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Here’s an entertaining couple of photographs from a shoot at Whipped Ass. Looks like some sort of lesbian dominatrix playing tennis with her slave girl. Not shown here are the ear grabbing and biting, the tennis ball in the mouth (although you can just see it if you look) and the, uh, after-spanking shenanigans making an alternative use of the tennis racket handle. Whew, is it just me or is it warm in here?
Hmmm, it seems Baltazar has discovered the joys of the bath brush:
When we got home I put the bath brush to the test with the spanking that she was owed. I have to say that I am very highly impressed with it’s effectiveness, especially with just how little effort is required! Here’s how it went…
I sat on the edge of the bed and told C that I was going to give her the spanking that I owed her, and she obligingly stretched out across my lap. I put my left hand on the small of her back and rested my left arm along her back to hold her steady, then taking the bath brush in my right hand I started off with the first stroke, noting that the brush seemed perfectly balanced and had just the right heft to it.
*pop* said the back of the brush to her bottom.
For the record, it was a quite gentle stroke in order to see the effect and to warm her bottom up a little. I wasn’t quite prepared for the loud yelp and immediate “I want to get away” wiggle that it elicited, and I wasn’t expecting the immediate pink oval that appeared on her bottom.
*POP* went the brush on her other buttock
*Yelp! Squeal! Wiggle!* “Ow! That’s evil!” went C.
I pinned her down more firmly. “You are owed this spanking, and this is how you are going to be given it”
*POP* went the brush again. Another loud yelp and another wiggle.
“Just think of it this way little one, with all your yelping, wiggling and wanting to get away, this is good practice for me for ‘taking you in hand’ at the start of a row”
“Yeah, but even so..”
*POP* went the brush again. More firmly this time.
“YOW!” yelped C.
*POP* *POP* went the brush, quickly and firmly once on each buttock, completing the six spanks she was owed.
C stood up, ruefully rubbing her bright red bottom.
Of course there’s more after that, because C called the innocent tool “the sodding thing”.
A reader wrote in with a request, illustrated by a picture from
Spanking Teen Jessica:
Hello. I’ve been reading your site for almost a year now, as soon as we got on line, actually. I find your site quite informative and very entertaining. I was hoping you could help me. In the picture I’ve sent, there is a curly kind of cane hanging on the wall. I’ve seen it demonstrated on a Real Spankings video. Would you know where I could purchase one? I’ve looked for hours on the web, with no luck. Keep up the good work and your sense of humor.
As it happens, I was able to direct her to the Red Crescent by School Canes, and she’s promised a report after the one she ordered arrives. Doesn’t that look like a fun toy?
Getting this kind of mail is part of what makes this blog fun. Annie writes:
Hi SpankBoss,
My dear husband has asked… ok, ordered… me to write to you and thank you for your wonderful blog site. He has learned new tricks from your site, specifically, the art of figging. I am also instructed to sincerely apologize to you. He will be reading this before I hit “send” to make sure I have completed my assignment.
I sit here now freshly paddled with a large ginger root firmly placed up my bum. This email to you is part of my lesson since I took your name in vain when he inserted the dreaded root to further amplify my punishment for having, once again, failed to get my overdue car inspection. The punishment paddling was deserved, I acknowledge, and I will certainly attend to the car inspection tomorrow or suffer the same fate tomorrow evening.
He first used the ginger root about a month ago after learning about it from your blog. I had never heard of such a thing so I had no warning as to what I might expect. He had me bound over the large ottoman for an evening play session during which I knew I would experience a sore bottom, but this I could never have anticipated! After a rather lovely warming up with a flogger, he told me he had a surprise for me. (I remember it with particular vividness at this moment since my bum is, at this moment, in flames as it was that evening after he poked his surprise into my bottom then sat back to watch.) After its insertion and his delight at its effectiveness, he spanked me quite thoroughly with a variety of dastardly implements including the cane, but I had little thought, or feeling, of anything besides the agony of my bumhole. He found it quite amusing all in all but due to the level of my distress decided to reserve future figging for punishment, as it is being used now to my great regret.
It was the appearance of the prepared root this evening that caused me to refer to you in a disparaging manner, since it was your blog that started the practice. I do apologize, Sir, and assure you it was nothing personal!
Sincerely,
AnnieNote from Annie’s husband:
As my wife said, I read her email and I approve the contents. Except for the sarcastic tone in her opening sentence for which she will be paddled one more time tonight. I’m tempted to send her to bed afterwards with a new ginger root in her ass. She has earned it.
Your blog is great!
“The dreaded root….” (Snicker)
Having grown weary of philosphic disputation, I think that chasing some bondage beauties around the yard with a hickory switch sounds like a nice diversion:
Anybody up for a little enforced girl wrestling?
The lovely models are Jenni Lee and Mallory Knots from Hogtied.
See Also:
No spanking here — boring stuff to follow.
In the last couple of days, I’ve had a rash of people trying (with varying degrees of surface politeness) to influence the editorial policy of this spanking blog. I thought it might be time to say a few words in regard to what I’m all about and what I’m doing here.
To begin: I’m utterly horrified by narrow-minded, prudish, uptight, or censorious kinksters (when I can stop laughing at them). There’s an inherent contradiction in saying “I’m perfectly OK with my own kink, but those people should stop what they are doing at once — no self-respecting kinky person should have anything to do with people who have that fantasy or do that activity.” (Sometimes this comes out as “people like that aren’t really members of our community/shouldn’t be allowed in our community/shouldn’t be respected/shouldn’t be discussed.”) Such narrow-minded and exclusionary kinksters remind me of the cat in that shaved cat picture that floats around in email. When you see the picture, you’re horrified that anybody would shave a cat — but you can’t help laughing at how silly the offended cat looks. That’s how I respond whenever a kinky person denounces somebody else’s fantasy — it’s both horrifying and hilarious to watch.
Thus, whenever I encounter a censorious kinkster, I can’t decide whether to laugh or get mad. But I do know that I don’t believe in shunning kinky people whose kinks squick me. That’s why I won’t participate in delinking campaigns, or change my editorial behavior when one is aimed at me.
Know ye also: I don’t do this for the blog traffic. It’s true that I value all my readers, and I’ll miss anybody who decides they don’t like my content and won’t be back to read it. That said, traffic from blogs makes up a miniscule percentage of my total traffic — well under one percent of the total. That’s why I literally laughed out loud the other day when someone accused me in my comments of trying to stir up controversy in order “to keep the circulation up.” Nothing could be further from the truth. I value your links, folks, but I’m not going to change what I do in order to keep ’em.
Furthermore, I’m an absolutist about free speech. Among other things, that means I have a knee-jerk reaction to pressure. Tell me not to link to something, and I’ll be more inclined to link to it. Criticize my decision to link to or discuss something, and I may choose not to be polite. Why should I be? My blog stories and links are my business. Read or don’t, click or don’t. No skin off my nose. No skin off yours, either. And if you do decide to try and influence my editorial choices, I probably won’t see your busybody input as anything but a rudeness. I may forgive you, if you’re also charming and witty or a friend; but I might also (or instead) choose to mock you. If you can’t take it, don’t dish it out.
Let me amplify that. I believe that telling someone what they “should” blog about is horribly rude in function, no matter how polite you are when you share your unsolicited opinion. It’s like a nephew I have, who thinks he can say the most horrid things with impunity as long as he uses polite words. He can’t understand why people think it’s rude when he says something like “No offense, but why does your breath smell like garbage?” Sorry, but superficial politeness cannot rescue fundamentally rude behavior.
Moving on: I do have my own editorial standards. Generally speaking, I don’t usually blog about the spanking of children, even in fantasy or ageplay; I don’t usually blog about spankings where there is a strong and explicit lack of consent, unless the fantasy context is very obvious; I don’t usually blog about spankings that result in open wounds or flowing blood; I don’t usually blog about men getting spanked; and I don’t usually blog about spankings accompanied by substantial verbal abuse or deliberate and extreme humiliation. The reasons for these policies (mostly having to do with my own tastes) seem good to me, although I sometimes make exceptions. Sometimes, too, I get flak for my inconsistencies — as in the infamous case of the flash game (a freakin’ interactive cartoon) that featured either cartoon welts or cartoon cuts, depending on your interpretation. (Yeah, go figure. I’m still scratching my head about that one.) Nonetheless, at the end of the day, I get to decide whether something is beneath my standards. My bandwidth, my sandbox, my toys, my rules.
I truly don’t understand kinky people who think their tastes should be universal, and who try to enforce those tastes on others. For example, age play by consenting adults happens to squick me out, so I don’t much write about it. But I’m not horrified when other people do it or write about it. It would strike me as unutterably bizarre to email such a blogger and castigate them for their preferences. My distaste is my own, and I try very hard not to inflict it on anybody else. Same with blood play or verbal abuse. I figure I’m free to ignore these things without stepping on any toes. But I can’t imagine writing to another blogger and telling them they shouldn’t fantasize or play that way, or that they shouldn’t write about what they do. And when I get a letter like that (about once a week), I can never decide whether to laugh or to respond with a hearty “Fuck you.”
Often, I do both.
That’s more than enough for now. I’ll be happy to carry this conversation forward in the comments, but I won’t pull any punches when it comes to folks who want to tell me what I should blog.
If you ever frequent any of the spanking discussion boards where toys get discussed, you’ll find frequent references to the paddle-ball paddle available for $4.99 at a Cracker Barrel store near you. Love it or hate it, just about every spanko girl in the world has a strong opinion.
The trouble is, I don’t live near a Cracker Barrel, and had never visited one. Until today, when Bethie and I passed one at lunchtime while out-and-about doing errands.
First funny thing: someone in the store had hidden the paddle ball sets, by putting them on the backside of a display. You had to put your eye up to a crack and peer in, just to find them.
Second funny thing: the girl who rang me up (I bought two — in case someone needs a Christmas present) knew exactly what the paddles were for. She asked “Is that everything?” and so I called Bethie over to see if she needed anything else. The sales girl immediately started telling Bethie about all the sale stuff, and pointing to various corners of the store where there were candles and stuffed animals and other girlie stuff that was supposedly on sale. The sales girl kept a very straight face, but she had that gleam in her eye. You know the look that every brat gets when she’s trying to get another brat in trouble? Yeah, that’s the one.
So eventually we get out of the store, and home with my brand new “BC Tournament Paddleball”. It’s really nothing but a short, well-shaped piece of 3/8″ hardwood (Birch) plywood, lightly sanded at the edges. It’s a bit short for my large hand, and seems lacking in both weight and length.
As it happens, on the way home Bethie and I had one of those conversations. We’d been trying to get something done, and it wasn’t happening. Bethie asked for my advice. (Actually, this was a Mars/Venus moment. What she did was say “I don’t know what I can do differently in order to get this done.” If you think that’s not a request for advice, it’s possible you are a woman.) Anyway, she didn’t like the advice I gave her — consisting of the man-style things I would do in her shoes. So her response was a slightly heated suggestion that I do it, if I was so full of good ideas on how to do it. Since (view from Mars) she’d asked me for advice, and then been ungracious when I gave it, I was a smidge disgruntled.
Only a smidge, though, because I remembered my Mars-n-Venus — and my new paddle. Once we got home, I lured Bethie into the bedroom with a Cracker Barrel chocolate covered cherry. Then I pulled out the paddle ball paddle, removed the ball, and bent Bethie over the bed for a few quick swats.
Imagine my surprise when she began squealing and leaping forward and twisting around! Through two layers of clothing, no less — and she was more animated than she’s ever been when getting a few quick ones. To be fair, she might still be a little sore from her big spanking — but this was still a remarkable reaction.
It gets better. While I’m standing there admiring the paddle, she took down her pants and panties to rub her newly-sore bottom better. Yes, that’s every bit the invitation it seems.
So I start spanking her bare bottom. Light swats, no particular vigor. WOW! She’s all over the bed, twisting and squealing and complaining. Before long, she’s got a faint rosy glow to compliment the few remaining fading marks from Friday. When I let up, she’s feeling her bottom with both hands and complaining bitterly that it’s on fire. She hates the new paddle — or so she says.
Me, I think I’m rather fond of it. My new theory: if every man in America had one of these, it would do wonders for the gross domestic tranquility.
