Must try harder

A little apology to loyal readers. I'm sorry I'm not here at the moment, I really am and I will try harder in the future.
But I do have a good excuse - I'm not well. A silly accident involving me, a bicycle and a dog. I won't bother you with the details, but it involved me coming off my bike and impacting with a ditch at speed.
No broken bones, but bruises, strains and scratches. And something weird with my neck, which makes sitting in front of a computer agony.
My doctor says no computer use for a week or two. SO is policing that in a really heavy kind of way, but isn't here all the time to check... For the moment then, I guess this is a dormant blog.
PS Picture from this great image blog. It's not relevant, but there's something about it that I like.

Perspective, or lack of it

I work from home. I have deadlines that I've promised to make. I have issues with self-discipline. Often I fail to deliver work on time, which is what's happening today. It's 2.25pm and the feature article expected by 5pm at the latest is only half finished - and I'm messing around on this BLOG?
So I'd say from my perspective that I should get my ass into gear. Am I right? And probably get aforesaid ass spanked red raw too. 

Maid for trouble

So much to do, so little time - and the master of the house is in a less than forgiving mood at the moment... SO's back, and sense of humour, are still a bit creaky.
It means that I have lots to do this week, lots of real work and plenty of household stuff to handle too. And not much time for life's little pleasures, like keeping this blog fresh.
As I trotted about cleaning and cooking this afternoon I enjoyed making up little maidservant fantasies that I won't bother you with now. I'm sure you can guess how my imaginary maid is encouraged to go about her duties?
PS I'll give you a clue. It was was one of the following: a) carrot or b) stick.


 

So not funny

She shifted a little off the sharp edge of the chair back, lifting her bare bottom even higher and and clenching her fists on chair's back struts. In the silence she heard the rush of her heart and, then, the whoosh of the paddle as he took a practice swing or two.
It had been rude and cruel to laugh, but at the time she'd thought it ever so funny. The way he wobbled along so gingerly, wincing at each movement like an old man twice his age. Now she could see how wrong giggling had been and waited for her punishment knowing that she deserved it.
Or it would be something like that, because SO is still incapacitated and the doctor seems concerned there might be some disc damage. Which makes me feel very guilty for making jokes about the situation when it happened.
I'm feeling guilty and very spanky, which is a dangerous combination. And, of course, SO is off work on doctor's orders and we're around one another in the house all day.
Usually that would be an opportunity to play (with the kids at school), but SO is feeling a long way from playful. So, I have scenarios running through my head that are never going to get from script stage to 'production' and I'm feeling very confused by it all.
It's not a good place to be, but I have to say that The Gods do have a sense of humour. They certainly seem to like getting me tied up in knots.

Shopping list

I know I'd probably regret saying it a moment after my little dream had come true, but I'd love to be on the end of a tawse. A proper one made of solid, heavy leather looks like an experience that's not to be forgotten.
It is definitely an item on my Bucket List. By the way, where does "bucket list" come from? I know there's a film, but did the bucket list idea exist before the movie - or did the movie just pick up on a phrase that people were already using?
Anyway, back to the tawse. If you stop by here often you'll know that Scotland's favourite disciplinary tool often features in my daydreams (and night ones too). So, you're probably thinking I should just pull myself together and buy one - but that's problematic for a number of reasons.
Years back, before we had kids, we bought what was reckoned to be tawse from a mail order supplier. It looked good, but wasn't cheap. We reckoned it would be just the thing for a little harmless teacher-puil role play.
The parcel arrived and contained - a major disappointment. Thin, light and flimsy, the "tawse" was an insult to a proud nation (Scotland, that is).
More recently I've looked at tawses online. Or is tawse the plural? But I haven't been so sure about having one around the house in case one of the kids should find it.
How to explain away something that is so clearly an instrument of corporal punishment? Hairbrushes and belts can sit around in your bedroom without raising suspicions, but a hefty great tawse is a definite giveaway.
Now, I'm thinking we should buy one but be very careful about where we put it between its "outings". Perhaps I could hollow out a book like spies do when they're hiding guns, but make the hollow tawse-shaped.
That would be pretty safe. Our kids do read, but never, ever touch something as old-fashioned as a made-from-paper book...

PS If you've bought a good tawse online I'd love to hear about where it came from. 

Sense and sensitivity

Familiarity breeds contempt. More years ago than I'm comfortable with a student (me), free from the constraints of the family home, started experimenting with spanking as play.

It was innocent stuff, the occasional smack to the rear end, but seemed at the time incredibly powerful in all sorts of ways. Not least, the fact that a hand on my bare behind seemed to burn like fire.

Lots of years later and I have to say that a hand-spanking does nothing for me now, or very little anyway. It is, I'm sorry to say, a bit boring - familiarity hasn't exactly bred contempt, but I certainly don't feel the same way about a hand-smack on the bot as I did then.

So, what's going on? Is it a brain thing - that the pain receptors have just got a bit unfazed by buttock-related CP? 

I picture it like this. In Brain Control Centre the guy in the big chair sees the red lights flashing, but just can't get excited any more. He glances up, sees a "hand on bare buttock" warning on his screen and then goes back to his coffee.

Most other pain is just as sharp as ever, but a whack on the ass isn't what it used to be. Or is it that the nerve endings in the bumcheek department aren't what they used to be.

Your taste buds steadily lose the ability to do their job as the years roll on, don't they? I need more chili sauce on my Tex-Mex than I used to, so maybe something similar is going on with my bottom; it just loses its sensitivity in the same.

But my worry is that it's about padding. That undergrad was a willowy thing, whereas today I have to admit to carrying quite a bit more weight in all departments - but especially in the seating area.

Not me, but you get the idea

I fear it's that a bigger butt just soaks up CP energy far more efficiently. So here's a thought, maybe punishments should be adjusted to suit buttock size. Could it be that the curvier ass just needs more attention than the petite one?

Room service

 

When I'm at the kitchen sink scrubbing dishes I often find my mind wandering off to construct little fantasies. Usually they're around disobedient/incompetent kitchen maids getting punished for some failing or other and feature our kitchen table, which is just right for bending over.

And that little scenario sprang to mind last night when I was watching a movie on TV called 'Keeping Mum', which starred Rowan Atkinson and Kristin Scott Thomas. No, Rowan doesn't get to spank Kristin (which would be very odd as for me he's always Mr Bean), but he does get a bit hot around the collar in a couple of scenes - he's a vicar.

Kristin feels her marriage is going a bit stale and that her Rowan isn't making the effort he should. At one stage she tells him that one of her friends has had sex with her husband in every room in the house - twice.

The film was OK, but after I'd switched off the TV it was the idea of every room in the house that stayed with me. We haven't, perhaps we should?

The problem with the idea for me is that some rooms suggest toe-tingling scenarios, but others are deeply unsexy. In our house two of the rooms are occupied by our teenaged kids, so they're an immediate 'no-no', and the hallway isn't very inspiring either.

We have played (in a spanko way) in most of the other rooms. Often in the bedroom, of course, and the bathroom too. Our little study has book-lined walls and really does make the perfect Principal's Office.

But for me the room that does it best is the kitchen. I don't know what it is, but my SQ always ratchets up a point or two in the kitchen.

I think maybe it's that feeling of doing menial service for others that connects with my inner naughty maidservant or maybe it's because the room is bristling with innocent-looking CP implements - wooden spoons, spatulas etc - and has tables and surfaces for a spankee to bend over. If I had my way the final touch would be a nice, well-worn tawse hanging on the back of the door as a constant reminder... (but I wouldn't want to alarm the in-laws)

And I think I'm not alone in my little fetish for kitchen-based CP fantasies. Spanko images and videos in domestic settings tend to features bedrooms, but I'd reckon that the kitchen is the next most popular venue.

Friday fiction: Farm life

“By rights miss, I should let the District Commissioner deal with this,” she said, maintaining eye contact with her employee in a way that Bee found difficult to return.  “But as you’ve agreed to take your medicine then we can keep it between ourselves. Is that correct?”

“Yes Mrs Jones,” Bee said quietly.

“Ladies?” asked Mrs J, sweeping the other three with a searchlight stare. They all chimed in with a mumbled “yes Mrs Jones”.

“A good dose of strap oil it is then,” said Mrs J, taking a tightly-coiled strap from her cardigan pocket. With a flick of her wrist the strap uncoiled like a snake and Bee watched with alarm noticing how heavy and supple it looked. 

“Now then,” she said, stepping up to Beryl and taking her by the arm.  Bee felt the firmness of the grip and yielded, allowing herself to be propelled to the foot of her bed.

The metal frame formed a half-circle and Bee was positioned at its centre. Then Mrs J’s hand was moved from her arm to the back of her head and she was pushed face down into the quilt.

Bee felt acutely aware of the shape and size of her bum. “Pants down to your knees, please.”

“Really, I don’t think that’s fair...” Bee began.

“Two extras,” said Mrs J in a businesslike way.

Reluctantly Bee tugged her tight knickers down, and over, her out-thrust buttocks. She had to wriggle a little to help them along, which made her bumcheeks quiver in a eye-catching way.

It certainly caught the eye of each of the watching girls, Bunty, Anne and Gladys. Four girls – all new to one another - sharing a room had to be prepared to undress in one another’s presence.

How they dealt with the intimacy differed. Bunty’s background was much like Bee’s and she was used to unselfconscious nudity from years in dormitories.

At Annie’s terraced home in Yorkshire five sisters shared a room, so little room for shyness there. However, for Gladys, a bank manager’s daughter, sharing a room was something of an ordeal; at her comfortable detached home in Hertfordshire she bolted her bedroom door before changing clothes.

Over the week each had got more comfortable with the enforced closeness of arrangements at Bryn Farm. When they dress and undressed they did it hurriedly to avoid baring too much flesh to either cold air or curious glances.

So, each of the three was shocked and fascinated by Bee’s nakedness. With her head down and legs straight her round bumcheeks were opened wide, exposing what she called her bits and bobs to view.

Gladys felt she should look away, but couldn’t. How different Bee’s fanny looked, she thought. Gladys was a little embarrassed at the way that her own “down there” hair was thick and dark, and was intrigued by how Bee’s fine, light ginger curls did little to hide her new friend’s most intimate parts.

All three witnesses held their breath as Mrs J planted her feet wide apart and rolled up the right sleeve of her blouse. “Let this be an example to you all,” she said, swinging the strap through the air so that it whispered like the wings of a bird.

“Beryl, hold onto the sides and don’t let go,” Mrs J told her. “Stay in position.” With the next swing Bee clenched her cheeks up tight hiding her bumhole for a moment.

As she did, Mrs J measured her distance just right and the heavy leather caught Bee’s tensed buttocks low and hard. The girls saw Bee’s bum flatten momentarily before the strap swang back, fast and low. Bee had just enough time to squawk out her shock at the flash of bright pain before Mrs J followed through with stroke number two.

Another three strokes followed up at lightning speed and Bee’s screeches of anguish rang into one another.

The unwritten Bullington code stipulated that a girl took her swishing well, which meant keeping noise to a minimum, staying in position and never, ever begging for mercy. Bee was rather ashamed of how far below the standard she was falling.

That she was making so much of a racket was a shocker, but Mrs J was turning out to be a very proficient disciplinarian. Worse was the struggle she was having maintaining position.

For a start the bed frame was a little too high for her and the cold iron cut into her waist. And she could only just get handholds on the sides to keep in place.

Through watering eyes she could see her left hand locked into place, knuckles white. She had had eleven strokes when her grip was broken and – with a howl - she sprang upright, palms pressing to her tormented cheeks.

She took two handfuls of burning buttock and kneaded away at them like a baker.

“Don’t be a baby, Beryl,” said Mrs J after allowing Bee a moment’s dancing on the spot. “Bear up, there’s a war on. Back into position or I’ll have to double your ration.”

With some difficulty Bee did as she was told. There was, she accepted, a war on and meant having her backside leathered.

Back in place, Bee’s bottom sustained a barrage of strokes at a steady pace. She clung on and howled her way through to the last, which came in rather low across her thighs.

Somewhere between the second dozen and the third Bunty decided she couldn’t watch and covered her eyes.  Gladys, on the other hand, couldn’t tear her gaze away from.

“There, three dozen give and received,” said Mrs J, popping the strap back into her apron pocket. “Let that be a lesson.”

She moved closer to Bee and patted her on the shoulder before sitting on the side of her bed. As Mrs J’s weight settled onto the mattress the bed springs squeaked and Bee lifted her head, her mass of curls a curtain around her face.

Gently Mrs J parted the curls so that Bee could see her. “Can we be friends again?”

Bee was a little puzzled by the remark. Mrs J smiled at her in a way that was almost shy and said: “Come along stand up then.”

Bee straightened up with one hand on her smarting, striped bottom and the other trying to tidy her hair. Watching her, Mrs J sat very upright and with her knees pressed together.

She smiled again, patted her lap and nodded. Bee understood and went to her employer and, a little awkwardly, sat on her knee.

She allowed herself to be pulled into the older woman’s arms. For a moment she stiffened, but then relaxed into the hug, burying her face into the older woman’s shoulder.

It felt so good, so comforting. But at the same time she could feel how in that position she was making an exhibition of herself, with her red-raw bum sticking out.

I’m certainly giving the girls something to goggle at, she thought. Her behind felt all round and hot. It made her feel ashamed of how big her bottom was and that it deserved to be swished hard and often.

It also made Aunty start to get wet and tingly, which made Bee worry that Mrs J would notice her inappropriate reaction to the situation she found herself in. As that thought was crossing her confused mind she felt Mrs J’s hand drop from her waist and her cool palm settled gently on one of Bee’s jutting buttocks.

Bee shivered with the thrill of the contact and she lifted her face out of Mrs J’s hair. She found herself looking into warm, smiling eyes.

“I don’t want to have to do this to you again Beryl,” she said. “So you’ll try to be a good girl, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mrs Jones. I promise,” she said.

“Good,” said Mrs J, then she looked to the other three. “All of you, do keep my rules in mind, that way we’ll get along very nicely. Let me down, and there’s plenty more of the medicine Beryl’s just taken. Understand?”

“Yes, Mrs Jones,” they answered nervously.

“Now then,” said Mrs J, patting Beryl smartly on the bottom. “Beryl get into your pyjamas and into bed. You’ve all got an early morning tomorrow.”

A while back I was in the habit of posting snippets of writing on Fridays as 'Friday fiction', but it hasn't happened for a while. I thought I'd put things right with this chunk of 'Beryl gets Stuck In'  which sits on my computer a third written - it's about the adventures of a Land Army volunteer called Beryl, or Bee for short.

It isn't going anywhere at the moment - it just seemed to run out of road. So, I thought at least a little of it probably deserves an audience.

Time travel

Apparently Queen Victoria put on fresh hand-made silk underwear every day of her adult life. Each day her drawers were unworn and fresh out of the packet (brand-spanking new, you could say).
And in 1837, at 18, she had a 20in waist while that had become a 56in waist by the 1890s.  I owe both those factoids to a blog called Kate Tattersall, which also has lots of other interesting things to say about Victorian life.
I came across it today because thought I'd revisit old topics to celebrate the fact that I've just passed the 200,000 hits mark, which I find unbelievable. To mark the milestone I've been having a quick look back to November last year and my very first post here.
And I'm a bit mystified as to why I just jumped straight in with Queen Victoria's drawers (but not into them). Why no gentle introduction? Anyway, Queen Victoria's silk drawers were auctioned and someone paid £10,000 for them.
At the time I didn't give the story much in the way of context, so I'll put that right by sharing some of what the Kate Tattersall blog has to say on drawers. It says that they weren't worn much until the second half of the 19th Century - it was the fashion for crinolines that got girls into undies.
The problem was that if a gust of wind lifted your crinoline you were in trouble unless you had drawers to hide your bare essentials. Drawers were split leggings and about knee length.
Each leg was separate and joined together only at the waistband which left the crotch seam open. Having pants with that opening there seems like a bit of an invitation to me, but then I guess it represents the height of modesty compared with wearing nothing at all.
A last thought, a buyer paid £10K for Victoria's pants at an auction, but Her Maj apparently wore a new pair everyday. Doesn't that means that somebody, somewhere has to be sitting on lots of royal knickers that could all be turned into easy money?

Sitting comfortably

Laughing at the misfortunes of others isn't nice, I know. But. Well, it amuses me a little just now. The dynamic of a spanko + non-spanko relationship is quite a tricky one and I often come away from our 'special time' feeling unfulfilled.
The problem is that SO is just too soft-hearted. A spanko in need of a spanking is looking for a SPANKING, not a token smack, but SO doesn't like to inflict damage (even when not inflicting damage is what hurts).

So, I'm there in the bathroom half an hour later with my bum pointed at the mirror looking for any sign of marking. A little trophy bruising is a rare treat.
Then on Friday morning there was the chance of a little kid-free fun time and we went for it. In deference to SO's interests we opted for spank-free.
Then at the moment of greatest mutual excitement something went twang deep inside SO's back and everything had to stop. A torn muscle we think and poor old SO has been in agony ever since.
What's funny about that? More ironic than funny ha-ha. Three, nearly four, days later and SO cannot sit down (or bend down, or stand up or do much really). Three days without being able to sit down? I should be so lucky.