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Today I am celebrating. Because I am independent, I willingly relinquish more. Because I am independent, I can choose to whom I give myself.
in·de·pen·dent
1. Not governed by a foreign power; self-governing: I am Mistress of my bedtime. I can do what I want.
2. Free from the influence, guidance, or control of another or others; self-reliant: Being of a strong mind and able body, I have confidence in my decisions and actions.
3. Not relying on others for support, care, or funds; self-supporting: I am nobody’s kept woman. If I want something enough, I’ll find a way to make it happen, by myself.
de·pen·dent:
1. To rely, especially for support or maintenance: The difference between a bad day and a good day often lies in the power of his hands against my cheeks. His shoulder delivers me from danger to safety.
2. To place trust or confidence: I will render myself helpless at his feet to feel the power of my trust.
3. To be determined, conditioned, or contingent: The severity of my next spanking is dependent on what he believes we need. It is not my decision. I do not want that power.
I choose to depend on him. I choose it over and over again.
Hooray for independence.
Wear Your Attitude
8 AugWhen this…
meets this…
You get this…
Ah….don’t we all enjoy a happy ending?
Dave, of Cherry Red Report fame, continues his epic win-ness with a line of clothing that is sure to inspire many a happy ending. Introduce your devilish vixen to the behavior modification specialist and see what happens. I’m sure you’ll like the results.
Because we all know that…
Check out all of Dave’s fun, light-hearted creations at The Cherry Red Spreadshirt store. In addition to more overt messages, he has a great selection for those that want to keep their activities a little more undercover.
“Undercover”, that is, until the pants come down.
Read this post at my new place.
(In)dependence
4 Jul
Today I am celebrating. Because I am independent, I willingly relinquish more. Because I am independent, I can choose to whom I give myself.
in·de·pen·dent
1. Not governed by a foreign power; self-governing: I am Mistress of my bedtime. I can do what I want.
2. Free from the influence, guidance, or control of another or others; self-reliant: Being of a strong mind and able body, I have confidence in my decisions and actions.
3. Not relying on others for support, care, or funds; self-supporting: I am nobody’s kept woman. If I want something enough, I’ll find a way to make it happen, by myself.
de·pen·dent:
1. To rely, especially for support or maintenance: The difference between a bad day and a good day often lies in the power of his hands against my cheeks. His shoulder delivers me from danger to safety.
2. To place trust or confidence: I will render myself helpless at his feet to feel the power of my trust.
3. To be determined, conditioned, or contingent: The severity of my next spanking is dependent on what he believes we need. It is not my decision. I do not want that power.
I choose to depend on him. I choose it over and over again.
Hooray for independence.
Thank You
21 JunThank you to so many who expressed concern over my last posting. Your support is invaluable to me. I took the post down because I didn’t want it here. I’m not hiding from it, but I need a place where I can think of other things. This is my place.
A new post will be up shortly — business as usual.
A new post will be up shortly — business as usual.
Flashback Friday: Kitchen Revelation
10 Jun
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!
I may speculate about a number of things, but the sex lives of my relatives is usually not among them. I mean, not really. I don’t want details. I assume they all have sex and I hope they enjoy it, but imagining my great-uncle boning my great-aunt is not a healthy image for me to carry around.
Admittedly, this question has fleetingly occurred to me: spanko, or no? Not that I would tip my hand and actually ask them.
A few years ago, I received a definitive answer regarding one southern aunt.
We were in her kitchen, finishing lunch preparations. She bent to look into the oven, checking the pizza, and asked, “Can you get the paddle out of the drawer, please?”
I stopped tearing the lettuce momentarily, trying to understand what she meant.
“Paddle?” I asked, my tone dropping instinctively.
“Oh…er…umm….spatula. The spatula. Should be on the top,” she corrected, a tiny bit flustered.
Now….
I have a dirty mind, granted. But is that not a sure tell? Who says “paddle” instead of “spatula”? And furthermore, who knows that their “paddle” is right on top?
Is my aunt a spanko? I think that’s an affirmative. And I find myself watching my p’s and q’s around her a bit more closely, not for fear of the spatula, but because I don’t want to betray my own, closely guarded secret.
And I wonder, who else among my clan has these desires?
Well, I don’t wonder that much.
I may speculate about a number of things, but the sex lives of my relatives is usually not among them. I mean, not really. I don’t want details. I assume they all have sex and I hope they enjoy it, but imagining my great-uncle boning my great-aunt is not a healthy image for me to carry around.
Admittedly, this question has fleetingly occurred to me: spanko, or no? Not that I would tip my hand and actually ask them.
A few years ago, I received a definitive answer regarding one southern aunt.
We were in her kitchen, finishing lunch preparations. She bent to look into the oven, checking the pizza, and asked, “Can you get the paddle out of the drawer, please?”I stopped tearing the lettuce momentarily, trying to understand what she meant.
“Paddle?” I asked, my tone dropping instinctively.
“Oh…er…umm….spatula. The spatula. Should be on the top,” she corrected, a tiny bit flustered.
Now….
I have a dirty mind, granted. But is that not a sure tell? Who says “paddle” instead of “spatula”? And furthermore, who knows that their “paddle” is right on top?
Is my aunt a spanko? I think that’s an affirmative. And I find myself watching my p’s and q’s around her a bit more closely, not for fear of the spatula, but because I don’t want to betray my own, closely guarded secret.
And I wonder, who else among my clan has these desires?
Well, I don’t wonder that much.
Ginger, Kissing Girls, and a Secret Crush…
8 Jun…all revealed at Blossom and Thorn. I talk, and talk, and talk…
A big thank you to Season and Michael for their excellent interview questions and honoring me with their invitation.
I accidentally, on purpose, referred to myself as a “blog slut” and someone didn’t appreciate that term. My prediction at the beginning of the interview was correct: I will be needing that pillow!
Go have a read.
A big thank you to Season and Michael for their excellent interview questions and honoring me with their invitation.
I accidentally, on purpose, referred to myself as a “blog slut” and someone didn’t appreciate that term. My prediction at the beginning of the interview was correct: I will be needing that pillow!
Go have a read.
The Pants Bully
12 May
They are my favorite: dressy black, bun-hugging pants that fit snug through the thighs and end in swishy elegance at my feet. I know they look good — and it shows in the way that I walk, the extra oomph in my hips, my calculated movements to draw his eyes to the prize.
He says, “I’m going to enjoy wearing out the seat of those pants.”
Excuse me, but these pants? He wants to spank these pants into thin threads of their original glory?
I’m not thrilled with that threat.
But these pants…they are irresistible.
Forget pants preservation. It is futile, I realize, as he yanks me by the waistband and hauls me over his knee. Then, as in a playground scuffle, he takes the first swing, waits for the rebound and swings again. On and on it goes.
Minutes later, the dust clears. My pants, so delicate and perfect, cower limply on the floor.
The pants bully wins again.
He says, “I’m going to enjoy wearing out the seat of those pants.”
Excuse me, but these pants? He wants to spank these pants into thin threads of their original glory?
I’m not thrilled with that threat.
But these pants…they are irresistible.
Forget pants preservation. It is futile, I realize, as he yanks me by the waistband and hauls me over his knee. Then, as in a playground scuffle, he takes the first swing, waits for the rebound and swings again. On and on it goes.
Minutes later, the dust clears. My pants, so delicate and perfect, cower limply on the floor.
The pants bully wins again.
Flashback Friday: Pull My Trigger
6 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 a quirk of the eyebrows, a slight pull of the lips, a pause, a sigh, a hand run through his hair in exasperation. There are so many things that pull my trigger, get me hot, that it’s hard to discern all of the separate ingredients that make a sexy exchange. Altogether, I feel like a well-chastened bug zapper waiting to crackle and pop, my sparks sending waves of hair-raising energy to anyone fortunate enough to be near.
So I offer you a brief list of the things that are creamy, dreamy, and just plain steamy:
1. The mechanics of sleeve rolling, slow and deliberate, with eye contact and a steady determination that indicates the plan in mind requires some elbow grease;
2. The jangle of a belt buckle. I swear I have sonar for this. The erotic clank-and-ring raise goose-flesh from the other room;
3. “And what do you think we need to do about this, young lady?” Let’s start by wringing out my panties, Sir;
4. Pulling out an armless chair, letting it drag across the carpet to the center of the room; the slide of the wooden legs to their destination are like nails across my belly, a nipple-tightening sensation that makes my thighs quiver and my mouth go dry;
5. Grabbing a knuckle-full of my hair without warning while issuing a direct and short stare before releasing me, a reminder that, at any time, I am his;
6. Asking for it, my hands clasped before me, my bottom lip pulled in between my teeth, my gaze betraying the passion and need inside, my voice direct yet shy;
7. The simplicity of a gentle pat on my bottom in public, a signal of tenderness and reassurance wrapped in the heat of a promise;
8. An early phone call, “tonight you will be spanked,” and all of the other details are kept purposely vague, inspiring my mind to work its creative story-telling ability to develop a hot, hot scene;
9. Inspection before making an over-the-knee trip, instructing me to drop my jeans and stand, motionless before him while he caresses my bottom first with his eyes and then with his hands;
10. The surprise attack: a sudden unsnapping of my jeans, strong hands pushing me over the kitchen table, the yank of my panties to my knees for a short and quick, spontaneous session that is as hard as it is desired.
Hmmm….now excuse me while I go celebrate May, National Masturbation Month.
It’s a quirk of the eyebrows, a slight pull of the lips, a pause, a sigh, a hand run through his hair in exasperation. There are so many things that pull my trigger, get me hot, that it’s hard to discern all of the separate ingredients that make a sexy exchange. Altogether, I feel like a well-chastened bug zapper waiting to crackle and pop, my sparks sending waves of hair-raising energy to anyone fortunate enough to be near.
So I offer you a brief list of the things that are creamy, dreamy, and just plain steamy:
1. The mechanics of sleeve rolling, slow and deliberate, with eye contact and a steady determination that indicates the plan in mind requires some elbow grease;
2. The jangle of a belt buckle. I swear I have sonar for this. The erotic clank-and-ring raise goose-flesh from the other room;
3. “And what do you think we need to do about this, young lady?” Let’s start by wringing out my panties, Sir;
4. Pulling out an armless chair, letting it drag across the carpet to the center of the room; the slide of the wooden legs to their destination are like nails across my belly, a nipple-tightening sensation that makes my thighs quiver and my mouth go dry;
5. Grabbing a knuckle-full of my hair without warning while issuing a direct and short stare before releasing me, a reminder that, at any time, I am his;6. Asking for it, my hands clasped before me, my bottom lip pulled in between my teeth, my gaze betraying the passion and need inside, my voice direct yet shy;
7. The simplicity of a gentle pat on my bottom in public, a signal of tenderness and reassurance wrapped in the heat of a promise;
8. An early phone call, “tonight you will be spanked,” and all of the other details are kept purposely vague, inspiring my mind to work its creative story-telling ability to develop a hot, hot scene;
9. Inspection before making an over-the-knee trip, instructing me to drop my jeans and stand, motionless before him while he caresses my bottom first with his eyes and then with his hands;
10. The surprise attack: a sudden unsnapping of my jeans, strong hands pushing me over the kitchen table, the yank of my panties to my knees for a short and quick, spontaneous session that is as hard as it is desired.
Hmmm….now excuse me while I go celebrate May, National Masturbation Month.
Flashback Friday: May is Masturbation Month
29 Apr
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!
Let’s talk orgasms.
February 14, 1999, at approximately 10:00 pm, I experienced my very first toe-curling, leg-jellying, vision-clouding orgasm and now they’re as necessary for me as coffee in the morning. The specifics of that night will be as indelible as my college graduation, the day I learned to skip, the day I got my driver’s license. They’re that vivid.
Recently released from a disaster of a relationship, I decided to satisfy my curiosity once and for all. Had I orgasmed before? I thought I had, but it wasn’t earth-shaking like Johanna Lindsey (of romance story fame) described in her smutty books. People always said, “if you have one, you’ll KNOW!”, but I found that people often exaggerate their sexual exploits.
So, on Valentine’s Day, alone and happy to be so, I hopped down to our local sex shop, paid my dollar entry fee and described to the worker what I needed, while trying without success to keep my blushing at bay. I needed knowledge! I needed experience! I needed to CUM! Hard!
So he led me to the wall. The wall of pleasurable toys and assorted naughtiness. The cum wall. And after discussing the virtues of one over the other, I made my decision: a small, white, battery-operated vibrator that had a whole lot of power. I could hardly wait to get home.
Comfortable in my bed with a movie playing softly on my TV (“Run Lola run” will always hold a special place in my heart), I twisted the head of my new companion and tentatively let him vibrate against my clit. I would get close, and then back it away, trying to savor the pleasure in the “just before”, and then work it some more. It took less than 10 minutes to understand the mystery of the elusive O.
It rocked me. It shocked me. I gasped and clutched my comforter and, in a voice I did not recognize as my own, moaned and swore like I never had before with my partners. I learned the various angles, the right pressure, the balance between greed and self-control.
I went through 6 batteries that first night. The next day I bought a value pack.
Since then, I wouldn’t say that I’m a masturbation addict; I much prefer the presence of a cock and some fingers…and a tongue, perhaps combined with a dildo. (Okay, so I’m an ORGASM addict.) More importantly, I know when I’m close. I know how to get there and I can even provide directions.
Hooray for masturbation!
Let’s talk orgasms.
February 14, 1999, at approximately 10:00 pm, I experienced my very first toe-curling, leg-jellying, vision-clouding orgasm and now they’re as necessary for me as coffee in the morning. The specifics of that night will be as indelible as my college graduation, the day I learned to skip, the day I got my driver’s license. They’re that vivid.
Recently released from a disaster of a relationship, I decided to satisfy my curiosity once and for all. Had I orgasmed before? I thought I had, but it wasn’t earth-shaking like Johanna Lindsey (of romance story fame) described in her smutty books. People always said, “if you have one, you’ll KNOW!”, but I found that people often exaggerate their sexual exploits.
So, on Valentine’s Day, alone and happy to be so, I hopped down to our local sex shop, paid my dollar entry fee and described to the worker what I needed, while trying without success to keep my blushing at bay. I needed knowledge! I needed experience! I needed to CUM! Hard!
So he led me to the wall. The wall of pleasurable toys and assorted naughtiness. The cum wall. And after discussing the virtues of one over the other, I made my decision: a small, white, battery-operated vibrator that had a whole lot of power. I could hardly wait to get home.
Comfortable in my bed with a movie playing softly on my TV (“Run Lola run” will always hold a special place in my heart), I twisted the head of my new companion and tentatively let him vibrate against my clit. I would get close, and then back it away, trying to savor the pleasure in the “just before”, and then work it some more. It took less than 10 minutes to understand the mystery of the elusive O.
It rocked me. It shocked me. I gasped and clutched my comforter and, in a voice I did not recognize as my own, moaned and swore like I never had before with my partners. I learned the various angles, the right pressure, the balance between greed and self-control.
I went through 6 batteries that first night. The next day I bought a value pack.
Since then, I wouldn’t say that I’m a masturbation addict; I much prefer the presence of a cock and some fingers…and a tongue, perhaps combined with a dildo. (Okay, so I’m an ORGASM addict.) More importantly, I know when I’m close. I know how to get there and I can even provide directions.
Hooray for masturbation!
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