Porn

I am partial to a little porn. Every now and again, my fingers find themselves typing into the Google search bar words  such as 'spanking videos' and I choose a few little snippets of free clips to observe.

Two days ago, I came across a minute clip that I thoroughly enjoyed. The girl was bent across a wooden old world school-style desk - the type with a place for a fountain pen and a hole for the ink well. I like those types of desks because it conjures up all sorts of images of the girl sitting at her wooden desk on a plain wooden seat writing out her thoughts for the man after her thrashing. But, I digress.

At this stage of the video the girl has already been thrashed quite severely. Her lovely bare buttocks are a haze of red and back blotches and there are stripes running horizontally across her buttocks. She is whimpering, poor lass; lifting her hand to hold her forehead for some sort of comfort. However, at no time does she move any other part of her body. Her feet stay firmly on the ground. When he holds the cane across her rump again and then lifts it high enough in the air to produce another loud crack of the cane as it thunders across her already very well beaten bottom, her knees don't bend, nor does she move slightly to one side to try to get away from the awful instrument.

She is completely obedient and accepting. For several more strokes, she lays there completely still, whimpering nicely with each new stroke but never flinching, never raising her chest; nothing.

Of course, this is staged for my benefit. The idea is that I'll buy the video if I like what I see and thus the camera hones in on the state of the girl's bare and well beaten bottom. It becomes apparent just how severe the thrashing has been. We see where the cane has slightly opened the skin and there's just no doubt in my mind that for the next several days, sitting is going to be quite a chore.

I don't buy the video. I've never bought a spanking video but since the first viewing it is true that I have watched it again several times. I love that video! I've been wondering to myself why I love that video so much and I think I liked that she didn't have to count, for one thing. She simply bent over due to the man's displeasure and she'll stay bent over like that until he tells her she may rise.

The pacing is entirely at his discretion. Perhaps he has already told her it will be twelve hard strokes. I don't know. But, I like to imagine that he has simply said that for her crimes and misdemeanors she will be soundly thrashed until he is convinced that she has learned her lesson. This is why, I like to imagine, she is so completely still. The only way she can convince the man that she is reformed is to be very accepting of the pain he is providing her with, for her instruction and benefit, of course.

When he does finish caning her, (and we know that because suddenly his arm which is dressed in a stiff white cotton shirt moves into view and slightly away from the girl, as if he in the process of returning the cane to its resting position), she moves her hands to her bottom and begins to feel the stripes, providing herself with a little well-needed comfort.

That's where the film maker lost me really because what girl in her right mind would take the chance after such a darn hard caning of meeting the ire of the man all over again?! Did he say she could move a hair on her head? He did not. Perhaps she hasn't had enough stripes after all....Well, perhaps that is what happens next in the video and I am just too cheap to buy the video and find that out.

The little clip has really captured my imagination. I've brought myself to climax twice now on the thrills and spills of the blond headed girl in the video and each time I like to take it a bit further. This morning, she wasn't in a school-type situation at all but rather it was her Dominant who had said to her that the time had come for her to re-learn a very important lesson: respect. She's a girl used to receiving 4 moderate strokes of the cane every morning of her life. The idea is that this correction will keep her in good order; remind her of her place and her status. However, her behaviour has been a little shabby lately; her manners and words a little out of line and he's explained to her that something more is required.

She's whipped in a manner similar to the blond-haired girl with no idea how many strokes will be considered enough. In the same way, she stays very still. He's not partial to a moving girl and should she rise it's a repeat of the stroke +1 and that can really add up. She's learned that lesson the hard way in the past.

In fantasy land, enough is never quite enough and the man determines that she needs to be contained for the next month in a way that will ensure he receives her co-operation in a more intense and sustaining way. She wears her anal plug to bed each night, but let's face it; that's a pleasure and not at all arduous. He decides to up to the ante. The four strokes will be given in the morning as usual, of course, and after that she will wear her bedtime anal plug in the daytime instead. He will place it in her after the strokes and she will wear it for the next eight hours of every day for the next month. Perhaps, he suggests, it will be a stronger reminder for her of his expectations of her behaviour.

As the days wear on, the girl becomes acquainted with the sensation of sitting on a tender backside and of feeling the hole stretched and used. She bunkers down in her mind to a place now where this sensation is quite ordinary for her. She begins to think of herself much less as a girl and much more as a doll. She has less thoughts and more time when her head is free of thought; empty; joyful. She feels a very strong connection to the man who has given her these instructions and now her mind only looks to obey; to impress; to receive his praise and pleasure in her. The girl has been transformed. She is no longer capable of making decisions for herself and she awaits his instructions, ever mindful of her place and her position; eager to please; even more eager to be used.

A Disciplined Girl

We are at the holiday house and it is our first morning here. We usually end up arriving very late at night and when we finally awoke after a long and deep sleep my owner asked me what I should do.

“Hug,” I responded.

“That’s second,” he replied.

“Kiss,” I guessed again (knowing, of course, that was the wrong answer too).

“That’s third. What should you do first, cindi?”

“Suck owner’s cocki,” I told him. (It doesn’t pay to stretch this game out too far.)

“Then why isn’t cindi doing that?”

cindi obliged.

“What is up on the shelf in the dressing room, cindi?”

I took my mouth away from his upright cock long enough to say,

“Da thin, nasty cane.”

And, that’s when my thoughts returned to a time I don’t think I have written about in any detail in this journal.

I was rather green to this notion of a disciplined life but already incredibly enraptured. I was spending far too much time reading about girls getting caned for this and that and I was in a whole other space in my head. I think it frightened owner a bit at the time. He wasn’t sure what to make of my intense desires, I think, and one day when I was telling him about some girl that had apparently had a caning every day for a week, he responded in a way that still gives me goose bumps when I think about it.

“Well, if it is good enough for her, then it is good enough for you. If you want to play in this space, then you need to show your commitment.”

“What do you mean?” I asked

“Why shouldn’t you have a dozen of the cane for a week? You think you can talk the talk but if you are genuine you need to walk the walk.”

This was a dare, a very scary dare and one I intended to take; not that he gave me any choice. He was as serious with me as he has ever been. I’d need to present each evening for correction and that was that.

I spent that week in a sort of suspended animation. I think we were both on such a euphoric high that we didn’t take into account that the children may well have heard some things. Certainly, I tried to contain my squeals but that week was in the days before I knew too much (if anything) about gags. I imagine I bit on my hand and fingers. I know I tried to use a huge amount of self-control to contain the pain.

We were here, at the holiday house the whole time. I don’t remember everything but I do remember that I counted that there would be 84 (I’d say it was more like 90 in fact because there was extras when I came out of position) strokes. Each day when I had received the 12 (or more) strokes, I’d deduct it from the total. That’s the way I got through it mentally, although I remember when the very last stroke came down it was such an anti-climax, because by then I had become rather used to the daily correction. I was certainly relieved and proud to have attained the goal of obedience but what about tomorrow? What would life be like tomorrow, without the cane?

The mornings were the easiest. I’d realize that I had a stretch of hours ahead of me before needing to bend over the end of the bed (or sometimes on all fours on the bed tied up, if he felt like being particularly sadistic). I’d have a lightness of being until mid-afternoon when the approaching hours would hang over me. It bears keeping in mind that once a light skinned bottom has been marked and bruised, the following strokes only add to the art work in ways that make sitting tender and the psyche a bit fraught.

Yet, I simply adored the marks and bruises criss-crossing by buttocks and when I swivelled my head to study them, I felt a joy and sense of pride and pleasure that can’t be properly described. I know at times owner worried about it. I don’t think he had any idea how the marks would endure and although he had no intention of not going ahead with the decree, I could see on his face some concern at the state of my backside. I tried to assure him my backside would be all right and he settled. In fact, I think he took some pleasure in the notion that as I sat in the old boat I was sitting on a very tender bottom that was given by his hand, so to speak. I found it delicious.

There is so much that I have forgotten because my head was mush that week. I cooked and shopped for food and did all the ordinary things I do on holiday here but in my head, I was living the life of a disciplined girl and all that really mattered to me was that I was finally living authentically. I was living out my dreams and fantasies.

I do recall that at some point he needed to return to the city and when he told me I had a sense of relief. I would have one night off being caned. In fact, the lack of the caning that evening played on my mind. If he’d been there, another 12 strokes would have been over already. When he returned, I told him about that feeling and he offered to give me 24 strokes that evening so that I could “catch up”.  I suggested we try 18 and when they were given, he simply told me he was carrying on to 24.

I remember crying but no tears came. My hands were tied. I was on my fours on the bed and although it hurt like hell it never occurred to me to break position, to ask for leniency or anything else. He was in complete control and I simply responded to his words. He told me to stay still in a firm, authoritative voice, and so I did.

Afterwards, he rubbed his hand over my stinging backside softly, cooed and calmed me and put me to bed. I was in a state of wonder. Why had I not known about this life before this? How could we have wasted all those years?

He’s caned me in the garage; in the Gardens in town; in the bedroom; in the bathroom; in the hall way of a house we were renovating with a piece of fresh cane from the garden. He has walloped me with paddles, a ping pong bat, a rolled up newspaper, a horse whip, a wooden spoon, a hair brush; a flat piece of wood, rope, a tawse and I have probably forgotten a few others along the way. If I’m cheeky on the street, he doesn’t hesitate to give my bottom a few smacks.

I adore the sensations, of course. I love to feel that I have no control. I love the challenge. I love to feel in my place. I want to know that I am owned. I simply adore what it does to my state of mind. Almost instantly, my mind is relieved of thoughts. I bunker down into a state of acceptance. Perfect peace is granted to me.

On my luckiest days, I am plugged and tied tight; put to bed with a kiss and told to go straight to sleep. I sleep the sleep of the angels and when I awake, I consider myself the luckiest girl in the world. On these days, I have everything I could ever want.

The pleasure of observation

I was minding my own business going through my tumblr account when this image came up on the computer screen and I had reason to pause. The girl with the blond plaits reminded me of one of my best friends at school. She wore her hair in just this way and her bottom was about that round as well. We too wore shirts tucked into woollen skirts with regulation panties but they weren't allowed to cane at our school, even though some teachers thought that a good idea.

I remember a nasty Science teacher who on the first day of a new term told us that he hoped that some of us were spanked after our fathers read our reports. And, I remember when I was just a little tiny girl watching a teacher pull her hand back and slap a girl's bottom and tell her to go back to class immediately, but the new teacher was from Ireland and didn't seem to know the rules.

However, I did read of school canings in books and Roald Dahl was quite descriptive of what happened at his school. Do you remember the nasty lady who owned the sweets shop?  Roald and  his pals had placed a mouse in the lolly jar, frightening the poor old lady and she went up to the school and asked for retribution. The Headmaster had the whole school come out and parade for the old bag and she pointed out the culprits and wanted to watch while they were being caned.

Harder, if you please, Headmaster. Harder!

We've a similar situation going on here in the pikki, unfortunately. The young lass has taken it upon herself to upset her Housemaster. For giving her a Saturday detention and making her miss the boat races she has got back at him by drawing marker on the back of his shirt as he walked by the quadrangle. But, on detecting the marker stain on his shirt that evening, he has had the whole school line up in the quadrangle and demanded to know who had committed the crime. Finally, Lucinda had come forward, but only after he had threatened to cane all of them until the truth was revealed.

Of course, Lucinda was taken away to receive her punishment. But, it was not to be given by the Housemaster this time. This time, it was the Headmaster who would cane and the Housemaster who would determine when he was satisfied with the results.

More please, Headmaster,  if you would be so kind. And, if the next 12 could be harder, please. Much harder.

Wistful

Is it just me, or does this seem like not a bad way to fall asleep to others as well?

Keys of the kingdom

“Girl, isn’t it time you were on your way?”

“Yes. I am just looking for my car keys. I thought I left them on the kitchen bench.”

“Yes, you did and I hung them on the key ring. You are falling back into bad habits. I’ve been noticing your keys in various locations about the house. What is the rule?”

“That I put my keys on the key ring.”

“That’s right.”

“All right. Into the bedroom before you go.”

“I can’t! I will be late!”

“You would not be late if you had put your keys where they belong and if you had got going already, would you?”

“But...”

“Would you?”

“No, but...”

“And, what haven’t you asked for?”

“My maintenance.”

“That’s right. Over you go. It will have to be the cane, I’m afraid.”

“No! No, really, I will be very late.”

“Quickly! Stop wasting time.”

“There will be five strokes over your skirt. Stay down now!”

“Owwww”

“You so need this. You need a lot more of this.”

“Owwwww!”

“Stay still now and take your medicine. This is doing you lots of good.”

“Owwwwww!!”

“Don’t you dare come up!”

“Owwwwwwwww!!!”

“One more. Be still.”

“Owwwwwwwwwww!!!!”

“And, what happens when you come up? Girl? What happens?”

“We start again.” Whimper

“That’s right. Unfortunately, we start again. You have to learn.”

“One”

“Owww!”

“Two”

“It hurts!”

“Maybe, you’ll remember to stay down next time. Three.”

“Ow. Ow. Owwww!”

“Four”

“Owwwwwww”

“Five. You may come up. Quickly now! What do you say?”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“And, where do your keys belong?”

“On the key ring.”

“That’s right. Give me a kiss now and be on your way.”

“Goodbye, Sir.”

“That's a good girl. Goodbye, little one. Drive safely now.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Put your hands together for Mr. Cane!

Last night it poured and poured, and the heavy rain woke me up. Unable to settle down to sleep, and too cold to get out of bed to write, I lay there thinking about various matters pertaining to my D/s style of life. I happen to be one of those people that don't like loose ends and the notion of accepting 25 strokes of the cane for something that happened a while ago sits out there; a loose end. I want to put it to bed and yet the scaredy cat side of me holds it in abeyance. It is bothersome.

As I thought about that, I thought, 'well, how many strokes of the cane have I had at the one time?' Then, it dawned on me that this would not be the first time to receive 25 strokes. In fact, I think I might have had 26 or even 27, and I got through it all right.

In fact, it happened rather a long time ago, and it happened like this...

When I accepted myself as a woman who likes to be spanked, I began to read blogs and one in particular. Eventually, I was brave enough to click on the email address on the site and I wrote to the author. He seemed, and is, a charmer and I told him I was an avid reader, and someone with little knowledge of spanking issues. I asked him if he would like to correspond with me. He was delighted to do so and I had my husband's approval. All was well.

As time went on, and my appetite grew and grew, it became apparent that I was in what I now know to be "sub fever". I didn't do anything to harm myself or my marriage, but the potential was there, I suppose, or so my husband thought.

One day, I left a comment on my new friend's blog, on a post that talked about someone getting 12 strokes of the cane for a week. Unbeknown to me, my husband saw the comment and by then, he was getting rather upset about my correspondence; or more particularly, my heady state of mind. He said to me that if a girl wanted to show that she was her husband's girl, definitively, she would accept 12 strokes of the cane for a week. Was I willing to do that?

I did not hesitate to tell him that I would be willing to do that to show him that I belonged to him; alone. As it turns out, he was deadly serious. We were on vacation at the time, at our holiday house, and he provided 12 sound strokes that night.

Immediately afterward, I felt a sense of relief that lasted about 12 hours, when I began to feel a sense of apprehension for the 12 to come that evening. Apprehensive or not, I received the next 12 the following evening, right on schedule. But, on the third day, he needed to return to the city for a few days, and whilst I had a reprieve for a few days, I also was disappointed that I couldn't get further along with my 'correction', for want of a better word.

When my husband returned, he offered me another 12 strokes that night. Whilst no-one wants me to go into detail here (you don't, do you?) my bottom was pretty bruised and marked by now. Yet, my husband could see that I was pretty shaky about the idea that on day 5 I was only at day 3 of the correction being carried out. I still had 48strokes to go and it was telling on my nerves.

"I am willing to give you an option," he said. "If you wish, you can have another 12 now, if you'd like to get further along with this."

As much as I hated that option, I liked that option and I agreed to that. On we went; number 13, 14 and so on until we reached 24.

However, I did stand right up a couple of times and make some rather pathetic crying sounds in the hope that he might go easy. That earned me another few extras, and thus at night's end I had received at least 25 strokes of the cane.

Of course, he made all the right noises afterwards, telling me how proud he was of me and giving me lots of hugs and praise. I liked that part a lot!

In fact, I wore my stripes with an enormous sense of pride and truth to tell, it was an experience I would not have missed for the world. He was proud of me for being brave and true and I was proud of him for proceeding on as he had decreed. It certainly did no harm to our love life.

For some time now, Mr. Cane has been safely put away backstage, awaiting his re-entrance. Sure, the wooden backed bath brush has been out to play and the tawse has been out of the drawer pretty regularly too, but let's face it, there is nothing like the cane.

I'm tempted to say that I am even missing Mr. Cane. But, then there's that thing where five strokes later, you think to yourself, 'I am never getting myself into this position ever again!!!'

And, the wait goes on...

The joy of the cane

Lately, I have been waking up at about 4 am and instead of staring into the void, I will get up and do something, and then I can usually catch another couple of hours of sleep. This morning, I opened up the lap top in the dark living room and wandered around some blogs. Cutesy pah, I left you a message twice about your lovely poem, but I’m not sure it published. And, then I pressed on some link and found myself looking again at a list of spanking blogs and sites.

Ah yes! I had forgotten about those. I used to love watching those naughty girls get spanked. Yet, I haven’t paid for anything and the thought of wandering through little clips looking for something really juicy isn’t really my thing at this time in the morning.

So instead, I’ll tell you about the best spanking clip I ever saw. Alas, I no longer own it. Many months ago, when my husband told me off about how much energy I was putting into my kink, I had a moment when I thought,

“Well, that’s it. I’m just a weirdo, and I am going to delete this stuff out of my life. No more spanking scenes for me.”

I deleted the scene I am about to describe. When I told my husband what I had done, it was one of those “Nooooooooo!!!!!” moments.

“But, it was the hottest scene, ever! I didn’t mean for you to do that!” he said.

I so very much regret my little tantrum. I’d love to watch it right now. Instead, I’ll just have to describe it for you:

She was a gorgeous young twenty something girl, bent over an old wooden school desk. In front of the desk was a wooden chair and she had her hands flat on the chair. Her white cotton panties were down and her skirt was over her back. Two men (masters) were beside her, one on either side, and the one on the left was holding a nasty looking cane.

First, he held it across the middle of her bottom, and then he raised it high and brought it down hard. It clearly made a red ‘tram track’ stripe across her bottom. After about the third stripe, it becomes evident that with each stripe the girl receives across her buttocks, she is orgasmic. It takes a moment or two to be sure. She is really being thrashed and the stripes are evidence of a caning that would do much more than tickle. But, no! These are not gasps of pain. These are gasps of orgasmic delight. At the end of the caning, the camera focuses in on just the stripes and as it does, she raises her bottom just a little and lets out a gasp of pure orgasmic joy.

Before I was stupid enough to delete it, we had watched it together many times, marvelling at how direct the connection between the stripes and the sexual high was for her. Gosh! Just thinking about it now, reminds me of how few stripes I’ve had across my bottom recently! And, that’s not good, surely! A girl has to know her place. Somebody should do something about that!