I would never cheat…except last night. In my dreams.
…
I was a slut. Oh, stop laughing. I mean, I was out there, slutting myself around with an old beau. And when I came home—with flushed cheeks and wet panties—my man was waiting. Not a word. Not a threat. He simply led me to the bedroom and put me over his lap. We started in a way that was painfully familiar, first his hand on my ass, my denim skirt shoved to my hips, pastel pink panties down to my ankles, then a Ping-Pong paddle wreaking havoc on my bare skin.
My struggles were useless. He had both of my wrists captured in one of his big hands, and he paddled the shit out of me before pushing me to the floor. Staring down at me as if I were trash.
Before I could recover, before I could figure out which way was up, he ripped my clothes off and threw me down on the bed, bound me in place. Arms over my head, legs spread, face up. Who was the Dom? I’m trying to find him in my mind, in my files, in my repertoire. Someone I could never quite see. In a house I’ve never lived in. Beige carpet. Big ugly California King.
He used a crop methodically to decorate my inner thighs, and every so often, he would slap the tip of the weapon against my pussy…
That’s the third in a series of posts where she writes about her experience, firstly as it was happening and then a bit more of a retrospective look. Just like last time, it appears to have been an intense experience she greatly enjoyed:
This afternoon I texted my best friend to update her on the progress of my Lupus bruises. I described the lurid mass of purple covering my buttocks and the top of my thighs. And I added: “It didn’t hurt enough to cause that kind of damage!”
I sent the message, but then I remembered a single thought that had tolled in my head as first the cane, then the whip cut into my bottom: “I’m not made to stand this kind of pain; how can I take any more?”
Both feelings were genuine: at the time, I wondered if I could stand the agony; today, I remember mostly the joy at having pushed through. Human beings forget the pain; bodies and souls gloss over the hurt, until it’s only a breath of memory, of emotion. I know the pain was dreadful, but only because I remember thinking so. Three days later, my body is already forgetting.
What I remember is joy.
The joy first presented itself the night before the shoot, as periodic shallow cuts of fear. I packed up my stuff: a dress (I wouldn’t feel like wearing jeans), cheap disposable knickers (to soak up blood), tubes of arnica cream, moisturiser and disinfectant. These are not usually the things I bring along to shoots, other than moisturiser. Their presence signalled to me that, like an explorer packing up her compass and maps, I was officially off on an adventure.
There was the joy of acting, such as it was. The role wasn’t difficult: I was an ingenue in a white pinny, with just enough lines to pretend I spoke some Czech. I slid into character painlessly, and preserved enough of a grip on reality that following direction, hitting marks and staying aware of camera lines wasn’t as much of a wrench as it can be on more emotionally difficult films.
The fear returned in a numbing wave when I first saw the whip I would be asked to take. It was a tightly braided leather snake, all knots over its entire length. Producer Thomas told me later that it had been a gift from a fan, and was one of the most severe implements in the Lupus arsenal – a fact I’m glad I hadn’t been aware of before my scene. In the hands of Lars, who is an imposing man even when you’re aware of his sweet nature, it looked terrifying. But this fear, too, was joy.
5:17pm Oh my dear fucking baby Jesus, I just saw the whip they’re using on me. Lars Moebius showed up on set nonchalantly waving it around. Mr Haze could have acted less amused.
…
9:50pm So, the monster whip turns out to have been a pizzle. Figures! Fighting endorphin low with chocolate.
I like the highly variable facial expressions in the most recent gallery from the Rough Man Club. She goes from smiling to grimacing to head-tossing in nothing flat!
It turns out that Anderson Cooper is the son of Gloria Vanderbilt, who has recently written an erotic novel at the age of 85. Guess what? She knows what a hairbrush is for:
There are scenes involving dildos, whips, silken cords and golden nipple clamps, not to mention an ebony, smooth-backed Mason Pearson hairbrush purchased at Harrods. As the book explains, spanking with a Mason-Pearson is a “serious matter,” not the kind of thing that is rewarded with the “luscious afterglow of warm cocoa butter.”
That’s from the review in the New York Times, as quoted at Gawker.
For as long as I’ve been linking to and sharing spanking porn from the various Kink.com sites, I’ve regretted that they never produced a “pure spanking” site that would squarely serve spanking fetishists. Their new site, EverythingButt.com, doesn’t break that pattern, but it’s nonetheless a delight to anyone whose spanking fetish is, like mine, a subset of a broader enjoyment of female bottoms and the myriad ways they can be used, abused, and played with.
The site’s stated mission is to celebrate “ass play in all its forms” and boy howdy, does it ever deliver! Butt plugs, enemas, fisting, and good old-fashioned anal sex are all prominently featured, but the site also delivers quite a bit of spanking action:
These photos are from the paid section of this shoot.
This is a detail from the cover of an old stroke book. The chains and the whip are unfortunate enough, but I worry. What’s the girl planning to do with the steel funnel?
