Spanking Blog

Naughty Ronnie

Ronnie from Heart And Soul went to great lengths not long ago to get herself a good caning. Yes, she committed sexy lingerie with malice aforethought:

So there I had it, stockings and suspenders no problem and a choice of black knickers from which I selected a full fitting high waisted pair with shiny satin front and fine mesh rear and just a teeny bit of floral lace trim, not too fussy, I know how P likes them.

I tucked them all together in a corner of my drawer, then all I had to do was decide when to wear them, bearing in mind the likely outcome, I mean you have to be in a certain state of mind to do something which you know full well is probably going to get your bottom striped.

In fact as I sit here typing and thinking rationally I have to say that it would seem the most ridiculous idea to do something so provocative as to get that tender and personal part of your anatomy assaulted. Still, easy to think that now because I’ve recently had it done and my twisted desire for such brutality has been sated, but prior to the ‘assault’ my thinking was quite different, driven by strong sexual feelings and the prospect of being made to submit to what is a painful physical experience only enhanced them.

The thought of being intentionally ‘naughty’ and being taken in hand by my stern husband just does it for me and as the event gets closer, lust takes charge and every aspect of what happens carries kinky erotic impulses to my brain. The cries, physical struggle, firm commands, superior strength and even the wicked bite of the cane as it swishes across my bottom are all part of it, they are darkly pleasurable and the sex which usually follows is intense in the extreme.

There, I’ve revealed what a kinky bitch I am, a glutton for punishment you might say:)

I decided to wear them last Saturday night, because we had the house to ourselves for the weekend and we were going out and I could flirt with P in a particular way which would let him know I was up for being dealt with. We had a light early meal in town and then listened to a Dido concert in the Guildhall, the singer was really talented and I wouldn’t be surprised to see her on TV.

The place was packed, we sat on rows of foldaway seats and I took off my jacket and placed it across my knee so that I could encourage my husband’s hand to rest under it without anyone seeing. He got the idea when I guided his hand across the linen fabric to the bump of a suspender fastening which his fingers examined expertly and then slithered of their own accord lightly down my inner thigh before retracing back up past my stocking tops and stroking between my legs where I was starting to get moist. The Dido sing alike had just finished a number and as my husband withdrew his hand to join in the loud applause he leaned across and whispered in my ear that he could see someone was feeling naughty. Ha! Not half as naughty as I was going to feel soon, I thought…

Of course she got what she wanted, in due course and after he got what he wanted:

We entered the house and P took my upper arm and told me I was coming straight upstairs with him, he was going to teach me a lesson I wouldn’t forget, he wouldn’t tolerate the sort of lewd behaviour I’d displayed, I was in for a sound caning. Oh god he shouldn’t say things like that, I whimpered again and shuddered my shoulders, it made me feel all liquidy inside hearing him talk sternly and now hurrying me along with such deliberation.

In the bedroom he made me stand at the foot of the bed while he lifted his side of the mattress and brought a long black handled swishy cane across to me.

He stood behind me and his hands went around my waist to unfasten my trousers, I pushed my bottom back into his groin and asked him in the smallest voice I could manage if he was going to cane me with my knickers down for my naughtiness…

See Also:

November 5th, 2013 | 1 Comment »

Girls Like To Be Spanked

From a delightful 1995 essay called Girls (by Nobel-winning playwright Harold Pinter) in Granta magazine #51:

I read this short story in a magazine where a girl student goes into her professor’s office and sits at his desk and passes him a note which he opens and which reads: ‘Girls like to be spanked.’ But I’ve lost it. I’ve lost the magazine. I can’t find it. And I can’t remember what happened next.

…

I simply don’t know whether the girl was in fact spanked, there and then, without further ado, in the professor’s office, on his desk, or at any other time, on someone else’s desk, here, there, everywhere, all the time, on the hour, religiously, tenderly, fervently, ceaselessly, forever and forever and forever. But it’s also possible that she wasn’t talking about herself. She might not necessarily have meant that she liked to be spanked. She may just have been talking about other girls, girls she didn’t even know, millions of girls she hadn’t even met, would never meet, millions of girls she hadn’t in fact ever actually heard of, millions and billions of girls on the other side of the world who, in her view, liked, simply, without beating about the bush, to be spanked. Or on the other hand she may have been talking about other girls, girls born at Cockfosters or studying American Literature at the University of East Anglia, who had actually told her personally, in breathtaking spasms of spectacular candour, that they, when all was said but nothing yet done, liked, when the chips were down, nothing better than to be spanked. In other words, her assertion (girls like to be spanked) might have been the climax of a long, deep, thoroughly researched course of study she had undertaken honourably and had honourably concluded.

I love her. I love her so much. I think she’s a wonderful woman. I saw her once. She turned and smiled. She looked at me and smiled. Then she wiggled to a cab in the cab rank. She gave instructions to the cab driver, opened the door, got in, closed the door, glanced at me for the last time through the window and the cab drove off and I never saw her again.

Yes. We love her too.

I wonder, truly, whether Pinter’s fragment-of-memory of a mostly-forgotten short story is real (that is to say, Pinter really did remember such a story when writing this) or a literary device. If real, wouldn’t it be fun if someone in our spanko community could help out Pinter’s ghost by finding and surfacing the story from whatever long-dead magazine it was in?

Eternal thanks to Valdor at The Spank Statement for finding this.

See Also:

November 4th, 2013 | 2 Comments »

Seaside Spanking

His wife dropped one too many hermit crabs down inside his swimming trunks:

Found here.

See Also:

November 3rd, 2013 | No Comments »

A Light Paddling

Photo by JulianATL.

See Also:

November 1st, 2013 | No Comments »

Owning Your Spanking Sadism

It will come as no surprise to long-term denizens of the erotic spanking community that some among us have trouble “owning” their spanking fetish. They are drawn to it, they like it, it’s hot, but they remain troubled by some of the implications. And a real common limit for spankers is that they don’t quite want to owning up to enjoying the infliction of pain on others. Spanking someone is fun, but surely that doesn’t make me a sadist?

In truth, yeah, I’d say it pretty much does (at least a little). Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Paul has presented a nuanced pair of paragraphs in this post that explains some of this better than I had managed to reason it out:

There’s a sort of spectrum of top/bottom dynamic, based on who the scene is ostensibly for. (The layering in kink makes “ostensibly” necessary here; consciousness and outward projection of the layering varies hugely among players.) At one end of the spectrum, where the top’s position is presented as almost entirely functionary, a scene might be “for your [the bottom’s] own good”. Here, the top assumes a role which almost explicitly denies their pleasure (“this will hurt me more than it hurts you”). Introducing a degree of agency for the top, a scene might be about “what I think will work for you”. There’s still some denial that such a scene is for the top, but the role here is more of a collaboration. The scale is tipped further towards top agency and desire when it’s about “how I want you [the bottom] to feel“. This sort of mindfuck entails a consideration of the bottom’s headspace, but the subject of the scene (“I want”) is now the top. Finally, if/when a top talks about “what I want to do to you”, they’re not just taking control of a scene; they’re presenting the scene as unequivocally for them.

This is a complicated dance, obviously, with desires spoken and unspoken, agency taken explicitly, taken implicitly, and sometimes taken by being untaken. But the willingness of a top to claim — to admit — that a scene is for them, is still a brave leap. Tops can settle into a scene dynamic which denies their agency and pleasure because the role of quasi-teacher/parent works for them, but I think there are plenty of others for whom the selfishness of the act just tastes wrong. Perhaps it reveals something about themselves that they’d rather not see, so there’s a retreat into a safer dynamic of justified discipline. It’s one thing to want to hurt someone you care about; it’s quite another to want to do it without apparent regard for their pleasure or well-being. That’s, you know, sadism.

See Also:

October 31st, 2013 | 4 Comments »

Domestic Slave Spanking

If a man keeps a domestic slave, he’s got certain reasonable expectations:

You know the story: you work your nuts off all day for some prick in a suit. You come home to chill out and relax, but NO – the house is a fucking mess, there is no food in the fridge, you can smell the laundry pile from the front door, the trash is overflowing, and there is no cold beer. And there is your so-called slave, twittering herself and stroking her face-fuck-book account. So much for an after-work blow job and a beer. Well I say – Fuck That. Not in My House.

I want a slave to Do The Work in more ways than just bouncing on my dick. I want my house clean, organized, and stocked. I put up with enough shit from assholes all week long – my house is my retreat. My Fucking Castle. I say, treat it that way!

And if those modest and reasonable expectations are not met? Well, that’s what long hard spankings with a wooden spoon were invented for, right?

When my slave is not keeping the place up to par, I first bend that fine ass over the bed and spank the shit of her with that wooden spoon that she should have been cooking my fucking chow with. And talk about fucking dust bunnies, we got dirt elephants up in this motherfucker!

As far as my dick goes, she can suck that when her chores are done.