Archive | vanilla meets kink RSS feed for this section

Eenie, meeny, miny, moe…is my coworker a spanko?

25 Jul

“Hey, brat.”
 
It was the coworker who said this — the coworker who I pegged as a Dominant based solely on a few exchanged pleasantries.
 
Being called a brat in a professional setting, when I had done nothing (had I?) to warrant such a label, was…curious. What made him call me a brat? Why that word? Does he know about me?
 
Or is “brat” like a schoolgirl uniform, a red herring, in that even vanillas can employ the use of it on an adult woman?
 
I’m sure I blushed. Almost positive. I know that I responded with a cheeky, “Good afternoon, Sir,” to which he was quite pleased. Definitely pleased.
 
Because my spankdar is notoriously off — tending to believe that any attractive male with nice hands is “one of us” — I pose this question to you:
 
Given that I have never displayed an outwardly bratty behavior in the workplace, is he a member of the club?
 

It’s the Spankings, Isn’t It?

10 Jun

I should mention that I was with my mother.
 
For once, spanking was the furthest from my mind. I was intently shopping for a last-minute gift for someone who I would rather not give anything to. Those kinds of gifts are hard, right? You’re giving it out of obligation, but you don’t want it to scream, “Obligatory gift!” Giving a sharp stick is rarely an option.
 
We were in the card-buying phase of the fiasco when I found this:
 

 
So I did what any self-respecting spanko who was out shopping with her mother would do.
 

 
I bought two.
 

Blonde Technology

27 May

How blonde is this? I write about a butt shot and I post a boob shot.


It’s one thing to show a fellow spanko a picture of your butt. It’s like a handshake among some of us: “Nice to meet you. Here’s my tush.”
 
It’s quite another to accidentally post that photo — all pink and shiny in its tenderness — on a vanilla forum.
 
You didn’t!
 
Yes, I did.
 
My naked, spanked butt is still there. Having unsuccessfully searched for a delete option, I instead moved it from the first page by uploading as many vanilla-friendly photos as I could find. (Note to self: you are in possession of only 19 vanilla photos.)
 
The worst part?
 
It wasn’t even my best angle.
 

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.
 
Meow.
 

The Spank Felt ‘Round the World

11 May

A girl, a toy, and a voice on the phone.


How many times have I swung my own implement while a voice on the phone commanded, “Harder! Faster!”?
 
I shall never tell (aka, “more than I’ll ever admit”). But I will say this: it takes a lot of wrist strength to keep the session going strong — and a lot of willpower not to swap your bottom with a raw steak…not that I’ve done that.
 
I predict an alternative to those of us who find themselves in long-distance spanking relationships.
 
Our Japanese friends have created something…odd: a kissing machine that transmits your partner’s tongue movements from afar. He parries left; she dodges right. It’s kissing without that nasty business of germ-sharing.
 

 
Full article here.
 
You know where I’m going with this, right?
 
It will only be a matter of time before a spanko, far more brilliant than I, invents a spanking machine that can be controlled via computer. The closest thing is this, a program that delivers spankings from as near or far as necessary with a click of the mouse.
 

Who needs X-ray impulses when we have technology?

 
This would be different in a big way — both spanker and spankee would play their parts. The spanker would swing his paddle (much like a Wii tennis racket) and the trembling receiver would feel it with her own machine hundreds of miles away. The spanker hits harder; the spankee lets out a yowl of discomfort.
 
So get to it, my entrepreneurial friends. Although, I’m not sure which would embarrass me more: a spanking by my own hand or one powered by a man in Timbuktu?
 
Either way, a steak sounds tasty.

First Day at the Office

12 Jan

An embarrassing revelation. Courtesy of Lamebook.com.


I need your help. I do not want to be like Brandi and accidentally out myself as the new, kinklicious member of the office. You see, after a long indulgence of working from home, I rejoin the 9-5ers tomorrow. If you have been paying any attention to this blog, you’ll have noticed that my “filter” is slightly off-kilter.
 
Perhaps you can assist in determining the difference between acceptable and unacceptable office behavior so I can avoid an embarrassing slip-up until at least my second week of employment?
 
My new boss has a wonderful set of manicured, strong hands.

Is it ok if, while imagining what those hands could do, I innocently ask if he does a lot of work with them while my eyes undress his lean forearms encased in button-down cotton?
 
When I make my first inevitable mistake (everyone does, right?) would it be appropriate to grip the edge of the desk and expectantly bend in preparation for the stern reprimand?

Obviously, I would not flip up my own skirt. That would be presumptive and uncouth. I may be lacking frontal lobe activity thanks to my long sojourn, but I do still have manners.
 
By lunch, I will be dying to return to my happy world of blogginess. Would logging in to The Pink Report be career suicide?

What if I devised this sort of contraption? Nobody would suspect a thing.
 
Finally, we come to the question that is really weighing on me. During orientation, there will be the obligatory training on sexual harassment procedures.

Should I bring cake?
 

Whip It!

4 Jan

Beat it. Make your submission. Turn the cheek. Explore every crack and crevice. Bottoms up. Deliver a spanking. Yes, Sir. Smack it around. Called to the carpet. Hands are tied. On bended knee.
 
In every setting there are certain key phrases that immediately loosen my insides, have me wetting my lips, thinking of the next time I will find myself over a set of knees. The frequency of these phrases in newspapers, magazines, and online vanilla forums is startling and, as a result, my days are spent in heightened lust and a distracted concentration as I muddle through with often damp panties.
 

Sexy human anatomy drawer by Peter Rolfe Sculptural Furniture


Kitchens with drawers of possibilities, even something as straight forward as water (for wet bottom spanking, of course), set my nerves on edge. In every home, office and store, there is always a trigger that whips my spankohood into overdrive.
 
In the textiles department, I think of carpet beaters and sheets that would feel lovely tied to my wrists. In the sporting goods department, aisles are packed with pool noodles (yes, those styrofoam things!), ping pong paddles and boat straps. In the shoe department, there are shoe horns and leather shoe laces. It’s a spanko wonderland out there, limited only by our imaginations.
 

Someone asked me once if I was obsessed with spanking. Even the definition — “the domination of one’s thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, desire” — triggers my spankdar. “Domination” and “desire” in one sentence, to me, can mean only one thing: spanking. So, the answer, dear readers, is truly in the question.
 
Does that mean that I am consumed by my desires? “A slave” to them, so to speak? I’d like to say no, but that would not be the whole truth. My desires, like a steady stream of electricity, are always underlying, easily transformed from dormant to active at the “flip of a switch”.

Revelation

8 Dec

In my group of friends, I’ve always been known as the sexually charged one.
 
As open as I am within that tight-knit group, I’ve only hinted at my kinkiness, leaving them with the impression that I’m “dirty” and “uninhibited” in bed.
 
During a girls’ night years ago, I bemoaned my dwindling sex life after my boyfriend moved in. “We’re only doing it five times a week,” I complained.
 
Looking back, I understand why they rolled their eyes. I sounded like the nympho Samantha from Sex and the City.

 
I once told them how I’d made a teen cashier do a price check on KY jelly. (I may have scarred the boy for life, but it was a $2 difference!) That story led to uncomfortable questions and confessions about “butt sex”, as they eloquently put it.
 
When my best friend from college’s even more straight-laced sister was relocated for work, she stayed with me for a few months. Accustomed to living alone, I unwittingly left my water-proof vibrator on the edge of the Jacuzzi tub after a particularly bubbly session. She told her sister about it, and after an awkward laugh, my friend became acquainted with the fact that I owned more than one pleasure tool.
 
Those things I can admit. But I could never direct them to The Pink Report. They don’t need to know that much about me.
 

One night though, I spilled my secret spanking desire to one of my closest friends.
 
As she described her Halloween costume — a naughty schoolgirl uniform, complete with regulation panties — I inwardly rejoiced at the thought of a kindred spirit within my group. Aren’t schoolgirl uniforms particular to our kink?
 
Fueled with Bloody Marys, I blurted, “Do you like to be spanked?”
 
I instantly knew the answer was no. The look on her face was not one of mortification at a secret revealed, but one of utter confusion.

 
Instead of abandoning my cause, I bumbled forward.
 
“‘Cuz, you know, the whole thing with ‘naughty’ schoolgirls…they usually need spankings.”
 
“You mean, during sex?” She asked, still perplexed. “Yeah, I like a few spanks while he’s doing me from behind. Do you?”
 
This, again, would have been a good time to abandon the subject.
 
“Oh yeah,” I said, insistent on revealing myself. “But not just during sex.”

 
Awkward pause.
 
“I have a video if you’d like to see…,” I offered, quickly adding, “I mean, um, not of me. But a video that I like.”
 
You could hear the ticking of my mantel clock while she pretended to consider it, her lips twisting in discomfort.
 
“Nooo. But I am into asphyxiation,” she said, high on her own confession.
 
Oh my god, I thought. She is way more extreme than I am!

 
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll keep your secret if you’ll keep mine.”
 
As it turns out, you never really know what your friends, even the best of them, do behind closed doors.
 
And I rather like it that way.

If she only knew…

25 Oct

The other day my mom and I were discussing a horrible news article, about something I will not mention here, which prompted her to show me exactly where a spanking should take place.

“Here, on the fleshy part and on the undersides of the cheek. NEVER above the tailbone,” She instructed, demonstrating first on herself and then, to my horror, on me.

“Ummm….yes, mother.”

Flexibility and Confidence

11 Sep

I recently completed an online assessment for a potential employer. I scored to the far right of the curve on every test (an excellent thing), except for one.

According to the assessment, I am entirely too flexible, scoring on the far left. And I have an over-inflated sense of self, which suggests the computer knows what my sense of self should be. (I think I am appropriately impressed and dismayed with myself as the situation warrants, but that could just be my inflation talking.)

What if I had batted my eyes and said, “My Dom appreciates that flexibility. He knows I’m up for anything. Anything. Even if I think I’m too good for it.”

Yeah. I might not have gotten the job. Or…perhaps a pay increase would have been in order?

%d bloggers like this: