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Flashback Friday: Exposed

5 Aug
Borrowing from American Spanking Society’s idea of Flashback Fridays, I will repost an entry from approximately one year prior. Hope you enjoy the trip down Memory Lane as much as I do!

“Please pass the syrup and tell me, did everyone hear my spanking last night?” I asked the assorted guests at the Bed & Breakfast where D and I spent our weekend. “If not, I’m sure D could give it another go before check out.”
They heard. But you know I didn’t really ask. However, that question hung in the air, thicker than the honey-glazed bacon the innkeeper served for breakfast. I saw the truth there, as they glanced from D and back to me — D looking as proud as a peacock while meeting their eyes, me staring intently at their foreheads.
While charming in its 1896 imperfections, the house was not designed to hide the boisterous affairs of its occupants. And boisterous we were, although much less so due to my pleading, “Not the belt! Everyone will hear!” It was a request spoken in a loud, mirthful whisper, a request I’m positive was overheard as well.
Really they should have thanked us. I am certain, in the afterglow of our tryst, I heard a pair of beds squeaking in the night.

Tied and Twisted

12 Jul

With my hands grabbing my ankles, my bottom hovering in the air above the mattress, the only thing left to support my upper body weight was my face — which was ungracefully smashed by the effort.
This was a surprise on an otherwise innocent Sunday morning. Just as I opened my eyes, he was there, pulling off my tap pants, freeing me from my lace tank top. I thought he had his mind on fun. I had no idea.
He grabbed me by the feet and pulled me to the end of the bed, attaching the soft restraints to my ankles. Then he flipped me onto my stomach, giving me a motivational swat to my barely awake butt, and put matching cuffs on my wrists. From the nightstand, he grabbed the O-ring hub device to connect my ankles to my wrists.
He stood back to survey my positioning. I swear he said, “Oh yeah. I like this,” as if he were the tawny, scrawny lion contemplating a field of sleeping bunny rabbits. Feast all you want, lion, this bunny isn’t hopping anywhere.
His hand worked its usual cadence but it was the belt who betrayed me: belittling spots not meant to be scolded, but I could not shield those most tender areas. With my wrists connected to my ankles, I know that I was wide open to any onslaught. Belt, hand, fingers, teeth, vibrator, I was vulnerable to it all.
And, yes, I loved it.

Thus is the life of a sex toy tester.
He rolled me onto my back with my knees drawn to my chest, and I couldn’t suppress my giggles. I was dizzy with the possibilities of our newest set of bondage cuffs, watching my breasts bounce with each gulp of air.
With so many uncomfortable positions on the menu, will we ever have time to try them all?
Pertinent info on “Hog-tied” restraints:
Material: Nylon/Metal
Color: Black
Length: 15″
Width: 2″
Closure: Velcro/buckle
Manufacturer: Sportsheets
Price: $28.99


Roll With It

6 Jul
Do you ever try to run? Unsuccessfully? Maybe he holds your wrist while you pivot — dancing a giddy circle as his windmill arm propels you? ‘Round and ’round you go.

Imagine my delight (heavy on the sarcasm, maybe), when this brilliant idea struck: Take my footless ottoman above, turn it on its side, and drape myself over it for a hearty dose with the belt. Whose idea was that?
There is a reason I cannot find photos online to illustrate this tricky maneuver. It’s dumb. I mean, it’s really dumb.

The "wheelbarrow" is a better position for sex than spanking.

There I was, remembering my days playing a human wheelbarrow, while a belt rained down on my moving backside. Why was it moving? Defiance? An instinct for survival?
No. My rapidly heated bottom was moving all around because I was on a ROLLING OTTOMAN.
For anyone inclined, like me, for the fun game of catch-me-if-you-can, a rolling ottoman is the worst temptation. My arms pushed and pulled me across the living room. My legs scissored up and down, trying to gain momentum. The belt struck lower and lower on my thighs (which earned me equally sharp words).
I learned two things from this experience:
1. I need a stationary ottoman — one that is high enough for proper presentation.
2. Time to bust out the roller skates. If I’m going to move, I better move fast.

*Faster than that unfortunate girl, apparently.


29 May

It was his frightfully solicitous tone — for a man typically so blunt — that told me my doom was now rather than later.
I poured fresh beer and returned to the kitchen where I loudly dropped the bottle opener in the drawer, which I then promptly slammed. When he appeared at my side and asked if there was anything he could do to help, I knew what was really being offered. It didn’t have anything to do with preparing dinner, a task I resentfully completed after rudely refusing his assistance.
The only help I needed was a spanking, but I wasn’t ready to admit it yet.
In truth, everything I did that day was tinged with resentment. Hating my tone, my body language, I couldn’t stop them. I was possessed by anger. I blamed it on hormones, stress, anything to shift the accountability.
With resignation, I cleaned up the dinner plates, rejoined him in the living room and asked him to please pause the movie — forcing myself to finally be polite. I took his hand and asked him to join me in the bedroom, closing the door behind us.

“I have been rude and grumpy,” I acknowledged in a stammer. “Could you please…spank me?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he said, his demeanor instantly shifting from the solicitous stranger to the Dom I knew. This was familiar ground, a certainty that soothed my resentment.
“Pants off and over the end of the bed,” he ordered as he placed pillows over the foot board. “Your behavior this weekend has been…well, it’s been pretty awful, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry,” I answered, already hearing the tears in my voice. I bent over the pillows with my hands clasped before me, as if in prayer.
With the removal of his belt, instincts told me that there would be little benefit of a warm-up. My instincts rarely fail me.

I may have asked for this, but what happened after was completely up to him. I accepted his hand, briefly, and then his belt. I accepted the strap. Finally, yes, I accepted the cane. It was hard and fast, punishing and cleansing. Despite my difficulty in maintaining position, it was all that we needed it to be.
My regret deepened with the color of my bottom. Every horrid comment, petulant shrug of my shoulders, stomp and huff were accounted for; each thwap and groan echoed in the room like forgiveness until there were no hard feelings left, no anger.
It was just us — the way we are, the way we should be.

The (Mis)adventures of a Spankoholic

23 May

My gut told me not to allow it.
We had guests — guests with one small, curious child. But they were on the other side of the house, presumably asleep, with their doors closed. Surely they wouldn’t hear if I kept my muffled reactions to a minimum, right?
It turns out there is no way to muffle the tell-tale sounds of a hand meeting flesh.
The first thing out of the little girl’s mouth was, “What was all that clapping? It sounded like this…” And then she excitedly clapped her little hands together. “What was that? It woke me up.”
Clap, clap, clap.
“Just like that,” she continued. Clap, clap, clap.
What was that?, my eyes implored D, as my face heated up. An excuse was given about the adventuring of D’s cat. If she were to repeat it, no adult would believe the far-fetched tale of an acrobatic feline, particularly if they heard the “clapping” from their own bed.

As she left with her parents later that day, her parting words were, “All that clapping was SILLY! What a goofy cat!”
Clap, clap, clap.

Flashback Friday: I got stripes

20 May
Borrowing from American Spanking Society’s idea of Flashback Fridays, I will repost an entry from approximately one year prior. Hope you enjoy the trip down Memory Lane as much as I do!

It’s inexplicable, this recent addiction to Johnny Cash. I’ve always been a fan and I have a vinyl collection to prove it; but lately, I find Cash songs stuck in my head on an almost daily basis. The one that I’ve been humming since Friday night? “I’ve got stripes”:

On a monday I was ar-rested (uh huh)
on a Tuesday they locked me in the jail (oh boy)
on a Wednesday my trial was at-tested
on a Thursday they said guilty & the judge’s gavel fell
I got stripes – stripes around my shoulders
I got chains – chains around my feet
I got stripes – stripes around my shoulders
and them chains – them chains they’re about to drag me down

Except for me: I got stripes, stripes upon my sit spots/I got stripes, stripes upon my cheeks. I just hope I don’t sing it out loud.
The implement? Another crop: evil, inflexible, and cane-like, it was dressed in an innocuous, cheery pink nylon from Fleck. The reaction? Air hissing through my teeth, knees buckling after each stroke, it made an impact.
For a spanko, it’s difficult to find an actual physical punishment. But this was another job well done! (Please don’t mistake that as encouragement for a repeat session!)

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.

Respect the Red

18 May

There is a subtle difference between a complete stop and a rolling stop. Legally speaking, it can be as little as 1 mph.
I won’t say how fast my rolling stop was, but my wheels kept turning at an undisclosed speed, right through the red traffic signal, right in front of a parked police car.
Flashing lights, a stern lecture, and a suitably chastened Pink later, I was free to go, without a ticket.
That would have been the end of this story had I kept my mouth shut. But, no, I had to gloat. I am partially gloating here, too, to all of you. Aren’t I fortunate? I must be blessed.
Getting pulled over and released without a fine is something to brag about — to everyone but the one who will hold you accountable, that is.
“You put yourself under the authority of another man and yourself in danger. You need to be spanked for this. I’ll be there tonight,” the message blinked at me from my work computer.
Prepare to be punished, Pink, I thought, with dampening apprehension.
History has shown that there is no amount of cleavage, blushing, or batting of the lashes that will dissuade D. I can’t look at him shyly and say, “I have a great record. Can’t we just overlook it this one time? Please?”
Because I ignored the red, I’ll be embracing it tonight — in approximately one hour thirty minutes.
Traffic fines are a bitch, aren’t they?

Whip Tip Flop

16 May
It was inevitable.
The girl who boasted of never meeting an implement she didn’t like can no longer make that claim.
I approached this toy from Eden Fantasys, the adult toy retailer, with the same nervous excitement as I greet any new addition. It was whippy. It was croppy. It was the Whip Tip Crop, and it looked like a stinger.

Made of black leather, it looks just like it sounds: a crop-style shaft that finishes in a whip tip of thin, nylon rope. Chosen from Eden’s Bondage Toys selection, it had great reviews.
After an appetizer replete with hand and belt, it was time to test this toy out. True to its appearance, it stung. And it stung some more. The level of sting never fluctuated, no matter how softly or harshly it was used. The whip tip isn’t long enough to offer a variety of sensations but instead it felt like the same-sized bee stinging my bottom repeatedly. If you enjoy just plain sting — and this girl doesn’t — then you might like this implement.
Perhaps it would be better as a crop?

We dove in only to find that the whip tip wraps if it is used as a crop. After a few swishes and cracks, my body cried ‘Uncle’ — my unprotected hip bones not designed to absorb pain quite like my generous bottom. D, as an experienced connoisseur, has a stern “no wrapping” rule as well, so he quickly abandoned the experiment amid my cries of genuine discomfort.
What did that devious Dom reach for next, to appease both of us?
The cane. Yes, that one. All 40 inches of it.
One way or another, it appeared as though I was going to earn my stripes that night. Six blazing strokes to the rescue, and the evening was saved — earning me new bragging rights.

Tears Into Moans

16 May
It happens between a trembled inhale and a gasped exhale. That quickly, I’ve changed my mind:
I want this.
No longer wishing to escape the bite of the cane, I begin to move with the rhythm of my sobs, trying to catch and hold the growing heat. My pillow grows wetter with tears; my thighs grow damper with need.

I rise onto my toes, getting closer. To the cane? To him? They are a pair. Like the sweet agony of a loose tooth, I wriggle and writhe with the pain, pushing harder against it.
I cannot stop these compulsive undulations, so I ride them.
I’d fuse my bottom to his hips now, if I could. The aching to become relief, the tears to become moans — I’d float with him as my anchor.

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