Hot Air

24 Jul


Wow. That’s a big ass balloon.

The Rest of the Story

22 Jul
How excited was I to see this Dutch video linked on Chross’ Spankings of the Week?

I was excited because it appears to be the beginning of one of my favorite videos, a video that unfortunately doesn’t contain much spanking. But it’s hot, and completely NSFW.
And now…for the rest of the story:

Yes, very different music. Which one do you prefer?
Enjoy your weekend!

Necessary Roughness

21 Jul

“Men with tools fixing shit all manly like.”
That is a “fetish” — a term used loosely in this case — on FetLife. Yes, I have that on my list. I love a man with a tool. You know, in his hand. Over my car. Or…whatever.
Candles, guitar-playing, wine…rose petals. That’s all nice, but how are you going to spank me with your junk tucked up between your legs?
Don’t misunderstand. There is a time and a place for romance. I am a romantic girl and appreciate those overtures. But most of the time I like my spanking how I like my fucking: yank up my skirt, flip me around, and push those panties down as casually as you would if you were popping your car hood.
All manly like.

Image from Little Miss Spankypants

I’m overheating and I need your immediate attention. I’m fixed only after you administer elbow grease. Don’t ask for permission*. Only you can decide the right color of my cheeks tonight.
Be as aggressive with me as you were with that wrench I saw you working earlier. Move me. Squeeze me. Twist me.
When all else fails (and it will) smack me on my bottom while you wipe the sweat from your brow.
And grunt.
*Assuming that permission has previously been granted, of course.

D is for Discipline

21 Jul

Criss-crosses mark the fleshiest spots of my cheeks; in surprise, the lines turn from white to red.
I’m not crying because it hurts.
I stretch my arms in front of me and hold them there. I glare at my elbows and command them to stay strong, stay locked, as I await the next stroke. Each moment I wait is an opportunity to rebel; each moment I submit is a victory.
Within those moments, my mind travels to my past, present and future. I regret. I rejoice. I see my potential and I weep.
Pain is the easy way out. A tangible trigger, the release it brings is safer than weeping without cause. Each stroke of the cane touches deeper than the skin, ushering me through my mind’s corridor of guilt, memories and secrets.
Pain is a lie. I do not cry because of it.
I cry because he sees me, because I allow him to. Together we navigate the maze of static, disciplining the unruly self who otherwise denies the existence of darkness to arrive at the center.
There is light there.

The Bike Garage

18 Jul
I’ve been given an assignment.
He’s tasked me with thoughts, teased me with little detail. Three words: the bike garage. Two more words: next time. Think about it, he said.

I’ve been thinking. I envision a woodshed with a long bench, leather straps hanging from hooks, and a girl in the corner sniffling her contrition.
The bike garage is no woodshed. It smells of motor oil and pent-up heat. It is all man, and my tits feel conspicuously out of place there — like they’re trespassing on his domain of Harleys and grease.
There is little space, but enough, in the corner. I don’t remember seeing a bench or leather straps, but I do remember an eye-hook in the ceiling beam, remember wondering about its purpose and thinking that it holds promise.
I know where I’ll eventually be standing — under that hook. I know where my hands will eventually be — over my head. If I am allowed clothing, it will be temporary and an easy thing to remove with wire-snips.
I can only imagine what will be done.

The flogger will flick against my thighs before slapping against my bottom. It will gently trace my ribs, playfully bite my nipples, tickle my stretched abdomen as I clamor for more of the garage’s stifling air.
My shocked cries will be swallowed by the heat.
I will begin to fall, but find my anchor, pivoting on my toes around the hook, displaying my femininity to the all-male audience of chrome and bolts and he.

That is all that I can imagine. That is enough.

Flashback Friday: Preheating Required

15 Jul
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!
In one of my many attempts at self-improvement, I have instituted a “one-new-recipe-a-week” rule. I love breakfast dinners and will whip up this quick and easy quiché for tonight.
Sausage and Mushroom Quiché
3 large eggs
1 pound small fresh button mushrooms
1 pound ground pork breakfast sausage
1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley
1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley
1 cup half-and-half cream
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 unbaked 9 inch pie crust
1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F (200 degrees C). Prepare the mushrooms by snipping off the stems. Cut in half if large. Use your small wooden cutting board for the job.

2. Crumble the sausage in a large skillet, add the mushrooms, cook on medium-high heat until the meat and mushrooms are lightly browned and all the liquid from the mushrooms has evaporated. Drain off the grease. Add the parsley. Imagine what that big, bad spatula can do.

3. In a large bowl, beat the eggs, adding the cream, cheese and salt. Pour into the mushroom/sausage mixture; blending well. Pour mixture into the pie shell. Lean over the counter, close your eyes and imagine him behind you.

4. Bake in preheated oven for 25 to 30 minutes, until crust is well browned and the filling is set. Let stand 10 minutes in the corner before serving.

Saturday is laundry day here, so be sure to join me tomorrow for my stain-removal tips.


Twenty-five Minutes

15 Jul

We will have thirty minutes, if he doesn’t mess my hair or make me cry. So twenty-five minutes would be safe.
Being a good girl scout with an eye on the clock, I choose an easy access dress. This is met with some internal debating, as the impractical part of me would prefer the slow motion wriggling out of skin-tight jeans.
To compensate, I add a garter and stockings.

I throw on a pair of heels, powder my face, dab lotion in my cleavage, and gloss my lips.
I’ll save the mascara for afterward.
To further expedite the affair of getting spanked, I lay out all of the implements on the bed (except for that one, which can die a horrible death by fire). Valuable seconds will not be lost in retrieval; another internal battle is waged over this sacrifice.
I enjoy walking around with my panties at half-mast as I fetch the paddle tawse.

No time for frivolity. This is serious business. We have twenty-five minutes, twenty-two if we talk first. We’re going to talk first.
We have twenty-two minutes.
But after dinner, we have all 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


Erica Scott: Life, Love & Spanking

11 Jul
Here are some things that I don’t know:
1. If a man threatens to make you cry like a baby, is he into age-play?
2. What do people in China call their good plates?
3. Do vegan environmentalists spank with anything besides plastic?
What I do know:
1. It never hurts him more than it hurts me.
2. The prettiest panties are worn for the least amount of time.
3. If there’s a witty comeback to be found, count on Erica Scott to find it.

This woman cannot be sarcastic. Can she?

As I ponder weighty matters such as fancy ketchup — what makes it fancy, anyway? — I often wander over to Erica’s blog to read about her own ruminations on life, love and spanking.

For someone as well-known as she is — a published author (with a much-anticipated second book on its way) and a spanking film star — Erica’s fame has not gone to her head. Honesty is her trademark; witty repertoire is her calling card. She unfailingly delivers both whether her subject is a trip to the gym or a trip over “New Guy’s” lap.
Of the numerous bloggers (a gazillion at last count), she is one of the most approachable and identifiable among us.
There are, however, a few rules when corresponding with Erica.
Don’t ask her if it hurts. Don’t tell her she looks good for her age. Know the difference between “your” and “you’re”, “it’s” and “its”. And, this is a good general rule for everyone, do NOT liken a woman’s lips to her anus.
Otherwise, shelve your important life questions (why is everything in the last place we look for it?), and head on over to Erica Scott: Life, Love & Spanking. Why I made her my July Blog of the Month will not be on your list of unanswerable mysteries.

Banner courtesy of Zelle, from No Domme Blonde

When it’s Cherry Red

10 Jul

Why stop at Barely Pink when you can have Cherry Red?
See why life is better when it’s cherry red at The Cherry Red Report.
Big thanks to Dave, who defines “epic win”, for creating this comic.

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