Emergency
Posted by: Janey on: November 15, 2009
From the moment he said he was on his way, I thought about it.
We planned to do some role play. Run of the mill, over the knee, hand, hairbrush, maybe a little bath brush. Some good pretend lecturing and a little corner time for the pouty little girl.
You know, the usual.
And then he went over my knee, and because he’s a spanker, and a male one at that, I only needed to employ my hand. I’m getting good at the scolding, too.
At one point, the wind rustled a bunch of stuff and it sounded like someone was in the apartment, and Mr. Scardeycat jumped off my lap alarmedly, and we checked it out. The wind.
He didn’t want to get back over my knee, so I had to make a decision.
I wasn’t sure. I knew I needed it, but there were a few things to consider.
One: It would freaking hurt and I’d be ouchy and regretful rather quickly.
And two: It’s not my paddle. I’m holding on to it for a friend. But given the offense, I didn’t think he’d mind. In fact, he’d probably want to use it on me. Repeatedly.
“Hold on,” I said, opening the closet door. “I need to ask you to do something for me.”
He looked at me expectantly, as I pulled it off the shelf and handed it to him, in its soft black bag. “Wow,” he said, slipping the cover off.
“Yeah. It’s beautiful. But be careful with it. It’s not mine.”
He nodded, waiting for me to continue. “I, uh, need a little motivation.”
He raised his eyebrow. “Yeah. I haven’t been taking very good care of myself. And I need a little… help, Sir.”
He pointed to the floor in front of him and I immediately stood where he directed. I looked up at him and the seriousness in his eyes told me this problem would be appropriately dealt with.
And it was.
Brave
Posted by: Janey on: October 27, 2009
If she had told him all the things she never will, he would put his hand under her chin, forcing her to look into his own bright brown eyes, and say, “You’re wrong. Love isn’t for the pretty, the perfect, or even just the sexy. It’s for the brave.”
And her lip would quiver, and though she’d hate herself for it later, she’d let herself cry.
“Shhhhh,” he would whisper. “You’re going to be just fine, little girl. Be brave.”
Her breathing would be ragged, as she tried to slow herself down. “But I can’t…”
“Don’t be silly,” he would say in that bemused way only he could pull off in such serious moments. “Of course you can.”
Beautiful
Posted by: Janey on: October 27, 2009
- In: Fiction
- 2 Comments
“Look,” she wants to tell him, “I understand. I see what you see. Every day. Every morning. Every night, as I wash away the day and check to make sure each speck of what will never happen again is really gone. I know I’m not beautiful.”
He would stop her. She knows he would. “You’re beautiful, baby. Don’t you worry.”
“You didn’t let me finish, sweetness,” she would say, her voice dropping just a little.
“I’m not beautiful, at least not in the magazine ad, storybook romance sort of way. I’m plain and my smile is crooked. My eyes, a dull brown,” she would look at him hopefully, and then quickly, before she lost the nerve, she would force the words out. “But you should see what’s behind them.”
She’ll never tell him, though. Instead, she laughs at her own silliness. Love is only for the pretty, the perfect, the sexy.
She’s a realist, so she settles for a random fuck now and again, if only to chase the loneliness away a handful of times a year. That’s all she really needs, if she lies to herself enough.
I Don’t Get It
Posted by: Janey on: October 19, 2009
How am I not marked to Hell right now?
Mysteries. Mysteries.
Complications
Posted by: Janey on: September 8, 2009
Life has been decidedly vanilla these days.
All my kinky plans have been thwarted–by sickness, lack of drive, finances, and now, my blasted car. All I really want is a life of simplicity and zen…
…and a really good beating.
Is that too much to ask?
From the Bottom
Posted by: Janey on: August 24, 2009
*Some of my readers have asked for racier content. I’m not sure if I’m even capable of such writing, but here’s my attempt. Besides, I had to make some kind of post today. It’s now been a year since my first ever spanking!
“Come over and suck my dick,” he said, by way of greeting.
It had been a long day, and my day started over at 6. “What’s in it for me?”
“I’ve got cuffs and condoms; you’ll be rewarded.”
Ohhhhh. Cuffs. As much as I love restraint, I hadn’t yet used actual handcuffs and I had always wanted to try.
Oh, and I really needed a good fuck. Toys are fun, but oh so unresponsive.
My clothes were in the dryer, but I need to get ready anyway. If the timing worked out, I could be there for 11 and get back by threeish, take a nap and be at work for 7.
Despite getting horribly lost, the timing almost worked out. I knew where I was going, but the highways are terrible in Massachusetts just as a matter of course.
“Come get me!” I texted from the corner by his house. I never could remember how to walk there on my own, and the skirt that is cute and hot in the bedroom makes me feel silly when passersby pass by.
We stopped in the vestibule and he looked at me expectantly.
“Nooo!,” I scowled. “Let’s just go inside.”
“C’mon. If you want in, you’ve gotta earn it,” he said, grinning. It was all part of the game, but two could play, and the brat was out tonight.
I gave it a cursory round, much shorter than I knew he wanted, let it drop messily out of my mouth, and then got up smartly and motioned to the door. He sighed and opened it.
I usually win.
****
As it turned out, I didn’t get my longed for fucking. Some men have more difficulty than others and no blame was placed.
I did, however, have to get a comment in here and there.
“I feel so bad,” he said. “You came all the way here.”
“Yep, and apparently, I was the only one.” Smirk.
“Well, since I did come all the way here, why don’t we try the pussy strapping again.” Last time, I had really, really wanted it, and had wimped out. “And don’t let me manipulate you this time! I have a safeword, and if I need to, I’ll use it. Oh, and start slowly?”
So, in he started. I looked up and he had the belt folded twice over, “Who taught you to do it like that? Jesus Christ!” And we both laughed until our sides hurt and then started again.
After lots of me squirming and moving and putting hands in the way, I said, “You know, it looks like a whole lots more fun when it’s happening to someone else.”
As he was putting the belt away and undoing the cuffs, he looked at me for a minute quizzically. “Did you really not want to do this, or did you just manipulate me?”
“Oh, I manipulated the hell out of you. Can you take these off now please?”
Obese… My Ass
Posted by: Janey on: August 14, 2009
As if my self esteem needed a hit, one of the search terms yesterday was ’spanking obese girls.’
I’m gonna go pout.
Whilst wearing my blingie new glasses.
ho hum
Never Mind Broken…
Posted by: Janey on: August 11, 2009
… the paddle is gone.
When I chose the paddle I currently have, I tried to model it after the Thorough One’s. I bought it from the same place, without consulting him, and thought my judgements were at least close.
Well, this morning, in a rage of manic cleaning, I tore apart my room and just started tossing things into piles: trash, charity, and yard sale. I’m selling most of my books and DVDs and stuff like that, and trashing anything that lacks value.
And that paddle lacks value, unless you’re the sort of sicko who enjoys drawing blood without even supplying any sweet, sweet pain.
Upon comparison, my now-trashed paddle was double the size of its inspiration in both thickness and weight, and the damn thing is ugly as sin.
No wonder the thing tears me apart. And before anyone calls into question my spankee-hood, I can take a beating. In fact, if you don’t spank me hard enough, I get downright petulant.
That thing was a menace.
Good riddance.
The Backpack
Posted by: Janey on: August 10, 2009
Today ended a six day hospital stay, and the also the longest porn-free streak of my adult spanking life.
Drats. That sounded funnier in my head.
I don’t need to manufacture the funny in this post anyway. This story’s funiness speaks for itself.
Upon arriving at the emergency room last Wednesday, I had no intention of staying any longer than your everyday never-ending ER visit, so all I had on me was a book, my purse and the clothes on my back.
Needless to say, this was not enough for a nearly week-long stay, so I called my grandmother and asked her to bring me some underthings and t-shirts and a few books and such.
And do, she went into my room, and having gathered all my necessities, it then crossed her mind that she would need something in which to carry these things. She looked around a bit and then found what seemed to be the perfect fit–a nondescript cranberry colored backpack, like one I might use for school, or maybe an overnight bag even.
****
We had been sitting in the unit’s kitchen for about five minutes, making small talk and catching each other up on the events of the last two days when she said hesitantly, “You’re not going to be too happy with me.”
“Why?”
“Well, I uh, found something in your room.”
Dear God, was my immediate thought. Maybe she had found the hitatchi stashed in my pajama drawer, or the Thorough One’s paddle tucked into the basket of winter linens at the foot of my bed. Or, maybe she found the bag. No no no no. It couldn’t be the bag. Maybe it was the hitatchi. Or the paddle!
“Ummm, uh, where did you find it?” not wanting to clue her into the possibility of that which she did not find.
“In the red backpack…”
After composing myself, not sure whether to laugh or cry, I said,”Well, Grandma, everything in that bag is completely natural.” I almost believed she would believe it.
“Yeah, some of it is. The…” She looked around, and then soto voce said, “Not the… whips and paddles. Maybe you should talk to somebody about those.”
“I know you don’t believe it, Gram, but stuff like that is perfectly healthy and…,” here comes the lie: “Besides, it’s not like they’re used hard or anything. Just lightly. No one gets hurt.”
“Maybe I’m just old fashioned,” she said, and I just laughed and looked at her with a twinkle in my eye.
“No way,” I said a few minutes later. “I can’t believe you found that!”
“Yeah, you can’t believe it. What about me?!” she said.
“I knooooooow.” And then a beat. “My God, I cannot wait to blog this.”
“You write about stuff like this and people read it?
I just laughed again and asked about my cat. He hasn’t missed me.
Through a Mirror Darkly
Posted by: Janey on: August 5, 2009
Gaining and maintaining an accurate self-image is hard work, and not for the easily discouraged. There are so many forces in play, most working against an unbiased outcome, that we have to truly want it, or we won’t get it.
Pushing aside the highly intriguing idea that we are never the person now that we were even minutes before, we also have to cut through the person we think we should be and the person we want to be in the moment, to get to the person we actually are.
In my own case, I really want to be a submissive. It’s the role I want in the moment, and while I’m not sure if it’s the role I think I always should be, I do know that it is not what I really am.
For a short while, I thought I was submissive. I enjoy being sexually submissive, or so I thought. Closer examination tells me I like being dominated sexually, but the domination needs to be active, not passive. If my partner isn’t actively picking up those reigns, I’ll take them, because a tiny voice in the back of my head says someone needs to take them, and if he isn’t, I’m more than capable.
Sure, it’ll still appear that I’m the submissive one. I’ll be on the bottom, or if I know he prefers, I’ll be on top. I’ll make sure his needs are met first, if I know that’s what pleases him, or I’ll draw his pleasure out and make him wait if that’s what floats his boat, but I’m not acting submissively, because I’m not submitting to his will in doing this, and I’m not even doing it because it’s what he wants. I’m doing it because it’s what I want.
It took a crazy long time for someone of my inteligence to figure out that just because I’m a pain junkie who likes to be used and abused for another’s pleasure, wishing does not make me submissive.
For a while, I thought I was one of those smartass submissives who shoot off their mouths, but in the end, learn to obey.
I hate to break it to anyone who had any delusions of making me obey you, at least in a play sense, but I won’t be obeying you because I know my place; I’ll be “obeying” you just enough to get exactly what I want. Maybe time will change things, but I’m not sure we have that much time left.
So, feel free to call me a bottom, and masochist would be a more than accurate description, if descriptions could be more than accurate, but the only time submissive fits is if we’re gonna try a little role play…
I’ve got the perfect skirt.
