Spanking Blog: Adult Erotic Spanking At Its Best

I found that rare creature, a decent spanking poem. Since it’s impossible to fairly excerpt a short poem, I’ll just link to it: Spankings I’ve Known by Laurel Ann Bogen.

OK, this isn’t a spanking picture. So sue me. Or use your imagination already:

I do love those naughty old French postcards. This one is from Bondage Blog.

See Also:

• Serving Girls Chained And Caned
• A Rough Time At The Whipping Post
• Pretty Girls And The Birch
• The Contrary Slave Girl: A Nursery Rhyme
• A Well-Switched Slave Girl

Mistress Matisse has some strong opinions about kinky words. Some I agree with, some I don’t:

And another thing: a “sub” is either an underwater boat or a sandwich. Using the word “sub” – as either a noun or a verb – to refer to either a person or activity in BDSM is extremely gauche. And I really feel that there is no punishment too strong for people who say or write “subbie” as a pseudo-cutesy way of saying “submissive”.

Hey, lady, BDSM is a pretty big tent. Over here in the spanking corner, “sub” makes a pretty good shorthand word for a person who is submissive. It’s not just a lazy shorthand, because has useful and distinctive connotations of informality (and possibly a lesser degree of submission) than the full “submissive.” Gauche? Maybe in Seattle, but I don’t go there much, so I can live with that.

As for “subbie”, it’s not “pseudo-cutesy” so much as it is actually cute (like many of the subbies it gets applied to) and usefully diminutive. I can see why a dominant woman might not get a warm fuzzy about a diminutive that’s most frequently applied to women, but on the other hand all the subbies I know are submissive and enjoy the affectionate connotations of the word.

Now to shift gears to the lesson that made me stand up and cheer:

One last word rant: Dom-i-nant is a noun. If you are a person who likes to be in control, you’re a d-o-m-i-n-a-n-t. When you are playing with your partner, you dom-i-nate them. That’s a verb. As you can see, they’re spelled differently, and that’s because they’re two different fucking words. If I see one more personal ad or profile saying “I’m a dominate Master..” I’m going to give someone an enema with a pureed Webster’s dictionary.

Preach it, sister! Only, why puree the thing? Just cube it into neat half-inch cubes. I’m sure if we put our heads together we could find one of those huge old antique brass clysters with a big enough cold brass nozzle to get the job done. And that way, the lesson will be more memorable to the miscreant.

I’ll give the Mistress the last word:

Language is a beautiful thing. Words are very important. So don’t fuck with them or the Mistress will kick your ass.

I mean no disrespect to anyone’s choice of lifestyle when I say that an awful lot of spankos and lifestyle people seem to take their D/s very seriously. That’s fine for them, but what I treasure as much as anything is the laughter. Baltazar’s anecdote is closer to the way things work around here:

I did take her new wooden handled hairbrush to her backside first thing this morning because she was being a little bratty in a burst of having some energy. It’s a VERY effective little brush – turned her backside nicely red in short order, so I continued applying it with rapid “whacks” until she’d had enough. Well, she was laughing in between yelps of “ow, stoppit you swine!”, so what’s a guy to do? It can’t be that sore if she’s giggling her head off…

Of course, the other clue that she hasn’t had enough is that she’s still calling you a swine and telling you to stop instead of asking….

The 5.19.04 post on The Collar Purple puts me in mind of my morning today. Apparently there’s something in the spring air that makes the women-folk need some firm physical reassurance.

Bethie woke up this morning with enough time before work for a snuggle on the bed. I was already up and awake, but I cheerfully jumped on the bed and we were snuggling and planning the weekend. But somehow, she was just in a contrary mood. All in the most light-hearted way, she kept managing to contradict me for no good reason and brat me in other minor ways. Finally it came down to my smiling “Gee, you’re being difficult this morning” and her sassy “No I’m not!” with the invisible tounge-stuck-out-at-me. You know the one, where you can’t see it but you know she’s thinking it.

So I gave her a few hand swats and told her I’d deal with her this weekend, watching her reaction closely. There was time to give her a good spanking, but really, only just enough time — no extra. She seemed happy for me to let it slide, so I let it slide.

Someday, I’ll learn better.

Fast forward: She comes out of the bathroom all warm and moist and wrapped in a soggy towel. Me, in helpful mode: “Do you want me to give you a few nice red ovals with the bath brush to help you remember me at work today?” That got me some nice distracting kisses during which she artfully managed to drop her towel.
And it got her a few friendly slaps on her newly bared bottom, which she didn’t even pretend to mind. But I was not so distracted that I could not manage a teasing reminder. “You know you will still have to pay for being difficult this morning.” Mock outrage from her: “I wasn’t difficult!”

Ok, boys, it’s like this. They hate to ask, but after they swing the clue-by-four enough times, you really are supposed to step up to the plate and deliver the desired goods. So I bent her over the corner of the bed. “Don’t move!” And stepped into the bathroom to grab the pretty decorative bath brush that hangs on the wall in there — the one with the pretty bumble bee “stinger” artwork on it.

Came back, she’s still there. Two measured swings gave her a nice bright red oval on each cheek. She yipes and grabs. So very cute. It’s really quite impressive, the mark a well-swung bath brush makes on a bottom that’s still damp from the shower, skin still warm from the hot water and all the pores open.

I let her stand up, still clutching herself. Me: “That’s what happens when you get difficult.” Her: “I’m not being difficult!”

Sigh. Sometimes I’m just too easy to get along with. Bend her over again, two more swats. This time I try to see just how fast that old bath brush will move. Then I keep her bent over, while I ask: “Were you being difficult?”

Pause, small voice: “I guess I was being a little bit difficult.”

Peace at last, brothers, peace at last. And off she went to work, happy as a clam.

It sounds like Trinity is a bit distracted. She writes:

People should really not go around telling me they’d like me to make them cry. It makes me entirely too lustful. I seriously can’t think because I keep having images of marked asses dancing in my head.

La Fesse looks more stylish than over at its new link. And it’s a bit more image-heavy now, which is always good.