? Would he be there, in the lobby? Would I?
Leading him through the patterned hallway, acutely aware of his eyes on my hips, we’d stop at a discreet door marked for our indiscretion.
The room is anonymous and so are we. I could be anyone, and am. To me, he is a father, a brother, home from a business trip where he discussed the next big thing in environmental activism. His refrigerator is empty, his cat hungry, his bathroom sink clean. I don’t know what I am to him, but he is here.
I place my hands on the bed, lock my elbows. My open mouth discovers the flesh of arm and breathes against it, a self-soothing kiss.
In a move more carnivorous than expected, he circles me. He is weighing options, calculating again, about to ask a question.
What is the difference between pain and pleasure?
He’d know the answer lies more in the similarities than the differences — the delivery, the receipt, the moans. He’d know that his belt holds the answers. It is contained within the 38″ of leather; it is also what twitches beneath.
He takes that leather in his hands then, unfolds it from his waist, clear in his decision. This is what I want. This is why I bend.
With a gentle ferocity, my dress is raised, my panties readjusted, and he begins without preamble.
I am dirty. I am reckless. I am the girl who slips invitations into strange men’s pockets.
My unasked question hangs in the air, What is the difference between danger and desire?

Naked Donna

19 May

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?”
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.

If He Knew

22 Mar

Photo from Cherry Red Report.

He can’t know.
He can’t know the vibrations I feel with every spank, the pressure that builds at the bud, demanding to be uncapped. He can’t understand the weight of breasts bouncing, nipples tightening, as they loose themselves from my bra. I am certain he has no idea of the high-pitched yearning that screams low in my belly as I moan against the mattress.
Surely if he knew, he’d reach around and claim a breast, pluck and roll that swollen mound in his fingers, all the while maintaining the downpour of his hand against my cheeks.
If he knew, he’d move those stubborn fingers that grip my upper thigh. He’d move them a few millimeters, to the left and up a little. He’d push my button. He’d delve deep, trace circles, tap out an S.O.S. until the swells subside.

If all else fails, push your own button.

He would not torment me this way: climbing higher and higher up the ladder just to slide back down again. And again.
Almost by design, he teases me until I can take no more when understanding dawns.
“Oh, you want to come? You poor thing. I didn’t realize,” he laughs against my flushed neck, as if an apology erases the frustrations of the last hour on the brink.
Finally, like he knew my desires all along, his hand captures a breast, squeezes a nipple. His fingers move beneath me to stroke and coax, petting out the mews and purrs from my long neglected pussy.
“Come for me, baby,” he invites.
I waste no time with an RSVP.

40 Inches of Mean

21 Mar

There's something missing

I had it delivered directly to D’s.
Patience is not one of my virtues, so at the end of each day I anxiously asked, “Have you received a package from Eden Fantasys yet?”
It arrived in time for our weekend together. I’d be experiencing it in less than 24 hours, time enough for hundreds of images to infiltrate my thoughts: me, bent and waiting, D tapping a rhythm before landing a stroke.
When Eden Fantasys, an online feast of adult sex toys, contacted me just seven days prior about reviewing one of their products, the only uncertainty was what, among their vast offerings, I would pick. After short consideration, I chose their Bamboo Cane, 40 inches of lean, mean, knotty discipline dressed in a leather handle.


I could have chosen a number of their Bondage toys (clamps, anyone?) but I stayed true to my spanko roots. The cane scares me. I’m still inexperienced with the searing, burning type of pain that accompanies it. But I’m a geek, a sucker for experiments. I’ll take one — or a dozen — for my kinky team.
Having no concept of what a 40 inch cane would look like (I’m a geek, not a mathematician), I was shocked, SHOCKED, by the length of this toy. It could strike three two of me lined hip to hip. Imagine the momentum this slim slugger could achieve!
Fortunately I did not have to imagine for long, as D was just as eager to test our newest team member’s hitting power. So, there I was: bent over the bed, my pants and panties already discarded in the pre-game scrimmage, wondering what the hell I was thinking when I chose the cane.


That's better.

The familiar burn inflamed me as D exclaimed at the smoothness of the dreaded implement. I could feel small welts rise as D explained that this was not a toy for a beginner. And wasn’t I lucky that he is an expert in all things whippy?
Lucky, indeed, I kept telling myself through the three subsequent sessions of the cane that weekend. Lucky, indeed, I reminded myself as I gazed in the mirror at the fading bruises and remembered the cane’s stinging bites.
Lucky, indeed, I am for having the opportunity to test a most excellent implement, an ally in the bedroom with its ability to deliver sensual taps. But when D gives me that look, you better believe I will recall the 40 inches of retribution that now await me in the toy closet. Thank you, Eden Fantasys.
That bamboo cane means business.
Please visit The Pink Reviews for this review and others.

The Demonstration

17 Mar
This is an approximation of a recurring dream I’ve had since I was 20 and beginning to fulfill my spanking desires. Written months ago, I’ve decided to post it.

I awaken, disoriented, with my nightgown damp and twisted between my legs.
Voices from the kitchen, a low conversation punctuated with thoughtful laughter, drift into the dim bedroom. Who is here?, I wonder, my curiosity free from alarm.
Untangling myself from the sheet, I pad out of the bedroom to investigate my midnight guests.

Sitting around the table, a deck of cards split between them, are three men I don’t recognize and one whom I know well — my boyfriend, Doug, dressed in a white button-down shirt and a loosened tie. Running my hand through my tousled hair, I groggily greet the foursome and become aware of how improperly I am dressed.
My nightgown, made of thin cotton, allows the light to cast my thighs in shadows beneath the fabric. Gooseflesh covers my arms and I feel the familiar tightening of my nipples as all eyes flicker to me.
Feeling exposed, I turn to fetch my robe or, at the very least, put on panties. But Doug pats his thigh and says, “C’mere, sleepyhead, and meet my friends.”
I cross my arms over my puckered nipples and join the table with a shy smile. Introductions made, Doug pulls me onto his lap and briefly nuzzles my neck, inhaling the sleepy lavender scent that clings there.
“I was just telling everyone how we make our relationship work,” Doug says to the table. Blushing, I hope he didn’t share all of the inner-workings of our arrangement — specifically that he spanks me whenever and however he chooses.

The Good Doctor

7 Mar
He tipped the Nyquil down my throat, tucked me in and left me with a sweet lullaby.
“Rest. When I get back, I will be paddling you,” he said, pressing his lips to my clammy forehead.
“Mmmm,” I murmured, still sleepy from the sickness that had overtaken me for the past few weeks. “Yes, I think I need that.”

“This isn’t about what you need. This is about me. And I need to paddle your butt ’til it’s glowing. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir. See you when you get back,” I whispered, smiling as I snuggled into his comforter.
I woke to the dim light settling in the bedroom, heard the garage door closing, and counted the beats it would take him to come to the room. Fifteen. Fifteen seconds and he was standing over me, his lips quirking at the corners as he surveyed my tangle of limbs and wild hair.

I think I wanted him to spank me.
Then there were the butterflies — those old, familiar friends that never fly far from us. My tummy curled into knots as I remembered his promise, given hours ago.
Instead of steering me over his lap, he slipped into the master bath and reappeared, discussing the steaks he was going to grill for dinner.
“You need some good protein,” he said.

Uncharacteristically shy, I sat up in bed, twisting my lips, contemplating what would come next.
“Um…but what do you need?” I asked, my voice sounding youthful and foreign, uncertain.
He paused on the threshold of the bedroom and turned, all business. “I need to start the grill…
“And when I get back, I need your pants to be off. You’re going to be spanked.”

Moments later I was over his lap, proving that even girls with Pneumonia have loud voices. And the steaks? We both take ours medium rare, bright pink in the center.


16 Feb

I am in the circle of your arms, can feel your heart against my back. My feet rub against each other. Good night, left toes. Good night, right.
I drift.
An inexplicable fever plagued me through the day, as it has for several months. Even in dreams it follows: a high-speed chase through the woods, kaleidoscopes of color, snippets of conversation on fast-forward, faces I recognize from the grocery store fritter in and out.
Little makes sense.

I am high in a tree, bent over a branch, laid bare to anyone who passes beneath.
I wriggle deeper into the branches to hide, but it only lifts my skirt higher, displaying more. I close my eyes against the roaring audience below, willing them to disappear. I am dizzy with fear — afraid of heights, afraid of this exposure, afraid of the jeers.
More! Now! Faster! Keep up!
I have no more. I can’t go faster. I can’t keep up.

I climb up the branches which lead to solid ground. In a clearing now, I am alone.

* * *

My thighs are slick…with what? Sweat?
No, just wet. From me, from my thoughts. Writhing images invade, like flags in the wind, the swish of skin against skin makes my temples pound and my clit throb. A tongue laps between my legs and there is a rushing sound — a madness — followed by waves moving over me as I attempt to swim atop and ride them.

* * *

We are in a theatre now, full of faceless people. I bend; you reach for me. I feel your cool hand against my damp and burning flesh. You comment, You’re like a river. I could swim in you.

Your hand feels strange, unknown, forked leather against my cheeks as you snap a rhythm against me, like a heart beating. Lub dub, lub dub.
Everyone fades.

* * *

I am in a room, my room, on my stomach with nothing beneath me — floating, finally cool. I’m weightless, slowly swooning. Near the ceiling, your fingers clasp my thighs. You tighten your belt around my waist and reel me in and over your knee.
Bright light and then dark. I hiccup a release and go limp in your arms, home again.

Getting Down to Business…

10 Feb
His business line rang and I thought there was no way he’d answer it. I was wrong.
He left me there, perched over the arm of the couch, jeans and panties around my knees, my hot cheeks on display. I could see my reflection in the sliding glass doors of his deck — my exposed back, the curve of my pink bottom, my curly hair wildly disheveled — as he gave a cheery hello to the caller.

Headset on, he walked to me and rubbed my cheeks, parting them to examine me, not missing a beat as he discussed last-minute travel plans. I could hear his co-worker chatting on while D resumed spanking me.
Left cheek, left cheek, right cheek. More travel arrangements. Right cheek, left cheek, left cheek. Smack, smack, smack.
Mute button? I hoped.
To be safe, I made not a squeak.


3 Feb

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.

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