Yesterday would have been a good time to install that lock on the door.
All I Hear is Music
21 Jan
“Come here, young lady,” you say, while patting your knees.
All I hear is music, a steady rhythm that pulsates through my veins. It is a tune I recognize, a wistful plucking as the melody begins, and my body hums along.
Your hand lands against my cheeks.
As the pain begins to register, we start to sing the chorus: how sweet the sound.
I now am found, and my body sings along.
You attach my hands to the bed.
I am anchored here, watching you remove your belt. Our eyes lock before you begin, my heart skipping in a moment of fear, before I give myself over to the beat once again. We climb to our crescendo.
I know this song; I know no fear.
Around my eyes you tie a strip of fabric.
I am blind, but now I see. I do not need light to feel your grace; I do not need eyes to hear our song. In the darkness, I rise and fall with your fingers as they strum the decrescendo, the colors still vivid and strong in the lingering silence.
I am safe. You lead me home.
All I hear is music, a steady rhythm that pulsates through my veins. It is a tune I recognize, a wistful plucking as the melody begins, and my body hums along.
Your hand lands against my cheeks.
As the pain begins to register, we start to sing the chorus: how sweet the sound.
I now am found, and my body sings along.
You attach my hands to the bed.
I am anchored here, watching you remove your belt. Our eyes lock before you begin, my heart skipping in a moment of fear, before I give myself over to the beat once again. We climb to our crescendo.
I know this song; I know no fear.
Around my eyes you tie a strip of fabric.
I am blind, but now I see. I do not need light to feel your grace; I do not need eyes to hear our song. In the darkness, I rise and fall with your fingers as they strum the decrescendo, the colors still vivid and strong in the lingering silence.
I am safe. You lead me home.
Wet, White Tee
19 Jan
Anyone with eyes knows what happens to nipples in a wet, white tee. Anyone with tits knows exactly how to use a shirt like that to her advantage.
I “forgot” my bathing suit, again.
Don’t tell him, but I secretly enjoy the feeling of spontaneity, of roughing it with the shirt he provides. Of course he chooses white, out of the wide assortment of colorful, manly cotton in his possession.
A plain, white tee.
There’s a science to wetting it. You might be inclined to put your whole body in the hot tub, all at once, attempting to warm yourself from the short journey across the deck in the 18º air.
But wait.
You don’t just dunk, going from dry to wet immediately. No. You let the tee gradually absorb the water, the dampness crawling from ribcage to the undersides of your breasts.
It is the slowest, wettest strip tease. And you don’t even have to undress.
The fabric molds against your curves. You feel its heavy cling and you pretend not to notice his eyes lingering there. You pretend not to notice that your shirt is wet at all, instead sipping your drink nonchalantly and inching your toes up his thigh while maintaining normal conversation.
Dip your nipples in quickly, as if by accident. Let him see them. Let him see you notice his intent gaze. Just as quickly, submerge yourself to your shoulders, play a game of hide-and-seek.
How long do you think it will take him to pull you onto his lap so he can palm your tits, rolling your diamond nipples between thumb and forefinger? Two minutes?
I bet less. I bet in one minute you will find yourself straddling his thighs, cotton-clad breasts pressed just under his chin. If you are lucky, he’ll seek the taste of cotton, choosing to suckle your stiff peaks, pulling them between his teeth. If you’re very lucky, his free hand will knead your previously tenderized bottom, the heat from the tub blurring the distinction between pleasure and pain even more.
And if he’s very, very lucky, when the two of you emerge from the water, you will keep that wet, white tee on just long enough to appreciate all of its effects.
I “forgot” my bathing suit, again.
Don’t tell him, but I secretly enjoy the feeling of spontaneity, of roughing it with the shirt he provides. Of course he chooses white, out of the wide assortment of colorful, manly cotton in his possession.
A plain, white tee.
There’s a science to wetting it. You might be inclined to put your whole body in the hot tub, all at once, attempting to warm yourself from the short journey across the deck in the 18º air.
But wait.
You don’t just dunk, going from dry to wet immediately. No. You let the tee gradually absorb the water, the dampness crawling from ribcage to the undersides of your breasts.
It is the slowest, wettest strip tease. And you don’t even have to undress.
The fabric molds against your curves. You feel its heavy cling and you pretend not to notice his eyes lingering there. You pretend not to notice that your shirt is wet at all, instead sipping your drink nonchalantly and inching your toes up his thigh while maintaining normal conversation.
Dip your nipples in quickly, as if by accident. Let him see them. Let him see you notice his intent gaze. Just as quickly, submerge yourself to your shoulders, play a game of hide-and-seek.
How long do you think it will take him to pull you onto his lap so he can palm your tits, rolling your diamond nipples between thumb and forefinger? Two minutes?
I bet less. I bet in one minute you will find yourself straddling his thighs, cotton-clad breasts pressed just under his chin. If you are lucky, he’ll seek the taste of cotton, choosing to suckle your stiff peaks, pulling them between his teeth. If you’re very lucky, his free hand will knead your previously tenderized bottom, the heat from the tub blurring the distinction between pleasure and pain even more.
And if he’s very, very lucky, when the two of you emerge from the water, you will keep that wet, white tee on just long enough to appreciate all of its effects.
The Hustler
17 Jan
With the precision of a pool hall hustler, D calls his shot.
“Sit-spot, linear bruise, corner of right cheek,” he predicts, as I brace myself for the intense thwap of the crop. I hiss my complaint, my thighs instinctively squeeze together, as the searing stroke brands me.
Kissing the prescribed area, punctuating his tenderness with a firm swat to my already blazing cheeks, D’s pride is evident in his next statement.
“Yes. That should serve as a reminder for a few days.”
A talent like his should not go to waste. He can spank me for hours with his whole arsenal of implements, and I would be just as fair-skinned in the morning.
But on nights like this, when he channels Paul Newman, he effortlessly makes it clear who owns this game — who owns me.
“Sit-spot, linear bruise, corner of right cheek,” he predicts, as I brace myself for the intense thwap of the crop. I hiss my complaint, my thighs instinctively squeeze together, as the searing stroke brands me.
Kissing the prescribed area, punctuating his tenderness with a firm swat to my already blazing cheeks, D’s pride is evident in his next statement.
“Yes. That should serve as a reminder for a few days.”
A talent like his should not go to waste. He can spank me for hours with his whole arsenal of implements, and I would be just as fair-skinned in the morning.
But on nights like this, when he channels Paul Newman, he effortlessly makes it clear who owns this game — who owns me.
The 200th Kiss
15 Jan
I was 12 when Matt Harris’ flashlight beam landed on me in the tent.
There were six of us — two girls, four boys — playing the clandestine game of spin the flashlight at the overnight field trip.
I’d never been kissed. I nervously fumbled through it, shocked by his tongue that licked all around my lips, before plunging in an excited deposit of saliva and teeth into my mouth. He smelled like bug spray and tasted like marshmallow.
I was kissed five times by three of the boys before it was Christian’s turn. He was the reason I was in the tent in the first place. All day he’d made my heart flip and my palms sweat. This was the moment.
He leaned forward, his hands on his crossed legs, closed his eyes, and…I bolted. I ran from the group, and straight to the girls’ tent where I dove into my sleeping bag and tried to stop shaking.
Flooded with embarrassment and self-recrimination, I barely heard Caroline return from the boys’ tent a little while later. She didn’t say anything to me that night or the next day, but when we returned to school, the rumors started.
Did you hear that I’m a slut? That Caroline and I took turns giving the boys blow jobs? That she and I shared quite a few kisses by the glow of the flashlight? According to the rumors, it was a veritable orgy in the tent that night.
I didn’t mind the rumors as none of them betrayed the truth: that I had freaked out and ran from the game I hadn’t been ready to play. Being perceived as loose was more favorable to what I really was — a chicken.
The first time D kissed me, I had the same fight-or-flight response. Just moments before his lips met mine, he pushed me against the door, pinning me to prevent escape. Since then, we’ve kissed hundreds of times and I’ve been pulled over his knee a similar number.
We find deeper meaning at each reunion. I still experience butterflies when he orders me to his room and into position. I’m still nervous because, while he’s not constantly pushing me to the next level, the uncertainty of what will pass is still present. He keeps it novel by challenging me, toying with me, and stretching me to my limits, making each experience as hot as the first.
I have grown from that scared girl in the tent 22 years ago. There are still moments when all I want to do is run and hide under the safety of a blanket, when I’m so frantic I think to jump out of my skin. But D keeps me there, building the tension to an apex before finally releasing me, for the first, the fifteenth, the hundredth time and beyond.
I do retain one golden rule from my time in the tent: absolutely, under no circumstance, will there be any face licking. It’s a hard limit.
*All names have been changed.
There were six of us — two girls, four boys — playing the clandestine game of spin the flashlight at the overnight field trip.
I’d never been kissed. I nervously fumbled through it, shocked by his tongue that licked all around my lips, before plunging in an excited deposit of saliva and teeth into my mouth. He smelled like bug spray and tasted like marshmallow.
I was kissed five times by three of the boys before it was Christian’s turn. He was the reason I was in the tent in the first place. All day he’d made my heart flip and my palms sweat. This was the moment.
He leaned forward, his hands on his crossed legs, closed his eyes, and…I bolted. I ran from the group, and straight to the girls’ tent where I dove into my sleeping bag and tried to stop shaking.
Flooded with embarrassment and self-recrimination, I barely heard Caroline return from the boys’ tent a little while later. She didn’t say anything to me that night or the next day, but when we returned to school, the rumors started.
Did you hear that I’m a slut? That Caroline and I took turns giving the boys blow jobs? That she and I shared quite a few kisses by the glow of the flashlight? According to the rumors, it was a veritable orgy in the tent that night.
I didn’t mind the rumors as none of them betrayed the truth: that I had freaked out and ran from the game I hadn’t been ready to play. Being perceived as loose was more favorable to what I really was — a chicken.
The first time D kissed me, I had the same fight-or-flight response. Just moments before his lips met mine, he pushed me against the door, pinning me to prevent escape. Since then, we’ve kissed hundreds of times and I’ve been pulled over his knee a similar number.
We find deeper meaning at each reunion. I still experience butterflies when he orders me to his room and into position. I’m still nervous because, while he’s not constantly pushing me to the next level, the uncertainty of what will pass is still present. He keeps it novel by challenging me, toying with me, and stretching me to my limits, making each experience as hot as the first.
At any moment I could end up like this.
I have grown from that scared girl in the tent 22 years ago. There are still moments when all I want to do is run and hide under the safety of a blanket, when I’m so frantic I think to jump out of my skin. But D keeps me there, building the tension to an apex before finally releasing me, for the first, the fifteenth, the hundredth time and beyond.
I do retain one golden rule from my time in the tent: absolutely, under no circumstance, will there be any face licking. It’s a hard limit.
*All names have been changed.
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?
Calling Liz to the Carpet
11 Jan
Statuesque beauty, Amelia over Dallas' lap
Isn’t it a coups for a man to take a taller woman over his lap and reduce the wriggling giant to apologetic tears? Isn’t there something frighteningly sexy about a petite woman dominating another who, under other circumstances, could squash her under her proud, high-heeled boots?
Renowned author of erotica with her own, inspiring blog Sexuelle, Elizabeth Forster, deemed Amelia Jane Rutherford (that stunning woman of 6’1″) “too big to spank” by anyone less than 6’8″.
I’ve made reference before to my height — just 2″ shy of Amelia’s. Being a tall submissive is hard, with feelings of self-consciousness and the fear that others share Liz’s sentiments that one must be smaller than her spanker.
Given how few men reach the staggering measurements that Liz suggests, girls like Amelia and I would find our lily orbs decidedly neglected if we were to follow Liz’s rule of aesthetics. And the world would be poorer for it.
Because of the deficit of tall spankers, I would hope that when I place my long frame over a shorter man’s knees, he wouldn’t focus on how far my legs and arms hung down, but rather on the joy of having a nice, round bottom to spank. Knowing that I’d be a match in any physical struggle but, instead, choosing to be under his hand, he’d feel secure in his skills as a respectable dominant — size notwithstanding.
I assert that it is not the bulk of the Top that has a tall woman like me submitting, but the strength of his or her will.
What say you, Liz? Shall we test your toppiness with a woman who, by choice, lays her long legs across your lap? Are you, the self-proclaimed “lover of petite things”, top enough to subdue another by the strength of your will alone?
I triple-dog dare you to try.
Please note, I am and will continue to be a big fan of Sexuelle. If you have not yet had the pleasure of peeking into Liz’s delicious thoughts, please do so. You won’t be disappointed.
Renowned author of erotica with her own, inspiring blog Sexuelle, Elizabeth Forster, deemed Amelia Jane Rutherford (that stunning woman of 6’1″) “too big to spank” by anyone less than 6’8″.
The photo that Liz found aesthetically displeasing.
I’ve made reference before to my height — just 2″ shy of Amelia’s. Being a tall submissive is hard, with feelings of self-consciousness and the fear that others share Liz’s sentiments that one must be smaller than her spanker.
Given how few men reach the staggering measurements that Liz suggests, girls like Amelia and I would find our lily orbs decidedly neglected if we were to follow Liz’s rule of aesthetics. And the world would be poorer for it.
Amelia Jane Rutherford's amazing bottom receives a strapping.
Because of the deficit of tall spankers, I would hope that when I place my long frame over a shorter man’s knees, he wouldn’t focus on how far my legs and arms hung down, but rather on the joy of having a nice, round bottom to spank. Knowing that I’d be a match in any physical struggle but, instead, choosing to be under his hand, he’d feel secure in his skills as a respectable dominant — size notwithstanding.
I assert that it is not the bulk of the Top that has a tall woman like me submitting, but the strength of his or her will.
Tall woman in the corner, Amelia Jane
What say you, Liz? Shall we test your toppiness with a woman who, by choice, lays her long legs across your lap? Are you, the self-proclaimed “lover of petite things”, top enough to subdue another by the strength of your will alone?
I triple-dog dare you to try.
Please note, I am and will continue to be a big fan of Sexuelle. If you have not yet had the pleasure of peeking into Liz’s delicious thoughts, please do so. You won’t be disappointed.
What You Don’t See
10 Jan
This photo could be D and I. The similarities are so strong, right down to the nail polish, that I wondered if a picture of us didn’t somehow find its way online.
He in his motorcycle boots. Me in my ankle cuffs. He, fully clothed. Me, naked. The power exchange visible in my flexed feet contrasting with his relaxed ones, as I slightly stretch to press a kiss beneath his ear.
What you don’t see is my hot bottom, painted a ready red. You don’t see my parted and expectant lips, still holding the shape of a sigh, or his hand between my thighs, bringing me closer to completion. You can’t see the bulge outlining his own readiness, his act of denial building our anticipation.
But it’s there. It’s in our feet.
It’s me on my knees, desperately freeing him from his zipper. It’s there in the way he pulls my hair and leads me to the bedroom, his free hand removing his belt as we hurriedly shuffle. Positioning me on the bed, with my knees on the edge, bottom high to receive first the length of the leather, he follows it with the full length of him.
He leaves his boots on.
He in his motorcycle boots. Me in my ankle cuffs. He, fully clothed. Me, naked. The power exchange visible in my flexed feet contrasting with his relaxed ones, as I slightly stretch to press a kiss beneath his ear.
What you don’t see is my hot bottom, painted a ready red. You don’t see my parted and expectant lips, still holding the shape of a sigh, or his hand between my thighs, bringing me closer to completion. You can’t see the bulge outlining his own readiness, his act of denial building our anticipation.
But it’s there. It’s in our feet.
It’s me on my knees, desperately freeing him from his zipper. It’s there in the way he pulls my hair and leads me to the bedroom, his free hand removing his belt as we hurriedly shuffle. Positioning me on the bed, with my knees on the edge, bottom high to receive first the length of the leather, he follows it with the full length of him.
He leaves his boots on.
Cherish, Honor and Obey
9 JanI love this charming photo set that I found on the now alive-and-almost-kicking Spankolife. There’s something to be said for starting off on the right foot, leading by example, and setting the expectations early on. This couple, fresh from the chapel, do just that.
Can’t I just skip the whole matrimony part and get right to the wedding night?
If anyone knows the original source of these photos, please leave the information in the comments as I would love to give credit.
Pink tweets
Featured Blog
Thank you, MarQe!
Proud Member of
Pink on Tumblr
Someone's been naughty...
The Pink Report 