Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Caught (Jon series)

This is what I call a "two-feet on the floor" fantasy - a short story without the blow-by-blow account of the spankings, you can use your imagination to fill in the details.  This story is a prequel to Assistant Principal (posted June 14):

“Exactly what do you think you are doing, young man?”

Surprise at being interrupted caused Jon to loosen his hold and Lizzie took the opportunity to remove herself from his lap.

“Being mean to me,” Lizzie answered flippantly, rearranging her skirt and flopping down next to Jon on the sofa.

Mrs. Huckleberry gave her daughter a skeptical look; then turned her attention to Jon, “You can tell me what this is about or I can spank both of you until you tell me. Your choice.”

The threat was enough to make the choice a simple one, “Lizzie got suspended.”

“Jon! You promised you wouldn’t tell!”

“That was before...”

Mrs. Huckleberry considered the pair for a moment before saying, “So, you were going to spank her and not bother to tell me. And what, she’d spend the day with you so I’d think she was at school?” At Jon’s nod, she turned her questions on her daughter, “Exactly what did you get suspended for?”

“Skipping class,” Lizzie answered sullenly, still glaring at Jon.

“How long?”

“A week.”

“A week’s suspension for skipping class?” Her incredulity faded to comprehension as she looked from one to the other, “This isn’t the first time, is it?”

The two exchange guilty looks but admitted nothing.

“Alright, you were going to punish her. Let’s see then. Go on, don’t let me stop you.” She pulled up a seat to watch, continuing a litany of encouragement until Jon pulled Lizzie back over his lap.

“You will hardly make an impression on her if you leave her panties up. Come on now, do a proper job of it. You must know this little plan has earned you both a good caning. You want to do a good job of warming her up. Here, use the hairbrush.” The stream of encouragement continued until she judged Lizzie well enough spanked for the moment. Taking hold of Lizzie’s ear, she pulled the girl up and placed her nose in the corner.

Her lecture to Jon was short as she allowed the hairbrush to do most of the talking. Then she had them switch places, taking Lizzie over her lap for a brief second round.

With both bottoms warmed up, she had them bend, side-by-side, over the end of the bed. Figging and a thorough caning were in order for this scheme.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Immersion

This is a short sci-fi story I initially thought I would expand into a series.  But I think it stands well enough on its own and I've found I'm really much better at writing short stories than longer series.  Enjoy!


She was standing in the corner, trembling slightly.  Her skirt was held up around her waist and she could feel her panties pressing into the soft flesh of her thighs.  She could hear him moving behind her – footsteps that foreshadowed the spanking to come.  Goosebumps broke out on the bare skin of her bottom.  The paddle, he said he would use the…

Abruptly, the corner she was standing in disappeared.  Her form was in the center of the seemingly endless white room that was the nexus between Immersion and reality.

“Computer, I didn’t request to end the…” before she could finish, the voice of her secretary broke in.

“Brianna, you have a dinner meeting with your publisher this evening.  And an interview with that WorldTimes reporter.”

That broke her back into reality like the change in surroundings had not.  “What time is it?”

“I left you time to plenty of time to shower and change, but you’ll have to…”

Before she could finish the thought, Brianna had started the transfer.  The transfer took nearly five minutes, only the last of which she became aware of her actual body again.  Feeling returned to her extremities and she opened her eyes slowly.  Opening your eyes too quickly after Immersion could make a person queasy or even sick.  Using the handholds in the tank, she pushed her body upwards.  The viscous liquid she had been floating in came away from her skin without leaving a residue.  Still, she would take a shower to get rid of the feeling of it.

She padded to the shower without bothering to put on clothes or a towel.  After all, no one but her secretary would enter this chamber.  Her body was taller than her guise and more filled out.  Of course, in her current simulation she was playing a younger character so the difference was necessary.  Even when she was not playing a character, her guise was always shorter.

She stepped into her shower, absently turning the dial on.  Water shot out from all four walls so that she had only to move slightly to get clean everywhere.  A foamy soap spray followed, then another blast of pure water.  Warm air was the last part of the shower.  A slot opened, revealing a hairbrush.  She combed through her hair even as the air dried it.

She went from the shower not into the Immersion room, but into her office.  Her secretary had laid out her clothes there.  She pulled on the black dress first.  It was a simple thing, dressy enough for an interview without being flashy – the boatneck revealed just the right amount of collarbone, the long sleeves perfect for fall weather, the waist was tailored to fit perfectly, and the skirt was cut a bit fuller than was stylish this season, but so much more flattering to her figure.

She slid into flat shoes, much like ballet slippers.  As the shoes conformed to her feet, her secretary entered.  The woman took a long look at her before starting on her face with makeup.

“You always get such dark circles under your eyes when you Immerse.  You really shouldn’t, you know, before you have appointments like this.”

Brianna sighed, “I had to, and you know it.  The only way to make sure my characters are interacting properly is to test them.”

“But you might have done it this morning, giving your face a chance to recover.  Or yesterday.  That would have been even better.”

“I was busy yesterday, Sally.”

“Busy!  Phaw, you weren’t busy.  You were out shopping.”

“Aww,” but Brianna stopped making excuses and allowed Sally to finish her makeup.  Then she twirled about and smiled, “How do I look?”

Sally’s face softened and she smiled, “Like a fairy princess.”

“I’m supposed to look like a successful Immersion author, remember?”

Sally chuckled, “That too, my dear.  That too.”

*     *     *


Brianna entered the restaurant hopeful that this would be a good interview.  She hated giving interviews, but knew them to be necessary.  Her work already had a large following, but to push her newest series off the shelves, she needed an excellent interview.  Despite some success in the adult market with single storylines, she was extremely nervous about this series.  A series was a greater investment of time and money, for both her and the consumer.  The consumer needed to be confident that they would love the series.

The night did not start off well.  Concentrating on her smile – since Sally and others had always told her that was her best feature – she tripped just as she reached the table.  It was a decidedly ungraceful fall onto the table, even she could see that.  Water sloshed out of the glasses, both men had to stand up quickly to avoid being dampened.  Waiters descended upon the table to set things at rights.  By the time everything had been mopped up and the three of them had taken their seats, Brianna wished she could be back in her Immersion tank or even just back in her office…anywhere but here.

“Brianna, this is Mel Zercher.  He writes for the WorldTimes, as you know.”  Nathan introduced the writer.

Brianna managed to find her smile again and offer it to Mel.  “Pleased,” she murmured politely.

“As am I, Miss Sherard.  I’ve done reviews covering much of your work.  Mr. Gossman tells me this work is going to be very exciting.”

Brianna smiled.  A waiter returned to collect their drink orders, saving her from answering immediately.  After the man left, Nathan answered for her.

“This will be the first exclusively adult series commercially available.  As you know, there are several teen series available.  In fact, Brianna authored one of the most successful, based on an old comic book, actually.  You’re familiar with the Archie and Veronica Immersion Series?”

“But of course.  I haven’t written a review on that one – youth isn’t my normal topic – but my niece and nephew both insist on having every new x-pac available.  But this new one, have you decided on a title yet?”

Brianna looked over at Nathan.  The producer nodded, so Brianna replied, “We’re calling it Assville.”

“You’re really well versed in 20th Century History, aren’t you Miss Sherard?”

Brianna smiled, blushing just a bit.  Some people would say her head was stuck in 20th Century.  He made it sound so much more useful and reasonable.  “Yes.  My university degree is in 20th Century History.”

“Is it?  Can we expect a faithful representation of that fictional neighborhood, then?”

“I’m afraid not.  With newsgroup characters, it is hard to track down the right people to credit for their creations.  The name itself passed into public domain many years ago…though of course it’s under copyright now.  The characters are all my personal creation.”

“And what sorts of characters should we expect to see?”

Brianna checked with Nathan again.  Another nod, so Brianna took a deep breath and plunged into description of her favorite characters.  “There is Mr. Meyers, a cranky older gentleman with a penchant for chasing miscreants out of his yard and into his office for a good spanking.  And the Three Brats, of course, Jessica, Ashley and Brittany – those three girls were given the most popular girl’s names from 1990, you see – eighteen-year olds who are constantly in and out of trouble, much to the amusement of the neighborhood.   Each of them has a family, naturally.  The parents have different ideas of justice.”  She paused, “I’ve an assortment of single adults as well, some of them have their own homes – the rest live in an apartment complex.  The apartment complex has a very strict couple as its supervisors – Mary and David – top names from 1950.

“Any spanking neighborhood would not be complete without three high schools – all girls, all boys, and mixed.  And a mixed university.  Only the all-girls high school has a complete cast of characters, but the others will be completed in the x-pacs.  Like any Immersion series, you’ll be able to watch – admittedly, few people do just that.  Or you can take the place of one of the characters in a written scene.  Freestyle play is also available, take your own guise or take that of one of the established characters and interact based on personality and AI scripting.”

“Any plans for a truly interactive version?  The Archie and Veronica series is open online, isn’t it?”

Nathan answered, “The Archie and Veronica series is online, yes.  Regarding the placement of Assville online, well, we’re still working out the details.  You can be sure that we are considering that possibility.  The opening pack will come with multiplayer capabilities, so you will be able to play with a few of your closest friends.”

“Or your more distant friends,” Brianna added slyly, “If you’d rather.”

Mel grinned at her before asking his next question, “How many storylines are included in the opening pack?”

Brianna looked at Nathan and he answered, “We’ll be including thirty complete storylines.  Additional storylines will be available in each x-pac.  We choose to include only thirty as a balance between getting a feel for all the characters and initial cost.  This allows customers to try the opening at lower cost, though we’re certain everyone will want to buy the x-pacs as well.  In fact, Brianna has already written the material for the first x-pac.  It will be released shortly after opening.”

Food arrived, allowing a break in the questioning.  Brianna was distracted, watching Mel to see if she could guess at his reaction to her.  She tried to judge her performance.  Initial setback aside, it was going fairly well.  Once their meal was cleared away and coffee served, Mel returned to his questions.

“Are you planning a Beta release?  Or a test-market release?”

Nathan fielded this question as well, “No.  Brianna has established a market with her single storyline Immersion stories.  And as you know, Outlandish Productions has stabilized the engines for Immersion series.  In fact, Outlandish is the largest producer of Immersion series in the League.”

“Of course.” Mel said smoothly, “Will we be seeing any of the characters from the single storylines again in the Assville series?”

“A few.  That’s the reason the all-girls school is fully characterized.  Most of my single storylines have been set in an all-girls school.  These characters only needed a little modification to fit into their new local.”

“Even with the stable engine, isn’t someone needed to test the interaction between characters in freestyle mode?”

“I have a team that does the initial testing, to catch any glaring personality problems.  Once the storyline is stable, as it is now, I run through a series of testing personally.”  Brianna said with a little smile, her thoughts going back to the last moments in the Immersion tank.

“You do your own testing?”

“Yes, I find it exhilarating.”

Mel’s eyes narrowed as he studied her face, “Is it healthy to spend that much time in the ‘tank?”

“I limit myself to thirty hours a week.”  Brianna took a sip of coffee so that she did not have to look at Mel or Nathan.  She could tell from Mel’s tone that he disapproved of her dedication, and she already knew that Nathan did not agree with the amount of time she spent Immersed.

Nathan smoothly moved the conversation to publication and release details, all information he could provide.  Brianna found her thoughts wondering back to the scenario she had been playing in.  Hours of playing and she only just now managed to get Mr. Meyers to threaten the paddle.  Perhaps his personality matrix was not quite cranky enough.  He was quick to give a spanking, but he always stopped far before she thought he ought to.  Of course, she knew that this sort of play was preferable to some people.

Mel was thanking her for the interview.  Brianna brought her mind back to the present with effort.  Nathan stood up and shook hands with the reporter.  Brianna might have stood as well, but Nathan rested a hand on her shoulder, effortlessly keeping her seated.  Mel bowed and gave her a flamboyant kiss on the hand, then he left the restaurant.

Nathan sat down again, “We need to talk, Brianna.”

“About what, Nathan?”  Brianna arranged her features into a look of innocence.  It was not nearly so easy to do this with her own body as it was to do in guise.

“You’re going over your limit, Brianna.”

Brianna shook her head, “You can check the tank, Nathan.  I’m not.”

“I did check the tank, Bri.  Then I talked to Sally.  You told her some story about double-checking your storylines with another person’s code.  You wanted to make sure the storyline wasn’t reacting to your personal code.  So she’s been logging on for you.  Between the two codes, you’re logging about sixty hours a week.

“Of course, after hearing Sally’s story, I got curious.  So I checked the tank for other codes, Bri.  There were at least three other codes on the tank.  Now, they were showing ten hours apiece…but you’re logging nearly three times your limit, Brianna.”

“Nathan, I’ve got to get this finished.”

“The release date isn’t that important, Brianna.  Besides, the storyline is finished.  The characters are fine.  Your first x-pac is completed as well.  You could take several months off and not affect the series.”

Brianna bit her lip and looked at the table.

“But you can’t, can you Bri?  Are you Immerse-addicted?”

“I’m not addicted, Nathan.  I just…”

“Are you sure?”

“You mean you didn’t check with my psychologist before embarking on this tirade, Nathan?  You know my profile as well as I do, I don’t have the sort of addictive personality that leads to Immerse-addiction.”

“So…” he left the question hanging.

“I like it,” Brianna whispered.

“Everyone likes Immersing, Bri, that’s what makes it such an excellent market.”  Nathan stopped talking, though his mouth kept working.  Finally, he said, “Oh.”

Brianna crossed her arms, “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know, Nathan.  Do you think I spent years developing this series simply because I saw a market for it?  There is a market for a series set in a lesbian world too, but you don’t see me writing that one, do you?”

“Calm down, Brianna.  People are starting to stare.”  He paused, taking a deep breath, “I think I know how to help, come on.”

Nathan keyed in his credit, paying for the meal.  Then he stood up and took Brianna’s hand.  They walked out of the restaurant and down the street like any other normal couple on a pleasant evening.  They paused in front of an apartment building and Nathan keyed open the door.  The elevator took them upstairs and into a beautifully decorated apartment

“You’ve got a nice apartment, Nathan.  But how is showing it to me going to help?”

Nathan said nothing.  He pulled her over to the sofa and sat down.  After considering her for a moment, he pulled her across his lap.  She said nothing, just tensed slightly in anticipation.  He pulled the bottom of her dress up, revealing her plain underwear.  Then he tugged the tight little panties down to her knees.  He rubbed his hand in small circles on her bottom.

“I’ve wanted to spank you so many times, Brianna.  Every time you spent too many hours in the ‘tank.  Every time you showed up late to an interview.  Every time you ‘forgot’ to call me back.”  He snorted, “But we talked so much about markets and adult interests.  I thought you simply wanted to break into the adult market and didn’t care what you had to write to do it.  I should have seen that your interest was real.  I should have noticed it in all the sly comments you’ve made.  But I was so convinced, and so wrong.  That changes now.”

Reality, it seemed, could be as good as fantasy…

Monday, June 21, 2010

FMS - A scene with Miss Chris

To finish my weekend at FMS, I had a lovely roleplay with Miss Chris Monday morning.  This is my version of events, with a few comments/thoughts where I couldn't help myself.

Miss Chris had decided upon an Aunt-niece roleplay.  Me, as a college student, spending the summer on the beach with my Aunt.  Naturally, I’ve been running around on the beach, getting drunk, mouthing off to people, fooling around with boys, and such.  She had set out a bar of soap, an evil little paddle with a hole in it, a bath brush, and … at least a cane, maybe more.  She said I needed to learn to respect her and insisted I answer with “ma’am" - something I had wanted to try.

When we started into the scene, I couldn’t think of much to say (typical), but I can always roll my eyes and sigh – that comes entirely too naturally.  Miss Chris had me stand up and she took off my glasses.  I think I rolled my eyes and looked away at something she said…and she slapped me!

(When Jenni had talked about being smacked such, I cringed inside, even though she said she liked it.  Slaps to the face scream trailer-park domestic violence, which is totally not my headspace, to me in a way that nothing else does.  If it hadn’t been Miss Chris, I think I would have hit the door running; twice as fast if it had been anyone male.  Perhaps it is primarily in the M/f context that it squicks me.  But, at least in this instance, that wasn’t my response at all.  It made me feel…almost submissive.  It sure as hell got my attention!  And I maybe kinda liked it…at least in this limited application.)

Dang, that got my attention nearly as well as taking my ear does…maybe even more so.  And she did that too, of course.  (And yeah, I so love that.)  But the face-slap probably did more to put me in the scene than anything else.  She also took the tawse to my palms, which I love, but which puts me further into that shaky, submissive mindset.

So I followed my ear willingly to the bedroom, where she took me over her knee using her hand and that evil paddle.  I can attest to the fact that her hand is fully recovered from the unfortunate fire incident!  I think I hovered; I was sensitive from a long weekend of spanking, not that she stopped!

Then, even though I had paid attention and not said anything naughty at all, she had me follow her into the bathroom for that miserable bar of soap.  Yuck!  And what am I supposed to do, talk around the bar of soap?  I didn’t figure I wanted to touch the soap any more than absolutely necessary…but she kept asking me questions!  When she took the soap out and let me rinse – that was worse!  I had managed to keep my tongue from it too much, but when I rinsed – soap everywhere.  Yuck again!  (I think I can skip the soap in the future; the threat is more than sufficient.)

I think she caned me next.  I don’t really know for sure as it gets a little foggy here – and painful.  Did I mention I was tender from the weekend?  I know Miss Chris paused to attempt a picture of the blood spatter pattern she created with the cane, but I don’t think the picture came out.  She ended the scene by taking me back over her lap and using a bath brush.  (I think...things are seriously fuzzy at this point.)

I got into a very good headspace in the scene.  An intense scene, it rather surprised me.  I loved the “yes, ma’am” and “no, ma’am” aspect, even if it is very hard for me to keep up.  I love having my ear taken, something I discovered in Atlantic City.  I don’t know what Miss Chris does, but no one else takes my ear like she does.  The slap startled me into the scene, which was rather unique and very expected.  And the tawse, really, need I even say anything?  (I know, it's a quirky addiction I have.  If you don't share this addiction, I'm fairly certain that it's impossible to explain.)

As always, a well played scene with a wonderful lady.

Friday, June 18, 2010

Summary Justice

This story was originally posted on Devlin O'Neill's Blog, exactly one year ago.


Fate has granted me one small favor today – your secretary has left early, your outer office is empty.  I cannot expect this discussion to go well, but at least she won’t see me cry.  I’ve seen you reduce other attorneys to tears when you deliver a stern lecture from the bench.  It isn’t that you yell, of course, but your disappointment is evident in your tone and expression.  I’ve had tears well up in my eyes, as I sit in the back of your courtroom – and that’s when your scold isn’t directed at me.

No doubt I should have told you about the error sooner.  If I hadn’t set the motion aside to “deal with later,” I wouldn’t have gotten myself into this mess.  Even if I had simply owned up to my forgetful procrastination as soon as I had noticed it, surely that would have been better.  As a last resort, I might have told you before it blew up into an argument with the other attorneys.  I force down all my excuses and wishful thinking.  I didn’t do any of the things I ought to have done, but you can still fix the problem.  I need only endure your lengthy lecture, apologize profusely, and obtain your signature on the remedial order – the problem will be resolved, I can smooth things over with the attorneys, and my guilt will dissipate.

I carry the case file in one hand, the order I’ve prepared carefully placed on top.  I’ve dressed carefully for this confession – wearing a short flippy skirt and matching jacket.  Semi-professional, but with my hair pulled into a high pony-tail and curling down my back, I hope to remind you of my youthful vulnerability.  To complete the outfit, I’m wearing the mary-jane style Sketchers that always make you smile because your teenage niece has a similar pair.

When I enter your office, you give me a look that makes my knees weak.  I’ve seen that look directed at wayward attorneys and cocky witnesses; I expected this response, but the ferocity of having it directed at me is overwhelming.  My prepared explanation flees before I say a word.

“What happened?  I’m sure I gave you this motion some time ago.”

Six months, I can see your handwritten, dated note clearly despite the fact that it is attached to the motion buried in the file I’m holding.

“I . . . . you said there was no rush, so I set it aside.”

“I meant that you didn’t need to drop everything to finish it.  I did not intend for you to set it aside for six months, then proceed to infuriate both attorneys with your sarcasm and total disregard for procedure.  Did you know they have both complained?  Mr. Bath sent me an email and Mark stopped by this afternoon.  What were you thinking?”

I press my lips together.  I have nothing to say, no excuse that will end this lecture.  My offhand remarks have already compounded the trouble I am in here.  My eyes feel hot with unshed tears and I am certain my face has gone red.  I catch my lower lip between my teeth in an effort to stall the tears.

“Sit,” you command, even as you stand and move towards the door.  I do as you direct, sitting in one of the chairs opposite your desk.  I listen as you close the door that separates your secretary’s office from the hall, then the door to your chambers.  It’s nearly four o’clock on a Friday afternoon; surely you know that no one will venture up to your top floor office when you aren’t the on-call judge.  Even so, I appreciate the privacy as much as I dread it.  I wish you would actually yell, then I could lose my temper in my own defense.  But there is no defense to your solemn disapproval.  At least it will be over soon.

“You’ve written the order?”  Suddenly, you are standing next to me – too close, too tall, and entirely too imposing.

With shaking hands, I offer the order, my throat too tight to speak.  You stand in front of your desk, leaning your weight against the solid wood top.  You cross your ankles as you read through the document, the very image of calm.

“That, at least, is up to your usual standard.”  You lean back on one hand, dropping the order near your computer and taking up a single sheet of paper.  I can see that it is a printout of an email.  I know at a glance that the email is the response I sent to the attorneys.  Frustrated, annoyed with my mistake, and throwing a little tantrum, I had violated my personal email rule of “never put something in an email you don’t want everyone to read.”

Seeing that I’ve recognized the email, you pull it back to consider it.  “I’ve never heard you talk like this – thank God, or I’d have been looking for a bar of soap a long time ago – but you’ll put this in writing?  Knowing full well it could be forwarded to anyone?”

I can only look away, finding a spot of floor to stare at as I force myself to remain calm.  You haven’t any idea the effect you have on me when you say these things.  I know it is just the generation-gap that makes you so matter-of-fact about punishments that had fallen into disfavor before I was born.  I might have braced myself for the lecture, but I had forgotten the way my tummy dropped whenever you said such things.  I am glad to be seated, but you startled me from my relief when your fingers take hold of my chin and turn my face towards your own.

“I am expecting an answer, young lady.”

“I didn’t mean,” my answer dies at the look in your eyes, “I just, I wasn’t thinking and I . . . I made a mistake, Judge.  It won’t happen again.”

“I certainly intend to ensure that it does not!  You realize that instead of forwarding this to me, either of them could have taken their complaint to the Court Administrator, the Chief Judge, or even the attorney discipline committee?”

“I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . .” I shook my head, “I’m sorry.”

“Not yet, but you will be.”

I open my mouth to respond but quickly close it when you flash a look at me.  I want to tell you that I am already sorry, that I will never do anything like that again, and that I might cry if you kept scolding me like a child.  But something in your eyes reminds me.  I know what happens when attorneys argue with you in this mood – your lectures get longer and the target of your frustration always ends up in tears.

“I could let them make their complaints.  You would probably lose your job, but I expect you would keep your license.  You could find another job, but I would miss you.  I would miss your clear-headed advice and your even clearer writing style.  I would have to train another new clerk, teach another new lawyer how different reality is from law school.  That would put me to a great deal of trouble, you know.”

“Yes sir.  I could, maybe I could apologize to them.  I’ll do anything to make this right, really.”

“Well, yes.  Mr. Bath would accept your heart-felt apology.  But Mark thinks something more is required.  Would you agree?”

“I . . .” my mind was racing.  What something more?  How could I agree without knowing?  And yet, how could I not?  I love my job, love working for you and the other judges, and certainly I do not want the taint of losing my job or facing a discipline committee.  “Whatever it takes,” I agree.

You shake your head, “Full disclosure, first, before you can agree.  I intend to give you a spanking you won’t soon forget.  Once you agree, there is no second chance…you’ll get every bit of the punishment you deserve…until I decide you’ve learned your lesson.  Still rather face me?”

I am not sure, but I agree readily enough.  I trust you, respect you, and maybe even have a tiny crush on you.  I am willing to do nearly anything, if only you’ll forgive me.  I ask only one question, “And they won’t make any formal complaints?”

“You will apologize to both of them, they will delete the email and forget this even happened.  You didn’t have any other plans tonight, did you?”

“I…”  I hesitate.  I don’t have plans, but I can hardly be expected to agree happily to an immediate spanking.  On the other hand, even if I did get you to believe a hastily developed story – I would only delay the inevitable.

“Nothing you can’t cancel, then.”  A hint of a smile flashes across your lips, no doubt you have a very good idea what I was considering.  As I watch, you take a seldom used side-chair from the other side of the room and carry it to the open area near your desk.  Seating yourself in the straight-backed wooden chair, you pat your lap and say, “Come here now.”

My tummy flips again.  You are really serious about this.  Sure, I’ve thought about it.  Fantasized about it, even, but I never imagined you would really . . . my thoughts are interrupted by your “If I have to get up and bring you over here, neither of us is going to be happy.”

Startled, I jump to my feet only to scramble to pick up the pen I have dropped.  After a quick glance at you, I place the file and recovered pen in the seat I have just vacated.  With hesitant steps, I walk to your side.  You simply watch me stand, again that ghost of a smile appears and I wonder what you find amusing.  Finally, you take my arm and pull me over your lap.

“You’ve never been spanked before, have you?”  Without waiting for an answer, you drop the first of many crisp swats on my skirt and say, “I’m just going to start with my hand.”

I feel as if I am frozen.  It feels so odd – the unusual position, the brisk but not yet uncomfortable swats.  Counter-intuitively, it feels safe – you are holding me tight around the waist, and I know you are doing this because you care.  My mixed emotions keep me silent and still even when you flip my skirt onto my back.  Your fingers trace the lacy edges of my panties and your hand smoothes my skirt before you take up spanking me again.

“That . . . um . . . that kinda hurts.”  Even as the words come out of my mouth I realize how trite the words sound and my face flushes.

“That is generally the idea behind a spanking, young lady.  It will hurt a good deal more before I’m finished here.”

As though your words were prophetic, it does begin to hurt more.   I cannot tell if your hand is striking with more force or if the cumulative effect of the swats is beginning to get to me; all I know is that it is becoming truly uncomfortable.  I wiggle, despite my best efforts to accept my punishment, but you only tighten your hold around my waist and spank on.

Another pause and my panties slide down my legs before I can even think to protest.  I wiggle harder as the spanks increase in strength and frequency.  You are lecturing now, but I must admit that I am not listening to your words.  I know why you are scolding me, so my answers and apologies are automatic.

My bottom is burning uncomfortably when you stop and help me to my feet.  Even so, I am a bit confused.  The spanking hurt, of course, but not as much as I had always imagined that it would.  I reach a hand back, seeking to slip under my skirt and feel the heat that must be radiating from my backside.

“No rubbing,” your command has me pulling both hands together in front of me.  “Take off your jacket and get my ruler from the desk.”

I begin to remove my jacket, still a bit dazed from my first spanking.  Halfway through, the impact of your directions reaches my brain.  You aren’t done spanking me . . . and you’re going to use your ruler to spank me.

I will never forget the first time I saw your ruler.  I was sitting in your office discussing the random case of the day when your court reporter popped in and asked if you had a ruler she could borrow.  The ruler you removed from the drawer was 18 inches long, made of dark wood, and thick enough to make any closet-spanko’s heart stop.  Your court reporter expressed some surprise at the size and wickedness of your ruler.  You responded by smacking the ruler hard against your palm and saying, “It’s good for smacking unruly children…among other things.”  I could have sworn you gave me an odd look as you said those words, but I later decided it was simply wishful thinking on my part.

“Go on, I’m sure you remember where I keep my ruler.”

I toss my jacket over a chair and stumble towards the desk.  Apparently my fascination had not gone unnoticed.

“Step out of your panties, too.  You won’t need them for awhile.”

I do as you directed, barely able to stop trembling enough to follow your simple directions.  I fumble with the desk drawer and take the ruler in my suddenly sweaty palm.  I manage the return trip with a bit more grace, but still have no idea what you expect of me when I return.  Thankfully, you take the ruler from my hand and guide me back over your lap.

This time, you lift my skirt before you began, so the first burning cracks of the ruler land on my bare bottom.  I complain while you scold and demand answers.  The few times I don’t answer, you drop the ruler lower on my thighs, inducing a hasty response.  Eventually, the combination of my whines, wiggles, and moans force you to give up the lecture and let the ruler do the talking.  The ruler was very persuasive; I felt like a well punished little girl before you help me back to my feet.

You stand up as well, lifting my skirt from my bottom and pushing me into the wooden chair you had recently occupied.  I try to protest, but you shush me and give me a look that kept me seated.  You retrieve the hateful email and place it in my hands.  Then you lean back onto your desk, crossing your ankles and watching me.

“Read it to me.”

“I don’t . . . I didn’t . . .” I protest, unable to explain my objection clearly with my burning bottom pressed onto a wooden chair and the evidence of my misbehavior in my hands.

“You wrote it, young lady, now I expect you to read it.  Do you need another round with the ruler?”

Well, that convinces me, even though I was extremely reluctant to read the curse-riddled missive aloud.  The message would not have been professional even without those particular words, but I knew without being told that you would not appreciate my word choice.  I try skipping the first four letter word, but you interrupt, telling me that was not how you remembered it and I would do best to read exactly what I had written.  I follow your direction, wincing at the tone of the email and cursing myself with every curse I read out.  I am sure the email was not a tenth of that length when I typed it out during my temper tantrum.

“Do you know what happens to naughty little girls who use that kind of language?”

“Um, they get spanked?”  I offer hesitantly.

“That too, of course, and we will return to that shortly.  But naughty young ladies who spew that sort of filth need their mouths washed out with soap, wouldn’t you agree?”

“No!”  I most certainly did not agree and I start to stand up in response to your statement.

“Sit yourself right back down, young lady.”  Your glare ensures that I do exactly as I was told, “And you can sit there and think about it while I get the soap.”

You disappear into the small bathroom attached to your chambers while I sit as though attached to the chair.  I had heard you mention this remedy for cursing miscreants whenever such appeared in your courtroom, but I had never imagined it was more than a joke or a less-than-fond memory from your childhood.  But as I listen to the water running in the bathroom, the remote possibility took on a frightening reality.  You return to the office, working a wet washcloth against a bar of soap.  I can smell the scent of Ivory soap and something akin to real terror keeps me perfectly still in the chair.

“Relax,” you say soothingly as you approach, “This won’t even hurt and it only takes a few minutes.  It won’t be a pleasant few minutes, of course, and I expect you’ll remember it, but you will be fine.  Open up for me.”

I shake my head.  All you have to do was raise an eyebrow and I do as you had asked.  Immediately the soapy rag is inside my mouth, spreading the disagreeable taste of Ivory over my tongue and lips.  I want to beg you to stop, but my mouth is full and it was all I can do to keep from gagging.  My eyes fill with tears before you decide you had cleaned all the filth from my mouth.  You take hold of my arm and pull me from the chair, marching me into the small bathroom.

“Rinse,” you say, handing me a cup that was half-full of water.  I would probably have remained at the sink for the rest of the evening, attempting in vain to remove the soap taste from my mouth, but you soon direct me back into the office.

“Please, sir, I’ve learned my lesson.  Really I have.  Please?”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you said, the humor of your statement lost when I realize that means there would be more spanking.

Still firmly grasping my arm, you bypass the chair and go instead to your desk.  It only takes a gentle shove and a few softly spoken commands to have me bent over the desk, grasping the far side with my hands, my feet neatly spread, and my bottom thrust into the air.  You flip my skirt out of the way and examine my backside thoroughly with your hands.

I turn to look at you when I heard the clink of your belt buckle and the swoosh of its passage through your belt loops, “No . . . please sir . . . please don’t . . .”

“Hush, now.  You know you’ve earned more than the warm-up I’ve given you.”

I press my forehead against the cool wood of the desk in resignation and you place your free hand on the small of my back.  When the first burning stripe hit, I yelp and try to stand up.  You prevent that easily enough, murmuring a combination of threats and reassurances until I resume my position.  I hold that position throughout the strapping, though I protest loudly until tears threaten.  When I have given myself over to the tears and my bottom is throbbing and red, you finally stop.  I hardly notice your disappearance until you return with a cool, blissfully Ivory-free rag which you use to wipe my face until I quiet.

“There now,” you say as you help me to my feet, “Put yourself together and we’ll meet Mr. Bath and Mark for dinner, you can make your apologies tonight and put all this behind you.”

I know we will meet them at the local tavern you favor for after-work drinks and meals.  I know that the two attorneys are kind enough to have saved a high-top table for us, because that is where you always choose to sit.  And it would not be long before I know why your favorite place for dinner has high wooden stools with no foot rests.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Another short story

She was curled into her desk chair in what she thought of as her “writing position.”  It looked as though she sat cross-legged in her chair, then pulled her left knee up to her chest and wrapped her arm around it.  Often, as now, she rested her cheek against her raised knee.  Her attention was on her laptop screen, her only movement slow clicks of her mouse or rotations of the scroll wheel.  Her quiet reflection was interrupted by his call from the hallway.

“Elizabeth Nicole Huckleberry!”

Two quick clicks and her computer screen blanked.  In the same moment, her chair spun around and her stockinged feet fell to the floor.

“I wasn't doing anything!” the automatic response was tinged with worry; he did not use her full name if that were true.

He fought back a smile as he leaned on the door frame, “Perhaps not just now, though I have my doubts about that...  Regardless, I promised you a discussion about FetLife, remember?”

“Mike!  It's not my fault you're easily distracted!”

“That is no longer the point, young lady.  My office, now.”

She eyed him speculatively without saying a word.  Her stillness suggested she was considering her options – jump and run or try to wheedle her way out of whatever he had in mind.  He took the decision from her by taking the few steps to her side and grasping her ear.  With that motivation, he had no difficulty propelling her down the hall to his office.  When he released her to close the door, she stepped back and dropped onto the arm of a chair, rubbing her ear.

“That was hardly necessary,” she began, but changed her tactic upon seeing his face.  “Fine, we'll discuss it.  I'll sit here and you,” she waved a hand toward the couch, “sit over there.”

“Haven't I warned you about sitting on my chairs like that?  The arm was not designed for you to sit on.”

With a huff, she flung herself back into the seat, leaving her legs sprawled over the arm of the chair.

“If you want to lie down, we can have this discussion with you over my knee.”

“No,” the yelp was simultaneous with her change in position.  By the time he seated himself on the sofa opposite her, she had resumed her “writing position” in the armchair.

“Now, do you remember what I found on your profile when I first looked at FetLife?”

“Yeah, but I took all that off when you bit...uh, complained about it.  You've seen it!  No identifiable pictures, no personal information...why do we need to discuss it?”

“I've changed my mind.”  Before she knew what he was about he had pulled her from the chair and over his lap.  “We're obviously going to end up in this position anyway.  We may as well begin as we mean to go on.”  Once he was satisfied with her position, he neatly folded her pleated skirt over her back and began peppering sharp swats on her panty-covered bottom.

“I refuse to accept your 'no harm no foul' analysis, Lizzie.  You know better than to put that kind of information up on a website, don't you?”

“I was just playing...”

“Would it have been a game if someone from work had come across your profile?”

“Well, ow, they would have to have logged into the site to find it, right?  So maybe, ouch.”

“Would it have been fun if some stalker had all that information to find you?  Or blackmail you with?”

“I wasn't, ow, thinking of that.  Stop it – I've learned my lesson.”

“Not hardly, brat.  In fact, I think these are getting in the way of your lesson.”  The offending panties removed, he continued his steady spanking.

“Ah...  Mike...  Come on, I fixed it already!”

“The issue is not the current state of your profile; it's that you posted all that stuff to being with!  Plus, the profile was just the tip of the iceberg, young lady.  Do you give any thought to the groups your join or the comments you make?”

“Huh?”  She pushed up and twisted to look at him, seemingly oblivious to his continued smacking of her bare bottom, “What are you talking about?”

His eyebrow rose as he paused to consider his stinging hand, her red bottom, and her apparent lack of concern.  Finally, he shook his head and helped her up, “You can think about it while you stand in the corner.  I want you to think hard about how you would feel about experiencing all the things you talk so blithely about online.  Go on,” he turned her about and nudged her towards the corner, “you may get more than you bargained for, brat.”

She stood in the corner shaking a bit.  Not from the hand-spanking, which had been little more than a warm-up, but from her thoughts.  Her thoughts raced through the discussions she had participated in recently on FetLife.  Mike was right, she had been blithely discussing a number of things she was not keen to experience – certainly not all at once, definitely not right now, and maybe not at all!

Many of her discussion posts had been sparked from reading his stories, but she did not expect that excuse to get her very far.  Other posts involved things she had thought about, but never dreamed to actually attempt.  A few others were outliers – things she had no interest or intention ever to try.  Surely he would gravitate towards the material from his stories, she hoped, though even that would include a number of things she had not intended to experience today.

“Come here, Lizzie.”

She obeyed the summons after taking a quick breath, as she was relieved to leave the corner and her thoughts behind.  He patted his lap and she made a face, “Come on, Mike, you already spanked me!”

“Not nearly enough, brat, and you know it.  But no, sit here a minute.”

She sat on his lap just as though she had not had a sound hand-spanking minutes before, though she did wiggle a bit.  Deprived of her usual position, she rested her cheek against his shoulder and pulled her arms close to her chest.

“You aren't going to do all, all those things I've written about, are you?”

The rumble of his laughter surprised her, “Goodness no, Lizzie.  We haven't hardly enough time for all of them.”

“Ok,” her relief was obvious, but her thumb slipped between her teeth for a moment before she said, “What are you going to do?”

He watched her as she chewed on her thumbnail, waiting until she squirmed before he answered, “First, we are going to discuss the general tone of your posts.”  When she regarded him speculatively, he added, “And your word choice.”

“Ah hell, Mike.  You can't expect me to use perfect grammar online.  And what's the matter with my word choice?  It's just that, choice, isn't it?”

“I certainly can and do expect you to be aware of how your writing reflects on you, Lizzie.  Poor grammar suggests a lack of intelligence or education...neither of which you are deficient.  And you've just demonstrated the word choice I'm talking about, young lady.”

“But it's just online...”

“That just now, Lizzie, was demonstratively not 'just online.'”

She muttered a response that sounded remarkably similar to another of those four-letter words.

“Elizabeth Nicole,” Mike said sharply, “Do you want to repeat that so I can hear it?”  At her frantic headshake, he continued, “And I don't believe  I would be wrong in saying that I am not the only person to discuss this matter with you, am I?”

She looked away and shook her head.

“Tell me, then, what have others tried to break you of this habit?”

“Mostly spanked me,” the response was uttered just above a whisper and around the thumb she worried at with her teeth.

“On your bare bottom?”

“Um huh, and on my palms.”  She tucked her free hand under her armpit as she made the admission.

Mike ignored the unspoken attempt to downplay the second punishment method.  Instead he pulled her hand out and traced the palm lightly with his fingers, “Whose idea was that?  And what did he use?”

“Miss Chris,” came the quiet response, though Lizzie's voice was altered by suppressed laughter as she added, “She used a tawse.”

“No marks?” he took her other hand, gently removing her thumb from her mouth, and gave the palm a similar inspection.

“No, but it hurt like a son-of-a...I mean, it really hurt.”

“And yet you persist...”

“I do not!  See how I just didn't?”

He shook his head, “Simply amazing.  A college education, a J.D. - you're a licensed attorney, even – and your vocabulary begins and ends with four-letter words.”

“Does not!  You're just being mean.”

“I haven't even begun to be mean, young lady.  That will wait until after your switching.”

“My what?  You can't!”

“Of course I can.  You don't want a caning instead, do you?”

“I don't know, do I?  I'm not in the position to compare the two.”

At that he laughed, “Which haven't you tried, then?  You write convincingly enough about both.”

“I am well read,” she said, neatly avoiding the question.

“If you aren't going to tell me, you may end up with a comparison.”

“That's hardly fair – obviously whichever you do second will be worse!”

“Both it is, then.”

“No, no, no!  Mike, please!  I was only teasing.  I've never been switched.”

“Really?”

“Honest, Mike...please.  Canes are easier to travel with, I guess.”

He lifted her off his lap and fished a pocketknife out of his pants.  She took it with a quick, “Was that what I felt?  I thought you were just happy to see – ow!”

“Get going, brat.  You had better pick out half a dozen or so – since we are experimenting here.”

“Half a...six?  Are you out of your mind?”

“No more than you are, Lizzie.  You are the one digging the hole when you are already plenty deep...”

“But Mike...I dunno what I'm supposed to be looking for...”

“You are well read, remember?  I have every confidence that you can pick out something appropriate.  Now go,” he pointed to the door, “If I have to pick them out, I will use every last one until it breaks.”

As she opened the door, he heard a distinct “Fuck that” from her lips.  He could only roll his eyes and shake his head.  Lizzie pushed buttons, enjoyed the consequences, pushed a few more buttons, and generally came out grinning; but he knew that if he pushed himself, she would sit carefully for at least few hours.  And while she was always affectionate and grateful after a spanking, the further he pushed her, the greater the reward.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Almost Punishment

I can rarely get into the punishment headspace, even in a roleplay, because I love the sensation of being spanked!  As one of my friends is fond of saying – “If you look up ‘pain slut’ in the dictionary, there’s a picture of Lizzie.” – because I always grin when he’s spanking me.  It’s hard to feel punished when someone is doing exactly what you crave them to do.

I got close to that discipline headspace, however, when I did a “kinky” dean-student scene on Friday night at FMS.  Of course I played a student who wasn’t living up to her potential, partying too much, or some such nonsense.  It was a fairly standard scene, allowing that the Dean was strapping his wayward student (hello, Friday night!).

Midway through the scene, he paused, got some ice, and ran it over my bottom and thighs, which caused it to melt and run down my legs, as you might expect.  At this point, he realized the scene had gotten a little “kinky” and our banter changed.  Instead of “you wouldn’t be getting spanked if you hadn’t been so naughty” the lecture turned to “if you hadn’t been so naughty, we would be enjoying a nice good-girl spanking…and other nice things…instead of this!”  Not those words, of course, but that sort of theme.

Even as I laughed inside, the scene changed for me.  This was more real (yeah, it’s a little scary inside my head).  But it was a scene appropriate, if somewhat disturbing in the light of day, way of turning something I love – spanking – into something that almost felt like punishment.  The stereotypical, “I wish I didn’t have to do this and I’m sure you’re unhappy I’m doing it,” falls flat with me – I love being spanked and I don’t really want someone to do it if they aren’t enjoying it too!

But this scene turned that sideways, attacked it from a different angle, played with it in a unique way.  Because, yeah, there are other types of spanking I enjoy…and while I enjoyed this, it got the punishment feel because he had set me thinking of other possibilities.

Monday, June 14, 2010

Assistant Principal (Jon series)

A random discussion with a friend led to my writing this short story:

“Mr. Huckleberry was looking for you, Lizzie.  He wants you to stop by his office after school.”  The casualness of my teacher’s statement did little to settle my unease.  My brother took his appointment as Assistant Principal entirely too seriously for my tastes, but he did take care to separate his job from his personal life.  My teacher may think his request was natural, but I knew I was in trouble.  The question was only ‘for what?’

“Where were you at 2:15 today, Lizzie?”

His first question left me with no doubt as to the problem, but I hedged, “Why?”

“Answer the question.”

“Well see…the thing is…my schedule has a little overlap…”

“I discovered the anomaly in your schedule today when I was looking for you.  Now where were you?”

“So you know the computer class I help with at the junior high goes until 2:20, but my music class starts here at 2:00…”

“Lizzie, I’ve seen your schedule.  I also know that you leave the junior high at 1:50 every day, so you can get back here for your music class.  But Mrs. Engler says you arrive at her class every day at 2:30, owing to the fact that you are helping at the junior high.  So I repeat my question – where were you?”

“Shit!”

“That’s hardly an appropriate response.  Where were you?”

I remained silent.

“Shall I turn this over to the principal?  You’ve been skipping out for half an hour every day this semester.  He’ll give you a paddling and suspend you from school, you have to know that.”

“Come on, Jon…you…”

“You will use a respectful form of address, young lady.”  He interrupted me.

I rolled my eyes, “But you’re my brother, why should I?”

“I am also the Assistant Principal.  And I didn’t miss those eyes, brat.  Do you really think that’s going to help your situation?”

“Johnny!”  I knew it wouldn’t help, but if he could use childish nicknames, so could I.  Without warning, he took a ruler from his desk and took my hand in one motion.  The ruler struck my palm three times in rapid succession before he repeated the performance on my other hand.

When he released my hand, I pulled back, rubbing my palms lightly together.  I took a quick breath, changed my mind and let it out.  When I spoke my voice shook, “You wouldn’t tell the principal, would you?  He really doesn’t like me much.”

“Meaning you’ve seen entirely too much of him this year?  You know you’ve earned more than the few swats over your jeans that I’m authorized to give.”

“Please?  If I’m suspended again, I’ll lose my scholarship.”  I couldn’t bring myself to call him ‘mister’, but I could stop goading him.

He considered me for a long time before offering, “You take a real paddling from me, and tell me where you’ve been spending your stolen time and what you’ve been doing…and I won’t report it.”

I rubbed my fingertips across the palms of my hands, alternating as I considered his offer.  Unfortunately, I knew my brother could deliver a good spanking.  And he had mentioned nothing about what would happen at home.  Even knowing he would give me a good strapping at home, there was no choice to be made.

“I want you to paddle me.  Please?”

He made me stand in the corner while he ensured that his secretary had left for the day.  I think he knew just how much I would rather get right to the spanking.  When he returned, he followed the school protocol, having me empty my back pockets and bend over his desk.

“We’ll start with the ten I will record.  You’re up to my max, you know.”

The horrible Spencer paddle made an impression even through my jeans.  But I knew the principal could, and probably would, have given me a solid twenty swats on my panties.  I was less sure what to expect from my brother.  He paused, helping me to my feet.  As I had expected, he had me pull down my jeans, revealing the blue girdle I wore instead of panties.

“No wonder you didn’t react to the first set.  But even with that protection, I think I’ll get a response from these.”

He had me back over his desk and he began another series with the paddle, depriving me of the ability to think.  I am sure that I reacted this time, though I am less sure what my reaction was.  I didn’t count; instead I focused on staying in position.  When he finished, I fell gratefully into his hug.  After standing there for a few minutes, I let him pull me onto his lap.  I nestled comfortably into his shoulder, safe.

Too soon, in my opinion, he broke the safety by asking, “And where have you been spending your time?”

With a sigh, I admitted, “At the park.”

“At the park,” he repeated, “What do you do at the park?”

“Hang out, I guess.”

He could tell I was hedging, though.  He pushed, “Exactly what do you do at the park?  What did you do today?”

“Talked to some friends.  Maybe smoked a bit.”

I could feel him shift as he sniffed at my hair, “These friends of yours smoke pot?”

“Maybe sometimes,” I answered as softly as I could.

“Drink some too?”

“Sometimes,” I answered again.

He shook his head, “Get on home, brat.  Tell Mom you’re coming over to my place for dinner tonight.  You can spend the night if you want.  You’re probably not going to feel like driving home after I’m finished with you.”

“But you just…”

“If I call your mother, as I would according to school policy, you know she’s going to ask me to come over and deal with you.  You want to get her all upset and have her watch while I strap you?  Or you want to come to my house directly?”

I snuggled into his shoulder for a moment before popping off his lap.  “I’ll be over tonight.”

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Reflections on FMS

After an incredible weekend at the Florida Moonshine party, I've spent the week reading blogs and reliving the adventure through my friends.  This doesn't completely counteract the post-party drop, but it helps.

It's fun to read another person's recollection of events.  Perhaps it is more fun when their recollection doesn't match your own - do you point out the differences or just sit back, giggle, and enjoy the story?  For myself, there is no way I could give a chronological description of events at FMS.  I tried to make some notes during the weekend and as I sat in the airport...both times I found myself stuck, thinking, "What did I do after that?"

Like every party, FMS was a collection of wonderful scenes and missed connections.  The scenes, whether watched or participated in, are bright moments of sensation and emotion, while the missed connections provide a sharp contrast of disappointment.  But there will be future parties, future opportunities to play out those scenes.

A few highlights of this year's party:

  • After waiting for He-Who-is-Always-Late to bring Craig and G from the airport, five of us went out to dinner Thursday night.  When the restaurant asked for a last name, there was an awkward silence before someone offered "Smith?"  The Smith party of 5 never returned because we decided to eat somewhere with a shorter wait.

  • During dinner, Craig and I became so involved with our iPhones (I'd gotten a new one the day before and he was teaching me stuff!  This was a legitimate distraction!) that we didn't even notice the rest of the table discussing our obsession.

  • Watching the exchange between Indy and Michael while Indy was over the spanking bench - she says I'm subversive, but her banter is amazing!

  • Craig's marvelous performance as "Creepy Craig", a short but memorable demonstration on when and how to tell someone no at a party.

  • Playing with Miss Chris after watching the pizza riot that wasn't (last year's pizza riot was much more exciting).  I didn't even DO anything, but Miss Chris was wonderful.

  • My last spanking Friday night, instigated when someone put the following question to a vote in a suite: "Should Lizzie go to bed or get one last spanking?"  I don't think anyone voted for me to go to bed!  And yeah, I'm glad I didn't go to bed.

  • Several pleasant walks on the beach, including one that ended in a wet-bottom spanking.

  • A particularly "kinky" dean-student scene which actually put me into a punishment head-space (more on that in a later blog, but this is an unusual phenomenon for me)

  • Several amazing scenes with Craig, probably, as he says "Some scenes are best left to the imagination."  I'll have to agree because I can rarely remember what happened well enough to write a description.  The heights he can take me to!  Right out of my head and into subspace.  What more can I say?

  • Sneaking into the hot-tub with Brad and Indy, to be joined later by others.  There is some disagreement about who instigated this adventure, but I'll go on record saying that it wasn't MY fault, despite any rumors you might hear.

  • "Finding" Jada - we weren't rooming together for the first time after several parties as roomies - it was great to reconnect and talk about everything.  We also got a laugh over the number of people who had asked if we'd had some sort of fight, resulting in our split as roommates.  (And no, there wasn't a fight or disagreement, it was just poor planning...which we're not doing anymore if we can help it.)

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Intro Post

After resisting blogging for what feels like years, I'm going to give this a try.  I also joined twitter today - technology is beating out my shyness.

This is primarily a blog about spanking and all things related to spanking.  You won't find pictures here - that's what FetLife is for, after all.  This is a place for random thoughts about spanking and the scene, and probably more than a few fiction pieces.