Getting over my 'difficulties'

My past few visits to HH have seen me arrive in an odd mood; last weekend was true to form. Despite looking forward to the visit and the weekend of play, despite having discussed scenes in advance, despite knowing on this occasion I was due a punishment as soon as I arrived (and had been worrying appropriately!), despite all this I refused to play. Not in a bratty, whiny way - just in a 'you must be kidding' type of way.

So we chilled for the evening and before bed I got a firm hand spanking which I just about coped with. The next day my punishment was duly delivered and I was as contrite and well disciplined as you can imagine. I had stopped being 'difficult', for a while at least and I felt at peace.

It lasted until bed-time, when HH reminded me that bed time spankings on the day of a punishment are always given with a hairbrush, hard. I tried not to be rebellious about it; I tried to be accepting. But as the hairbrush rained down so hard, biting my skin, I got angry: at the pain, at him, at the world. And semi intentionally went quiet, channelling my anger and frustration into breaking him into stopping. A few more whacks and I was let up. I had succeeded. If I was a clever girl  I'd have been very contrite, realised I got away slightly lighter than I should have and breathed a sigh of relief.

Unfortunately I'm not a clever girl: I stood up in a huff and pulled my knickers and pj bottoms up, without asking permission. (As you may recall from a previous post of mine, the asking of permission is a big deal in our play.) When he sat me on his knee and patiently told me off for being difficult I caved in - admitted that I knew I could manipulate him into stopping, that I was increasingly trying to top from the bottom.

He nodded, then put me back over his knee and hair-brushed me til I begged him to stop. Then hair-brushed me some more, until I was crying limply over his knee, not resisting anymore. To drive the message home he caned me on my thighs.

I really hoped that was the end of my being difficult. Discipline and obedience is my core kink - I can't allow myself to undermine HH's authority (that I imposed on him!) or we'll lose the dynamic that works in this type of play. And in other role pay we do, where I give myself totally to him and get lost in the depths of those feelings.

When we discussed scenes to play the next day this was heavy on my mind. I told him I wanted to be scared, to understand how fully in his power I could be, to beg for mercy and really mean it. I wanted to play with the disobedience and disappointment; my feelings, not his. My kink swings may frustrate him but he didn't feel he needed to make a point of it. Nor does he require my obedience because he wants it, but because he knows it's what I need.

To make it work on that level I wanted to be me in the scene: EJ. However, I knew this would cause a dilemma for HH, as he can't really be truly evil unless he's role-playing someone else. Therefore I suggested that I was to be sent to a master disciplinarian to be taught a lesson - that HH had sent me away to be broken and returned to him with a new attitude.

This led to a very interesting dynamic - I really felt that it wasn't HH I was paying with, especially as he taunted me about 'HH' during the scene. During the final pain and humiliation I actually begged out loud for HH; it was scary and weird all at once.

As he prepared the play room for the scene, I lay on the bed, worrying. I was trying to prepare myself for the pain ahead. Trying to talk myself into an accepting space. I knew if I got angry or defiant in the scene at all the consequences would be horrific.

When the time came he ordered me to strip naked. As I watched nervously, he attached cuffs to my ankles and wrists and a posture collar to my neck. The latter forced me to look up which was particularly cruel; I couldn't hide from his derision.

Upstairs the sight of the wooden pony made me feel ill. For those of you unfamiliar with it, below is an excerpt from the last blog post I wrote about it:

A narrow plank of wood suspended from the ceiling. One at a time we were placed straddling it, legs held apart with a spreader bar, wrists cuffed to an elastic rope above. As the plank was winched higher, our legs were too strained to support us and the pressure between our legs became unbearable.

The elastic above gave false hope. The more you pulled the lower it would drop down giving no relief.

At first the wood between my legs was bearable, eased slightly as I tried to sit back, leaning on my bottom, whilst he twisted and whipped my nipples and breasts. But then he made me sit less comfortably, by attaching clamps to my nipples and dragging me forward. This was the first of many times in the scene that I begged.

I tried hard to bear it - closed my eyes, bit my lips, tugged on the elastic above my head. Until I couldn't stand it anymore and the pain swelled to unbearable depths. (I really have no tolerance for nipple clamps!) At the point my begging became near hysterical he counted down from 20 so slowly it felt like each second was a minute. Finally he released each nipple by pulling the clamp off sharply, to a piercing scream from me; I sobbed pitifully.

When he raised the pony even higher a whole new wave of pain overcame me, my legs straining to tiptoe higher, my arms desperately pulling on the elastic. By the time he let me off the pony he had already broken me. What followed next was just gratuitous pain.

He lay me on my back on the bed, my legs suspended in the air with my ankles chained to the beam above. My thighs were completely exposed, pulled tight and at his full mercy. As he picked up the bean paddle I whimpered in fear. I hate the bean paddle. Imagine a small scale oar, the head about the size of a regular paddle with a longish handle. The head is thin and whippy and very shiny and it feels like the worst combination of a thin leather strap and a wooden paddle.

My fear was not in vain, the paddle whipped down on my thighs and crease until I screamed and sobbed and then could only whimper. In between his hands probed and hurt me with smacks raining down between my legs, on the front of my thighs, my breasts, my face - everywhere was game and I was powerless to stop him.

The final six with the paddle left me a hyperventilating mess. I had to count each stroke but the garbled words could barely be understood. This merely made him laugh. When he stopped he grabbed my face and asked me would I be a better girl for HH in the future. I swore I would, then begged with all my heart to go back to him.

But he wasn't finished yet - one last abuse executed without compassion, that left me under no illusion of who was in charge. My last tears fell quietly as I tried to pretend I wasn't there, that it didn't hurt, that he wasn't destroying me completely.

I eventually got 'HH' back for some much needed cathartic tears and cuddles, and needless to say I wasn't a bit difficult for the rest of the visit. I dread the thought of having to revisit this man, but feel reassured knowing he's there if needed, to help me get over my difficulties...

Socially out of my depth?

There have been several posts about social media and kinky life lately. I've held back from commenting on any as I didn't think a mere comment would suffice to explain my views. So these are my own personal thoughts on my online life and the community I'm part of. Those of you who are in the same community, or at least an intersection of it (think Venn diagram), may see it a very different way. That's the thing with online interaction and the use of social media in general; we all approach it from a different direction and want different things from it. What we want even changes through time, circumstance and personal evolution.

When I first came online, in the kinky sense, I wanted to be noticed; by anybody in any way. I made pathetic attempts to comment on the popular blogs and retreated in rejection when no-one replied to them. By the time I set up a Fetlife account I was more sure of myself; I had a few kinky friends to call my own, but I still wanted to be noticed.

So I friended people, including 'personalities' like Mija and  Kami Roberston and Abel, hoping that people would notice me. And finally they did; the day HH messaged me on Fetlife made me feel I'd made it as a fully paid up member of the online scene. (I'm not even going to try to rationalise those intial preoccupations!) 

I started blogging to record my kinky journey but also to join in the blogging community I'd envied for years; to show off the scenes I'd done, to tell the world who I was playing with and eventually even posted pics of myself enjoying my new found confidence in myself. I blogged every day. I wanted to be seen, heard, included in this kinky life I had admired from afar.

But then the blog changed. The more real world people I met, the less I had to write. The deeper my play relationships became the less I needed the attention. Blogging became more about me and my need to process. Of course some motivations remain the same: there's still the 'look at me element', still the joy in readers' comments and the thrill of being linked to from the likes of SpankBoss and Chross.

And then there's Twitter. It too has changed over the two years I've been a member. At first I friended everyone. At first my feed was open, even running on the blog here. Then more and more I found myself talking about real life stuff as many of my Twitter circle blurred into real friendships that justified this change.

But what of all the other people who might be reading? I worried I was over-sharing. Worried I could be too easily identified. I don't work in a liberal industry - my company would easily find reason to fire me if my kinky goings-on became public. And on the personal side of things, it's not that my family aren't loving and supportive: they are when it comes to things they can understand, but some of my vanilla friends who I've explained this to are lost. I can't expect my parents and God forbid my Grandmother having to deal with knowing what I get up to.

So my account is private and I don't allow anyone to follow me I don't know or who hasn't earned my trust in some way. Now my Twitter feed is a smaller circle of friends, whilst Fetlife is the wider circle and the blog is to everyone.

But that means Twitter is now a little micro society all of its own, which comes with its own problems.  The real life worries have migrated to it, and they can be constant. Am I interesting enough? Do people like me, respect me, notice me? Can I keep this mask of wonderfulness up? Can I always portray a well-meaning, kind, generous patient person? And do all that whilst allowing and accepting others to have those same failings.

Rationally, of course not, but yet I still try! Irrationally, the 24/7 on-button causes me a hell of a lot of stress. There are friends in real life that I love very much but I don't spend every waking moment with them, whom I don't share every though. (If we did we'd probably not be friends anymore.) Yet on Twitter we are always interacting. Always sharing; sometimes over-sharing. We take strength from the kind words and advice of people there but then there are times when people damn right annoy us: say something we fundamentally disagree with, perceive that they have made a cutting remark or said something ignorant. The word perceive is important - usually it is we who have the problem; it is who have taken a comment out of context, misinterpreted a tone.

Therefore as much as I love Twitter, I find it a confusing place to be sometimes, find myself out of my depth. Not sure what the rules are but aware enough to know that we're all playing by a unique set that we don't understand and can't share. Rationally I understand should take this knowledge on board and not worry about it so much. But I do.

I find myself judging myself on how interesting I am by the number of responses I get to a tweet. I find myself irrationally angry over a tweet from somewhere I've never met or ridiculously disappointed to hear someone I admire say something I disagree with. I hate the squabbles, passive aggressive tweeting, the duty of following certain people, the perceived rejection of people who don't follow me. Most of all, I hate how seriously I take it, and how it provokes in me the same behaviour that I dislike in others.

Lately I've been asking myself whether Twitter is actually for me? Or is it detrimental to my sanity? There are people I find it difficult to interact with. I like them very much on email, blogs and in real life, yet find myself disliking their Twitter persona. How many people think that of me? Should I just admit defeat; that I'm too sensitive, too reactive, too emotional, take things too personally. (So much so I've actually been banned from Twitter for two weeks until I learn to appreciate it again. A ban given at my request and a mutual concern at how wound up 140 characters was making me!)

And then there's Facebook which often feels less intrusive and far more straightforward; if I accept I'm only sharing 60% of my life on there. I only interact with real life people there. That includes the people I met through kink who are now valid members of my offline life. That's not to say that the kinky friends I don't interact with on there mean any less to me. Some don't have vanilla accounts or vanilla accounts they want to share with me - we're still friends off-line and that's the most important thing.

But I can only include friends who are fully paid up members of my real life.There is no-one on there I worry about my nilla friends and family asking about or wondering if they'll meet them when they come visit. As I moved primarily to be nearer this new(ish) circle of friends, they represent my new life, assure my nilla friends and family (both those aware and unaware of my kink) that I have a full life here. In that context it isn't about kink, it's about people. Therefore I restrict that account to people using their real names, who want to meet my other friends and to be a full part of my life. (Not to mention the privacy issues, which again have been much debated already.) Facebook, for me, is the representation of my complete and vanilla life.

Again I'll pull out the part of that sentence I think is most important: 'for me'. I know other people have different views on Facebook. Many kinky friends have duel accounts (one for kink, one for Nillas) or freely mix vanilla and kinky friends; I respect that.

So am I out of my depth with all this social media jazz? Or to be more literal: am I out of my depth being online so much and putting so much of myself out there? Should I just restrict myself to blogging and being the entertainment at parties? I don't honestly have an answer to that.

The only conclusion I have about social media in the kinky online world is that we should understand that we are all at cross purposes in how we use these tools of interactions. That nobody is right or wrong and we shouldn't apologise for choosing how we interact with different people and circles. Like everything in life mutual respect of other people's choices goes a long way.

Five go to a Kinky House!

Our house specifically: it was our House Warming party you see and Anne (Catherine Thomas) and I played host, both dressed appropriately (or in my lovely house mate's case with a skirt so short it was inappropriate!)

With the theme being Famous Five, many of our lovely guests also came in character. We had Uncle Quentin (HH), Mr Rowland the tutor (Abel), Captain Johnson (the riding school owner), Joanna the cook, a whole series of Annes (from no skirt Anne to slutty Anne to drunken Anne and good Anne), the Vicar's daughter, Jo the Gypsy girl, Cousin Peggy and the fortune teller, a random burglar, Jack the Fisher boy and a Julian but no Dick.

To match the theme we also had a 1950's spread of food. There was spam, and corned beef and hard boiled eggs with twists of salt and fish paste and sardine and jam sandwiches and other wholesome goodies; not to mention lashings and lashings of ginger beer (as well as the other sort of lashings too!)

Whilst of course the day was just a bit of fun to show people our new home and an excuse to drink copious amounts of fizz, the theme was, of course, deep seated in our early kinkhoods. In the days of first reading Enid Blyton and encountering those references to spanking that stirred something unknown, but important, within us.

How often had I read about George and the trouble she had gotten in with her father; the spankings that were implied but never explicitly detailed. How I had filled in the gaps myself giving her OTK spankings and hairbrushings, even a caning that the boy she desperately tried to be deserved.

And yesterday I got to be her. In my boy's grey shorts, blue shirt and maroon tank top with grey socks and sandal shoes I was a passable impression of a boy. (Or at least a girl who really wants to look like a boy.) I certainly stood out against all the other girls in their pretty dresses and skirts. It was a role I very much enjoyed playing up to: fiercely declaring I should be called George, that I was as good as any boy and threatening to fight anyone who dared say otherwise!

This led to two delightful scenes. The first when Jack the Fisherboy put ice down my back and I fought him (actually her) to the floor and we wrestled enthusiastically. Until Father, or Uncle Quentin as everyone else called him, hauled me to my feet and marched me upstairs.

It was a different dynamic for HH and me to play: I knew both characters so well, whilst he had only his online research to aid him.  It was also unusual for us to play a scene where he was my Father, yet so firmly was he Uncle Quentin of the books that any angst I'd normally have didn't arise. As ever, he lived up to the role fabulously as I threw every Georgism I could remember at him!

Poor George was made to take her shorts and pants down and spanked over his knee before being strapped to tears with his tawse. Although she was ashamed of her 'girly' tears she was very proud when he told her she had taken her beating just as bravely as any boy.

But then he ruined it all by making her change our of her boy's clothes into a pretty dress with her hair in bunches, as befitted her as a joint host of the party. It was awfully humiliating to have to return to the gathering so evidently humbled, much to the taunts of the likes of slutty Anne.

Later in the evening there was another scene; this time between George, Uncle Quentin and Mr Rowland, her tutor. Again I had the upper hand of knowing the back story. Of Mr Rowland spying on Uncle Quentin's work and George finding him snooping where he shouldn't. In essence she was being punished for her rudeness to her tutor but refused to apologise. It was a lovely scene with all the righteousness in the world on my side, Uncle Quentin being strict but fair and Mr Rowland being very mean. (A role that Able seems to play all too convincingly!)

By this time in the day I was already very sore, (an earlier dalliance with Mr Allen and his canes being partly to blame), so the spankings really hurt whilst the hand strapping caught me off guard completely, leaving me piteously rubbing my raw palms.

As the evening wore on we became less Famous Five and more real-life kinky community:  The community that I have moved country to be nearer to;  The community that supports and looks out for each other. The community that transcends age, continents and background; My community.

(Of course not everyone could make the party; not least of all those who are in Ireland or the states, but all were there in kindred, kinky spirit and much missed in person.)

Stamping my foot...

I haven’t been neglecting my blog; I’ve actually been avoiding it. My last post was very raw for me and the comments and emails from you all overwhelmed me. I felt needy and attention seeking, doubting my dramatic sentiments. And yet your support on here, via email, over Twitter, meant a huge amount to me.  But I couldn’t respond, had nothing else to say.

I didn’t want the next post to be in that vein. I wanted to come back with something cracking and insightful, entertaining and thought provoking; hence the silence. I haven’t had the energy to write such a post. I’ve had plenty of things I want to write about, but little concentration or ability to get past an idea in my head. So I left it for a few days until I had something kinky to offer. And a few days turned into weeks until it’s nearing the end of a calendar month of nothing and I find myself despairing of ever blogging again. Just like I despair about ever being properly kinky me again.

When I wrote my last post I expected the aversion to kink would be a blip, that I would quickly be back to roleplay and hard core scenes. As much as anything I figured I’d need the distraction; would need to lose myself from the everyday pain and stress. But it hasn’t happened that way.

Yes the aversion passed. I know I still crave what I’ve always craved. I find myself coming up with roleplay ideas, stories to write, fantasies to share. It’s better than hating the whole idea of it all. But actually playing has been far harder. At times it’s felt like the most horrendous pain, even a handspanking or gentle strapping. I find myself questioning what is the point of feeling such pain, what did I ever get out of it? And then there’s still a little niggle that it’s all a bit stupid.

The irony of it all is that I really need the release and catharsis that I can only get from play. Apart from the bereavement, there’s a hell of a lot of other stuff going on in my life. New country, new house, new job, new inner circle; a time of enormous change. The past, present and future all seem to be colliding with each other and I’m struggling to keep all the balls in the air. Kink has by necessity fallen down the priorities, yet it’s also a source of comfort and release I’m now lacking.

The first weekend after going home and dealing with the horribleness I went to visit HH. I warned him the idea of roleplay left me cold, but that I wanted and needed to try to play. Indy was there for the first night and being able to talk to someone so emapthetic really helped; as did HH’s hugs, picking up from where Abel had left off. It reinforced what I’d been feeling all week, that I was surrounded by good people and real friends. 

For that weekend with HH I told him I wanted to feel safe and little girl like, not to make decisions, be told when to sleep and eat and be disciplined in between. As I’ve blogged about before I am mainly disciplined for transgressing agreed boundaries, which I generally ask to be out in place.  But more and more we play a game of me being at best submissive, but more usually obedient to HH. When he uses a certain tone I obey or face the consequences. It’s not a constant feature of our time together but it’s frequent enough for it to feel real, for me to respond to the tone . I’m at my most calm and safe when I’m answerable to him. It takes the strain of real life away and let’s me be or play at being a carefree individual. It’s a complex dynamic and only works from a trust built up over two years of playing. At this point I don’t know if it’s play or real. I wouldn’t disobey him and I fret when I even feel resistant in complying. However he’d never ask me something I couldn’t or wouldn’t accede to. I don’t really have a label for it: it is what it is and that’s enough for me.

This kind of play or real life discipline is pretty much all I’ve been capable of play wise. That weekend, I got a bed time spanking to settle me for bed. But I couldn’t cry, couldn’t find the release. I had cried so much that now I couldn’t, so much was out of my control that suddenly this was my way of taking some back. All the opposite to how I wanted it to be. And so the weekend went on with me struggling to cry and he being endlessly patient.  Dealing with me when I went cold and angry at feeling pain, responding to my neediness with punishment and orders, continuing to persevere even when I was becoming defiant, trusting me more than I deserved to be.

On the Saturday night he resolved to break me. Told me he’d start with a spanking and then I’d get slippered. The thought of the slipper filled me with dread. But in truth the hand spanking was the hardest I’ve ever had and that’s saying a lot. I thought at one stage he was using a hairbrush it stung so much, and not only did it sting but it was so fast. In my mind I thought I don’t want this I’m just going to end it, there’s nothing to be got from this. But I hung in there, I too wanted to break. I was sweating from the effort of taking it, struggling to breathe from pain. 

Then he paused and said he didn’t think he’d slipper me after all, that his hand was sufficient.  And this act of mercy undid me. I started to cry, softly at first, then loud gulping sobs. I didn’t notice when the spanking stopped. I cried through the hugs and then I let it all out. Beat my fists on the bed in frustration and anger then finally let myself cry for what I had lost, the person I had lost, silent tears of personal grief. When you’re the fixer in your family, the forever dependable adult from a very young age, it’s very hard to let your own feelings take precedence. It takes being treated like a small girl with no responsibility to let myself be selfish with my feelings.  I cried for a long time because I was allowed to. Indulged myself until I had cried myself out.

And I slept properly that night, deeply.

Of course it didn’t last. One weekend and one spanking can’t fix everything. My subconscious wouldn’t let me escape.  Through a series of dreams made me guilty for imagined responsibilities I was shirking, brought up the past and left me more unsettled. I tried to play with Abel but resorted to hugs after the briefest of spankings. Attempted to play at a party but couldn’t make it work for me, it just felt like pain; needless pain.

Right now I’m on the way back from visiting HH again and I take a sliver of light with me. It’s been another weekend of struggle but in the midst of it all there was one scene where I did let go a little and get partly into the head of another. A baby step, but a step none the less.

However we did a lot of D/s play which I did enjoy. Sent to wait in various positions. Then made to hold them as he beat me; the worst on my back with my legs in the air and the cane striping my thighs. The only downside of our play was that it felt much more painful than usual. Whether that’s because I’m out of practice or he was being really viscous or I can’t process pain the same way I cannot tell. But it’s a sign of how much I fear and respect him that I took what he gave me, even when my head wasn’t fully engaged.  It felt like a very safe place and as the weekend wore on I became more relaxed.

As I write this I’m sitting very uncomfortably on the train home. I have hope that I’ve made a kinky step forward but trying not to run away with myself. It is what it is. I need to let it be what it is. As usual I understand the logic. I rationalise my feelings perfectly. Yet, I have so little patience. I want the world to get back on its smooth access and until it does I’m going to stamp my foot a little. Thankfully I’ve got my friends and partners to rebalance me and keep me in line. I’ll get there.

Summoned before the court...

I played one of the most intense scenes ever over the weekend. Physically and mentally it pushed me to my limits. Made me wonder what the hell I was doing, saw me draw from strength I didn't know I had, made me bond with near strangers and has left me feeling like I can do anything in the world right now. I am flying!

It's going to be damn near impossible for me to convey the headspace and emotion that went with this scene but I'll try my best. Not just because I am so keen to share it with you but I'm afraid it will all slip away and I'll forget exactly how I felt.

It was a judicial scene, planned for some time. I was summoned before the court accused of being connected to the mafia. Avid readers of this blog may remember the mafia scene I wrote about at the end of last year, this was their source of information. Except they didn't believe me that I was in the secret police at all!

One of the most intense things about this scene was that I knew very few of the participants in advance. Some I had met just once before and apart from online chat and the exchange of the formal papers, I didn't know any of the court officials who administered the punishment. It made the scene far more real. And while all the players came highly recommended (and subsequently proved to justify that) I couldn't help but be nervous about playing with them. For the first time was surrendering complete control to people who hadn't earned it and there was no safety net. And they were taking a leap with me. Trust was paramount.

As part of the process I was assigned legal representation (Mr Lamb) and we had prepared our case beforehand. I was pleading not guilty and he was confident we had a good case. I was worried none the less.

On the day Abel escorted me to the court. It was a long train journey and I was nervous, but pretending I wasn't. He handed me over to Mr Lamb and bid me goodbye. Every inch the protective guardian, giving me one last hug and urging me to be brave. It was far more powerful for me that he wasn't involved and really added to my nerves when he left.

Mr Lamb quickly went over my defence one more time before leaving me in the company of another girl who was also due before the courts, the wonderful Nicky Montford. We chatted trying not to think of what was ahead, giggling nervously and trying to distract ourselves. It felt like the summons would never come and yet when it finally did how I wished it hadn't.

At the door of the court house we were met by the court clerk, Ms Switch I presumed. There were no introductions, she merely escorted us to where our counsel were preparing and bade us wait until called. I was completely unnerved. Her uniform and her manner were so formal and precise. And reality started to hit home. This was actually happening and there was no turning back.

I stood quietly with Mr Lamb, incapable of speech, listening to Nicky and her counsel, Mr S Jenkins discuss some last minute details. And we waited, my stomach churning, sweat dripping. Until we were taken into the court room, placed into the dock and again waited in silence observing all about us. The second court official whom I was to learn was Mr Allen stood gravely in the corner. Then the third, Ms Stoker appeared behind the Judge. Severe and sombre in his robes, we all stood respectfully until he was seated. Seeing him, flanked by all the court officials in their uniforms made it crystal clear that this was a proper court and I was in trouble.

Nicky was called upon first and her counsel submitted a plea of guilty to the charge of contempt of court. Despite the plea she managed to upset the court somewhat with her remarks and was sentenced to a minute and a half of spray birching and 3o strokes with the manx birch.

Then it was my turn. Mr Lamb argued my case valiantly. But our defence that the Judge was corrupt and had links to the Mafia himself was not well received. I had expected if guilty I would receive a spray birching, but almost fainted when I was given not only a minute of the spray but also 20 strokes of the manx for contempt of court.

Before the Judge bade the officials to do their work he cautioned them that they were not to show either of us any mercy. That is was their duty to give every stroke as hard as they could, that no matter how much we protested or begged they were not to be lenient. If this was meant to freak me out more, it certainly worked.

Nicky was dealt with first and that time passed in a blur of noise, pity, terror and stomach churning on my behalf. Strapped onto the whipping bench her bottom was bared to the court officials.

Ms Switch took up one of the spray birches, at her bidding Mr Jenkins took out his stop watch and Mr Lamb took up his pencil to count the strokes. At the signal she began the birching, hitting so fast and hard I couldn't believe it possible. This was the first spray birching of this type I'd ever witnessed and I was very scared. Those 30 seconds felt like 30 minutes, and I was only observing.

But if I was scared during the spray I was undone by the manx birch. Made of 5 water willow rods, each thicker than my thumb it looked intimidating enough as it was. And watching the administrators put their full weight into bringing it down on her bottom and making the most obscene crack as it landed made me feel ill.

By the time they had done with Nicky I was absolutely petrified. I had witnessed all three officials at work, Ms Switch, Ms Stoker and Mr Allen and had never felt so out of my depth anywhere. Convinced that I had made a serious error of judgement, that I didn't play this hard that I wouldn't be able to take it. I was as close as I've ever come to a panic attack in a scene.

But what was I to do? I wanted to see it through, I had signed up for this. I couldn't run away now, that wasn't my style. So I told myself just to get through it. That it was just pain and pain would go away. No matter how much it hurt I would survive and I could leave with my head high and never have to do this again.

In this headspace it actually felt like I was being punished against my will. (Of course I wasn't). I thought of HH and Abel and how they wanted me to be brave and decided to try as hard as I could to be. There was no character to hide behind, this was me Emma Jane and I felt very alone.

When instructed I knelt up on the bench and put aside my concerns about having my legs strapped down. That was the least of my worries. Carefully they tied me in position. Ms Switch gave me some water, asked was I in good health and was I read to begin? And I was. No point putting it off any longer.

I was tied so I couldn't move but I clutched the bench with my hands anyway. Ms Stoker stood at the side of my head, carefully watching me throughout. From very far away I heard Mr Jenkins count down, 3, 2, 1 and then I braced myself, trying not to be sick.

The first strokes landed rapidly but were OK. I expected that. The spray builds to an unbearable point and 6 strokes in it was starting to burn. The pace and intensity of the strokes didn't let up throughout, but the burn was magnifying every second.

I held on for dear life, willing myself to be strong. I didn't move or make a sound, it was all I had. I was truly feeling the horrific pain but I clung onto my silence. If only I could take it silently then I could survive it and that became the mental battle in my head. Hold, hold on. Think of HH, think of Abel, think I'm a brave girl and I'll actually be brave.

When the first 30 seconds were done with I sobbed for the respite, letting out my pain. Almost weak with the relief that I could take the spray at least, even if I was in serious pain. I gratefully took the a drink of water, raising my head to Ms Switch, conscious of the pitiful site I made with the tears running down my face.

Mr Allen then took up the birch and I braced myself again. Breathing in and out, halting the tears, focusing. With just the same pace and intensity the birch rained down again. Once more I clung to my silence and holding still. And my mind went off to strange places. For the rest of that birching I was elsewhere. Each stroke dealing with some life stress: to hell with work, whack; car accident, whack; arguments with friends, whack.

To the point that this 30 seconds seemed far shorter. (I later learned they had managed to give me almost 140 strokes in the minute.) I cried deeper and harder this time. Pain and relief mingled with fear of the manx. I'd never felt water willow before. Didn't know what to expect but from witnessing Nicky knew it would be severe, knew they would use their full force on me.

Ms Switch went first. I braced myself, heard the astonishing crack as it hit my skin and moaned aloud in pain. It was like being hit with a sledge hammer but for all the thud it also seared my skin too. I couldn't believe I had to take 19 more.

It seemed like forever before we got the first 10 over with. No opportunity for my mind to go anywhere, I had to focus on the pain, on manging to breathe. I whimpered and cried through each one and wondered how my bottom didn't break in half.

Nervously I waited for the second ten, afraid when Mr Allen took it up. I expected him to be harder and he was. I howled through the first 3, sobbed at number 4 and thought i'd never see 10. And he was getting harder with each. How mean, I was already struggling to take it.

And then the switch flicked at number 5, a lil bit of defiance came out. I'd show him. I took the next 5 in silence, playing with him in my head. "Yes I'm flinching, yes it hurts, yes the tears are rolling down my cheeks but I can take it, I'm, flying so go on give it your best shot" I argued silently, trying to win this battle I had constructed in my head.

Until it was all over. I clenched my hands in triumph, giddy with pain and adrenalin, giving myself over to the emotions. Except we weren't done. Ms Switch pronounced 2 more to drive the lesson home.

And then my tears really started, this was breaking point. I didn't want any more. And certainly not from Mr Allen. Each was horribly painful and I cried aloud at both. I lay trembling on the bench when he was done, praying it was over.

The Judge questioned me before they let me up and I tearfully promised I had learned by lesson, that I would behave and apologised to the court. I was desperate not to incur anymore.Finally we were released and dismissed and it was over.

Weakly I collapsed into Lamb's arms. I had gone through it and had survived and I couldn't help but feel a sense of achievement. I was inexplicably proud of myself.

For a long time afterwards we chatted and hugged as a group, introductions finally having been made. I was flying high! But when Abel came to collect me I was glad to go home. To reflect, to process to relive one of the most intense experiences of my scene life. Thank you to everyone who made it happen. Today I'm a very happy and floaty girl. This is what this is all about for me, this is why I do this. I love to fly....

Do the Write thing!

Long before I was brave enough to contact anyone in the scene or even de-lurk anywhere, I was reading every kinky thing I could find. And I continued to be an avid reader on and off for years until I came out. (Now I don't get to read as much as I'd like, there has to be time to write now too!)

Back in 2001 there weren't any blogs per se - the first one I ever read was The Spanking Writers in 2006. But there were lots of great websites. And these websites had stories. Oh how I gorged myself on them. Some great, some OK, some not to my tastes, but all in their own ways reassuring me that I wasn't the only kinky girl in the world. And that these people understood my 'deepest, darkest desires' far better than I did myself.

I thought that these people were very generous in writing all these stories for the likes of me skulking about without as much as a comment. I didn't fully comprehend that they got just as much out of writing those stories themselves, that they wrote as much, if not more, for themselves than anyone else.

The need to understand and explain yourself through stories when words alone won't do. The thrill of crafting something out of a mere idea. The pride of your achievement. The joy of someone telling you they enjoyed what you'd written.

These were all things I came to learn when I started my own blog and wrote my own stories. Of course I've also learned the frustration that comes hand in hand with writing. Of creativity that won't materialise or the great idea that refuses to be expressed in a coherent manner. Or since writing for Winterbrook how hard it can be to develop a character and weave in plots against a long term storyline

I've written here several times that The Treehouse was one of the first sites that I visited back then and the stories on there continue to hold a very special place in my heart. I still remember using Mija and Pablo's writing to try to explain what I really wanted from my vanilla/semi-kinky boyfriend.

And it was on The Treehouse that I first heard of the group Soc.Sexuality.Spanking and the Summer Short Story Contest. Of course I never commented there either but greedy little me was delighted to have more stories to feed my habit.

Now I think it's time to finally give something back. Which is why this year I've volunteered to read and review the stories being entered into the competition. I'm very excited about the stories I've seen so far and am also thinking about my own entry. So I'd encourage you to write up a story and submit it. Details can be found here. Go on, I dare ya!

36 flights and one boat trip later...

Today I celebrate the first year anniversary of my first trip across the water to meet the UK kinksters! When I didn't know anyone at all but took a chance and booked a last minute flight over, nervous and unsure but going anyway.

365 days of knowing my UK friends. 365 days of being part of their kinky scene. 365 days of being free and happy in further exploring my kink. 365 days of commuting for my kinky social life. 365 days of Lowewoods, reformatories, chilled our gatherings and parties. 365 days of being welcomed and cared for. 365 days of very special friendship.

36 flights across the water. That's 36 check-ins, 36 security queues, 36 trips to and from Dublin airport, 36 trips to and from the host airport. 36 wanderings around said airports waiting for my flight. 36 take-offs and landings. (It would have been 38 flights if Swine flu hadn't scuppered another weekend of mine!)

1 hastily arranged boat trip (very Irish immigrant) and skoda combo and a wing and a prayer I make it back tomorrow!

19 flutterings of excitement and anticipation. 19 packings of of obligatory 30 pairs of knickers,19 ecstatic hellos and 19 goodbyes (some more sad and teary than others). 19 uncomfortable flights home on hard airplane seats.

1 contented, lucky, hyper, crazy, in-love-with-life Emma Jane :)

To my brave delurker...

Google decreed this was too long to be a comment, so here is my response to Cat's lovely and interesting comment on this post. Would love to hear from the rest of you lovely peeps on this.

---

Hello Cat

Thank you so much for commenting and well done for de-lurking! I really do understand how hard it is to do. But now you've done it once don't be afraid to do it again.

And I'm really thrilled that you chose my blog to speak for the first time, it's a real blogging highlight for me :)

As for my response, well Abel and Eliane have given you some great advice already. But I'll add my two cents in anyway.

You'll prob know from your reading, that most of us have always had an interest in spanking. Even if we didn't know what 'it' was or what we 'wanted'. And we've all been in the position of thinking we were the only people in the world to think like that. And I bet, like Eliane and I before you, that you always felt you'd never get to try it. That you'd never get to play like all those people with their blogs and their stories.

But the first step is admitting this is what you're into and that it's nothing to be ashamed of. Second step is reaching out - to someone, even if just to talk about it. The third is to make it happen for you.

And as you have discovered, there are many ways to live and experience this thing we do. From regular playdates, to a marriage where such play is a life style, to attending clubs, to domestic discipline to group play.

If you were unattached I'd be suggesting joining Fetlife, finding people and groups in your area. Commenting on blogs of people in your area. Striking up conversations!

But as you're engaged and presumably very happy about it and not wanting to do anything outside of your relationship then I'd suggest telling him about it, in slow subtle steps. Do you ever watch Scrubs? There's an episode in it where the Janitor is trying to tell his girlfriend about his various 'hobbies' but tells her too much to quickly. As Carla advises 'don't tell all your crazy at once'.

And not that this is crazy but you have to be prepared for the fact it could be a shock to him. You've been trying to understand and reconcile yourself to this for a long time. So start with hints. And one of the best ways is when you're being intimate with each other. I was first spanked by my vanilla ex-boyfriend. Very early in our relationship we were having sex and I encouraged him to be rough with me. Encouraging him more until he slapped me gently on my bottom. I made it clear I liked this and he did it again. Afterwards I told how much I'd liked it. Bit by bit I told him more, gauging his reaction, ready to pull out of the conversation if he closed it down.

And once I had his interest and he understood it was something I really wanted and needed I gave him websites and stories to read that helped explain just what I was into. In time we played out scenes and explored what worked for each other. We had a very successful semi-kinky relationship for a few years, (it dissolved for other reasons) all based on compromise. He never liked hurting me, never enjoyed making me cry, never became a top or a dom, but he grew to like how I reacted, and to understand this is what I needed and that it made me a happier person and did he cos he loved me. I compromised by pulling back on some of the things I wanted to do that he wouldn't have been comfortable with.

Abel and Eliane have also given some other great advice for how to bring this up. At the end of the day you know him best. You'll know the right way to mention it, how far too push it. Explain how you feel and why you crave this - don't just tell him you want to be beaten for the sake of it.

As for whether you'll enjoy it or not, well that can only be answered one way. My tastes and interests continually evolve but when I started out a gentle hand spanking was all I needed. The being spanked was enough then. And my non-kinky, non-toppy boyfriend was well capable of administering it. And we went on from there. There's loads of advice on how to give a spanking and how to communicate with your partner to make it work for both of you. But that's a whole other issue right now and one we can talk about later :)

So given that I seem to be able to control you with my words (:-P) off you go now and think about how you're going to broach this, then start the conversation gently. And don't forget to let me know how it goes. My email address in on the blog too if you want to move to direct chatting.

EJ xxx

Luck of the Irish

Who's a lucky girl? Well that would be me!

I've got some very dear friends staying for the weekend and after an evening of chat and giggling they are all soundly asleep. Only I am awake. Reflecting on the wonder of friendship, kink and connection.

And thinking of some lovely girlie's who aren't here, but certainly present in spirit. Eliane my lovely girl, Scarlett my incorrigible brat and Cath my twin!

I've had a shit week at work - causing me to cry twice and culminating in a meeting with our HR department on Monday.Wish me luck! But for now I'm relaxed and happy.Safe in the knowledge that I'm loved and cared for and people will actually make an effort to come see me. Are excited to be on my turf!

And we've so much fun in store. Wearing our brand new Lowewood Academy hoodies we'll be wandering around this beautiful city and then taking Nimhneach by storm in the evening. I'm doubly excited to see my Irish friends whom I've missed so much, as well as to go ensemble as a Lowewood girl. And I want to be beaten; whipped, caned, paddled. Break me if you can. Watch the fire in my eyes. Witness me fly.

Lucky. Very lucky. That's me :)

It was the day after St Patrick's Day...

...and I was a little worse for wear. At the last minute (8:55) I text my boss and asked for the day off and he obliged. Just as well as I wouldn't have made it out of bed and into work in 5 minutes.

I had a nice lie-in and when I could sleep no-more I opened my laptop and caught up with the online world - Fetlife, Caroline's Blog, Spanking Writers, Lowewood Academy.

At this stage I had been active in the Irish scene from late October 2008, going to Nimhneach every month and a regular socialiser on Fetlife. But I was still very shy online. Lurking on all the sites I'd been reading for years and afraid to comment. I just about had the courage to comment on Caroline's blog, and that was just cos I knew her!

But when I spotted Abel had joined Fetlife I felt bold enough to say hi. I always figure that people are on Fetlife to meet other kinksters and it's safe enough that you can reach out to someone and if they don't reply well that's OK; no-one else will know. Not like a comment conspicuously on a blog for all to see.

Anyway I did say hi and below is exactly what I wrote. It might look bright and breezy but I agonised over every word. Although I may have over done it on the ego stroking. But hey it worked!

Now don't go telling Abel, but I was very excited when he replied a short while later, and the conversation went on from there. That was a year ago today and the start of a very exciting journey into the next stage of my kinky adventures that would bring me on to meet some very dear people: you know who you are.

So kids the moral of this story is: pluck up the courage and reach out. And if you don't know what to say you can copy my words below. It just might be the start of some very beautiful friendships!

Hi Abel,

Welcome to Fetlife, your profile pic made me smile. I presume that's your own collection?

I have been following your blog for years. It was probably one of the first blogs I ever started to read when I started out on the Interent! I still remember how excited I was to think that there were other people who were into the same things as me, discipline, rolepay and school scenes to name a few :)

Oh and I have to thank you and Haron for pointing me towards Lowewood Academy, I'm pretty much addicted to it and read every update exactly at 12 each day. I have a suspicion that you both write for it ;) Anyway the quality of writing and plotlines is excellent!

After years lurking on the Internet I finally got active on a few sites last September and got invlved in the public scene in Ireland. Have met some great people and had a lot of fun ;)

Anyway I'll stop rambling on now (it is the morning after St Patrick's Day here)I just wanted to say hi and if your travels take you to Dublin I'd love to hear from you.

Cheers

Emma Jane

Crisis of faith

It's almost the end of February and this is the last week for a while that I'll be travelling; which is no bad thing, a little rest will do me good. These past few weeks have been hectic kink wise with only one weekend of 2010 so far being kink free. Not a bad complaint I hear you say, and of course it's not. I honestly wouldn't want it any other way.

Another weekend of play has come to an end and I'm just home and keen to write and reflect before normal life pressures take over. But for now I'm in that lovely bubble of being sated and warm and floaty and want to share cos it nearly didn't work out that way at all!

I turned up at HH's house with very little enthusiasm to play scenes. Lazy in thinking of scenes I wanted to do, feeling a little played out; not hungry for it. And yet still wanting to do and be kinky and take advantage of the return of my pain tolerance.

So we played our first scene: a lazy maid being punished for sloppy work. She had a bad attitude to boot as did Emma Jane. I was in 'don't care mode', projecting through my character that it didn't matter how hard he beat me that it wouldn't get through. That pain was bearable, repentance unnecessary. It was a somewhat odd scene that had little emotional meaning for me but yet was good in other ways.

We talked for a long time afterwards of what had and hadn't worked for us. And me being in somewhat contrary form, I declared I wasn't interested in role play, that it didn't work for me anymore. That 'I' wanted to be beaten, as in 'me' not some role. That I couldn't care less about making up characters and trying to act them out.

HH was of course surprised at this sudden turn of events. My appetite and interest in roleplay and detailed scenes had always been nearly as high as his. And even worse, I couldn't articulate how I really felt, or what was going on with me, but continued to be contrary over it. Or as HH puts it, 'difficult'.

A spanking for 'me' was pronounced; no roleplay. Bare bottomed across his knee I went and a hairbrush applied smartly. I hate hair brushes: they always make me kick and squeal and wriggle. And they're nearly always applied as discipline, making me feel genuinely sorry.

But this time I didn't react at all. All my energy was focused on trying to beat HH. Holding fast and riding out the pain, not moving a muscle or making a sound as he slammed the brush down on my bottom and thighs. He soon stopped: 'Do you really think I'm hitting you as hard as I could?' he enquired. 'I'm not going to beat a reaction out of you. But I want to know why you're being difficult'.

Honestly I didn't know why but I admitted I wasn't being fair. I wanted to play but only on some strange level that I understood and couldn't communicate. We were both confused.

And what do you do with a girl who doesn't like roleplay and only wants to play on a masochistic level that you're not comfortable she really wants or will get anything out of? Such was the conundrum HH was faced with.

So we stepped back, did other things, chilled out, talked, read, blogged. Played with the kinky costumes (HH has a kinky wardrobe for his playmates that is almost as wonderful as his playroom.) And by the time I discovered the cheerleaders outfit that I just had to try on, and HH showed me his new American paddle that begged to be played with, I suddenly wanted to roleplay again. (Yes this was all in the space of a few hours and yes I know I'm contrary!) But this was a character I couldn't resist.

She was Britney and such a sweet girl really. Unfortunately her head had been turned by making the cheerleading team. She missed classes for extra practice, turned in poor homework, flirted with the boys.

The new Dean of Discipline was not prepared to allow cheerleaders get above their station again, the consequences had been disastrous last year. No, this time he'd stamp it out early. And so Britney bounced into his office in her usual lively way and was horrified to learn she was to be paddled as an example to the rest of the squad.

Over a chair she had to bend, her skirt flipped up and her purple knickers offering no protection at all as the paddle slammed into her bottom six times in hard secession. Dean Cook lecturing all the while, that skipping classes and turning in poor assignments was not tolerated, especially from a cheerleader who ought to set an example.

The swats brought tears to her eyes, making her jump up and plead for him to stop. She'd never been in trouble before and couldn't believe that she, a cheerleader, was being paddled. The Dean's plan was certainly working: she would behave herself from now on. Left to stand against the wall she miserably inspected her bottom, aghast at how pink it was.

.

And how embarrassed she was having to perform at the game that night; her bottom still conspicuously pink from her paddling. Still she was a true professional and spun and kicked with all her might regardless. Brave little Britney.

It wasn't a very serious scene, although the paddle certainly hurt. But it reminded me why I do actually like roleplay. How 6 strokes can invoke pain and humiliation far beyond something like 60 strokes just for the sake of it, with no character or roleplay headspace. I enjoyed making a fuss over each stroke and feeling her embarrassment at having to perform with the whole school knowing she'd been paddled. Roleplay gives me freedom that nothing else does.

And we went on to do several other great scenes this weekend (more detail to come). I'm writing this with a very tender bottom indeed! But I feel content again; happy to have played so much, happy that my pain tolerance and interest in kink is at normal levels and happy to be looking forward to a little break from it all and the chance to reflect. But mostly happy that I seem to have gotten over my little crisis of faith, at least for now!

7 Deadly Sins - Envy

It's not a nice thing to admit to, but I certainly yield to it. Usually I'm so busy trying to hide it, I can make people think I feel the opposite. Until the mask slips and I give up the pretence. Or I've been brushing it aside so long I erupt at the smallest thing, appearing hysterical.

I genuinely dislike myself for feeling it. The rational part of me can reason it all away, but still it's there and it eats you up. It's not a good thing to suffer from in life but especially in this thing we do, where many people are in open play or sexual relationships. Envy can be divisive, ruining friendships and relationships.

Now me, I've been very lucky. For the most part warmly received amongst friends here and in the UK. I play with lots of different people, with the full knowledge and consent of their partners (if there be one). I benefit from overwhelming generosity but often ask myself could I return it?

A friend asked a while back if I was in a committed relationship would I be monogamous? I answered automatically: yes sexually I would be. But yet I wondered afterwards did I really want that? I've never been shy about sex or felt it a was precious thing to be saved. I don't hold out for the one and I don't consider it a big deal to have sex with someone. As long as it's safe and there's good chemistry then anything can happen.

I'm far more cautious emotionally: I believe more in the necessity for and power of an emotional connection. So whether I would be emotionally poly, I doubt I could achieve it, even if I wanted to. My emotions will always be stronger for someone else, my absolute loyalty, trust and love would always have to be with that one person or no-one at all.

Then there's spanking/CP/BDSM monogamous: a whole other ballgame. I can't imagine giving up play with my current play partners, or not having the variety of play that I do. I thought briefly about just limiting myself to the play partners I already have, a compromise per se. But closing down this world feels so wrong. I've spent too long not in this game to limit it like that.

So that's my answer for now then; sexually undecided, emotionally monogamous and open for play. That's ok then, or is it? Because that's just me. I don't know how well I can cope with my partner playing with other people, without me. That's a hard one.

And it's not about trust, maybe it is just a little bit about paranoia but it's mostly about envy. That he/she was having an experience that I couldn't share. An experience that was perhaps great for both of them and one I'll never get to repeat. An irrational thought I know and it's not like I have to worry about this now. Lil miss reason in my head is assuring me it'll all sort itself out if/when the time comes. Still I like to worry ahead; I feel like I'm saving in the long-run.

So that's the anticipated envy I forsee in my future. What I'm currently envious about takes many shapes and forms. I envy such and such that they've found a compatible life partner in the scene. I envy such and such cos they are comfortable with their sexuality. I envy such and such cos they've got a great wardrobe, great hair, are taller than me, are smaller than me, have more money than me, have a better career, they've played an amazing scene, la la la la. I could go on and on.

But the biggest source of envy right now is time and distance. I wish I had more of one and less of the other. I openly envy my friends across the water who can arrange play dates and get togethers at the drop of a hat. I'm jealous that I can't have all the time I want with all the people I want. I stress over spending most trips trying to catch up with everybody and feeling that I've seen nobody. And I hate it when I don't get alone time with people, but hate it just as much when I don't get to see someone on a trip. I can fill my whole day right up with this envy thing.

Still, I doubt I'm the only one committing this deadly sin. In fact I'm pretty sure there's at least one person reading this who's pretty damn envious of me having such a great group of friends to play with, a good job that funds the Ryanair flights back and forth and that I'm healthy and independent enough to take advantage of it all. And that's life, sure as hell the grass is always greener!

Cuddles, Confusion and Catharsis

I'm just back from a lovely long weekend with my kinky friends. Although some people couldn't make it, and were very much missed, it was a great weekend of hanging out, chatting and catching up, of helping tops to buy canes and whips in antique shops (!) and sight seeing around the English countryside. Not to mention a lil bit of kinky fun thrown in for good measure.

For me I mostly enjoyed the hanging out, the high spirits between the girls, cuddles with the tops and the hysterical board games (including spankopoly where girls got spanked for ending up in jail!).

Although I ended up playing very casually on Friday evening along with most of the girls, being whacked by some top or other in the spirit of giddiness and bratiness, play really took a back seat for me.

That's mostly because I am in a strange place kink wise, not being up for anything overly hard or too deep in terms of headspace. I have no idea why my kink is so absent. There's been no bad scene or anything more stressful than usual in real life.

I've noticed it waxing and waning over the month with two things really worrying me. Firstly any play I have done has hurt beyond belief, even though I know the tops are going easy on me. My pain tolerance seems to have disappeared completely.

The other is that I'm finding it hard to get enthusiastic about roleplay. Imagining playing a scene makes me uncomfortable and planning is too much effort. For someone for whom roleplay is a huge part of the kink it's weird to think it so abhorrent.

More experienced people than me have reassured me that kink and degrees of kinkiness will always come and go, that it's not unusual to feel like this, that I should stop worrying and go with the flow.

But I can't help but be frustrated at the wasted opportunities. Like the weekend gone by when Juliet was spanking Caoilfhionn and being deliciously evil. I gave her no chance to go further or to extend the scene, just grateful to get through the punishment at all.

Or the school scene we did on the last night. Eliane, Haron, Caroline and I all caught having a party by a surprise visit from our housemasters. It started off with raucous laughter and cheekiness, fuelled in no small part by a large stash of candy.The finding of a banned sugary substance was the final nail in the coffin. Each of us was strapped and caned in turn. As a prefect I had to go last for the first punishment.

Usually I thrive on these scenes; my nerves stretched to breaking point having to listen to the others go before me and then taking my own hard strokes. This time I was worried and upset for the other girls, not in character at all. And when my own turn came I was equally relieved and angry at how easy the masters went on me. My body language screamed defiance but I muddled through to the end, confused and frustrated.

HH knowing me as well as he does, understood my anger and frustration. Sitting beside me he looked at me long and hard. A look that spoke volumes: 'I know you're in a strange place right now, I understand you can't let go, I know you're frustrated.' Just looking at him the tears started to fall and when he told me gently, but firmly, I needed a spanking I could only nod in agreement.

I knew he was only going to give me a handspanking but I needed more than that. Wordlessly I fetched the hairbrush and handed it to him. As it rained down hard over my bottom I kicked and yelped and struggled for the first two minutes. But he kept the pace up, hard and fast, until I gave in and started to cry. Another minute and I was sobbing. He then switched to his hand and gently spanked me until I was calm and needing hugs.

It didn't restore my kinky self, but I was relieved that at least I could still achieve catharsis. I guess I'll just have to be patient and be happy that my kinky friends still love me and I still love them, even when I'm not on kinky form.

Reeling in the Year

It's New Year's Eve and I've been reflecting on the kinky year that was, trying to come up with an end of year post to cover off all the amazing experiences I've had and the wonderful people I've met.

Unfortunately it's proving a lil hard! And no wonder for I have done far too much this year to try and summarise in just one post. Sure that's the point of having a blog in the first place is it not, to record everything in detail!

So instead I am just going to pull out a few key events in the year, the major milestones in my kink journey for 2009!

Nimhneach (March & August)
I've always had a great time at Nimhneach but these were probably two of the best for me. In March, Caroline, Stefan and I went in matching school uniforms as attendees of St Francis Academy. Topcat was in charge as our headmaster and we held a detailed stage show where he spanked, strapped and caned all three of us, much to the amusement of the watching crowd.

Whilst in August Eliane was visiting and I met Master Retep and Bandree for the first time which made it extra special. It was also the night of my deeply, submissive scene with Zytex.

Meeting the UK Kinksters (April)
Towards the end of April, having been chatting to Abel less than a month, he invited me to come and see Madame de Sade in London with him, Haron and several other kinky strangers. Being the spontaneous type I accepted and a week later found myself downstairs in a Heathrow hotel trying to pluck up the courage to go up and meet Abel, Haron and Niki Flynn.

And then a few hours later having the nerve wracking, but exciting experience of meeting Eliane, Lord Fawcett, Rebecca, Martha, Lady Cavendish and her partner, Sarah and her partner, Pandora, Tom Cameron and Olivia Manners all for the very first time. Those who were there can attest to the fact my nerves exploded in the biggest show of brattiness and playfulness! This of course ended in a sound strapping and caning from Abel on the return to our hotel.

One of the most significant of my kinky milestones!

A Painful Awakening (May)
Starting my blog was the most spur of the moment decision and one of the best things I've achieved this year. I don't know what I'd do without such an outlet for processing my kink. And of course my excitement when Miss Jules pimped it for me!

Meeting Jessica and HH (May)
As neither had been at the theatre in April, due to other commitments, it was not until a month later I had the pleasure of meeting these two, who I now count as very good friends. I remember being both excited and nervous to meet Jessica. Having heard so much about her, (all good!) I really wanted her to like me. As for HH, well I was terrified meeting and playing with him for the first time, but he's a softie really!

Lowewood (July and September)
My first Lowewood in July was great, my first ever full-on school roleplay experience, made even more special by the fact Caroline and Graham the Girl (TM) were there too. But my second one in September was even better. I really got into it, not held back by nerves or not knowing what to expect. I truly felt like a schoolgirl that day, with all the highs and lows of school life. Like winning the Father Smith Cup (YAY) and being the naughtiest girl in the school (BOO).

It was also the happy day I met Scarlett for the first time and I'll never forget the pair of us dancing together on the chairs after dinner to the St Trinian's theme tune!

Winterbrook (September)
Being a part of this blog and managing to write two characters over the past few months is something I'm very proud of.

Discovering my twin (September)
OK, well not twins exactly, but we almost are. Although from completely different backgrounds and professions, Catherine and I hit it off almost immediately. And we think so similarly on things it can be scary, prompting some to call us twins!

Oil Wrestling (September)
Need I say any more? I know it was meant as an anniversary present for HWMBO but honestly I never laughed so much in my entire life. As much at the hilarity of what we were doing and the absurdness of how much I wanted to win!!

Disciplined by HH (October and December)
The real life punishment I received back in October. When I can honestly say I never want to feel like or be dealt with like that again. A real milestone on the kinky journey. And being brought to tears by a simple hand spanking in the snow. The realisation I don't have to be beaten to tears for a scene to be intense.

Spanking Orgy (November)
Eliane's spanking orgy was one of the best parties of the year with all the craziness that goes with lots of champagne, cute girls and central heating that's a smidgen too hot ;) It was so great to have Graham there, as well as so many other close friends.

Fawcett House Party (November)
I cannot give it the dues it deserves in just two lines so if you haven't already read my posts on it you really should (here and here.) Truly the most amazing event I have ever attended. I don't think anything will ever surpass it.

Coming clean (November)
Telling another 'nilla about my kink. Truly liberating. Her interest and support has been amazing and makes me feel very lucky to have such great friends who accept me for who I am.

Art (December)
Posing in the snow for HH, nude. A giant boost for my confidence!

Flogged (December)
The worst caning ever, courtesy of Abel and HH. Proper weals and stripes and not being able to sit down. A fantasy fulfilled.

Of course there are so many experiences and people not mentioned here, but have all contributed to my kinky journey. So thanks to you. And to all my readers and commentators who play your part in helping me process this kinky journey, especially Indy and Paul.

Happy New Year!

Afterword to A Workhouse Flogging

The workhouse scene that we played, as described here, is based on a real girl called Eliza. HH, having a keen interest in the history of Corporal Punishment always has his eye out for an interesting story and came across it on one of his forays. After hearing her poor sad tale we could easily imagine what might have happened to her when the Master returned to his post at the workhouse!

I've made HH promise to write up the full story on his blog so you'll hear more about that.

As for me, well it turned out to be an extremely intense scene. Both because I knew it was a real girl who could easily have been treated that way. I was saddened by her bravery in coming forward and agonised over the futility of it. Imagined her being forced to retract her testimony and endure such a severe punishment.

And also so intense because it was the severest caning I've ever received. By a long shot. Apparently the position was perfect for administering a hard and accurate caning. Jutting out over the horse, locked into position by the foot holes and the rope, unable to wriggle, meant I was a perfect target. HH and Abel could cane as hard as they wished, confident that all their strokes would land correctly. And they admitted they caned me as hard as they've ever caned anybody. Encouraged by my reactions, by carefully monitoring me, by knowing they wouldn't cause any lasting damage, by KNOWING me and TRUSTING me, as I knew and trusted them.

Added to that they used a very severe dragon cane, both whippy and dense. Each stroke whipped the skin, but also left an impression that burned long after the stroke. And with only the briefest of time between each stroke I couldn't recover in time to deal with the next. It resulted in me screaming to deal with the pain.

When I dropped off the horse on the 1oth stroke I was in so much pain I couldn't decide what to do. I don't know if I was reacting as Eliza or Emma Jane. Didn't know if my protests were serious, that I couldn't actually continue. But I took a breath and got back up and the strokes kept coming, just as hard, just as fast.

In reflecting on the scene afterward I was pleased that I didn't get angry at this point. I accepted what was happening. Decided to continue. Dealt with it. And let myself get completely immersed in it. Saw it out to its conclusion. Felt overwhelming relief when it ended.

HH took pictures of me as I stayed in position after the final strokes. One of these was of my face. He ordered me to look straight into the camera and although I had stopped sobbing by now the very humbling act of having to face the camera, of displaying the exent to which I had been broken, tore me up. My face crumpled and I was washed over with fresh tears.

When I was dismissed HH and Abel readied themselves to comfort me, but I skipped out of the room and down to my bed. HH is used to his. I need time to transition from the scene back to reality. Need to check myself. How I feel. Know if I'm ok. Before I can relate to the top. Need to have a chance to let the catharsis set in. Of enduring and surviving.

Both stepped back to the next room, door open, waiting for me to need them. A tough thing for a top to understand and comply with. And shortly afterwards I did need them. And in their arms I cried myself back to reality. Surfaced to safety and comfort and reassurance. Hugged for a long time before moving on to analysing the scene. Each of us processing and healing.

Experiences like these - the emotions and feelings that go with them, the utter immersion in play, the safety of being caught, the indescribable catharsis it brings - this is why I do this thing we do. It completes me.

All the rest of the day and the next those cane strokes burned. I can still feel them now. For the first time I had actual stripes to show in the hours afterwards, and playing later was difficult as my pain tolerance was zero!

This was taken just before I went to bed that night... and yes I did sleep on my tummy!

Disciplined in the Snow

HH and I have been continuing to explore my need for discipline. And this weekend I was very much in the headspace of wanting rules and repercussions, which he agreed with and was as firm as one might expect.

Although to be fair he was very patient with my usual Friday night, 'the plane's been delayed, I'm hungry, it's late, I'm hungover, I'm grumpy so deal with it,' mood. He gave me 5 minutes grace before I had to start behaving in a civilised manner. Of course I didn't realise how lucky I had been until we were nearly home and I discovered the ebony hairbrush carefully placed in the back seat!

Of course my luck, or HH might say my behaviour, was not to hold. I was tawsed out of bed on Saturday morning and spanked over the couch for failing to come to lunch on Sunday (it was a really good book!). But in the end the incident that reduced me to tears was the briefest of spankings.

He, only using his hand (as hard as it is it doesn't normally make me cry). I was crying from the pure shame of what was happening. The dread and anticipation of knowing I would be punished as he led me to a convenient seat. The frustration at my silly joke, snow down his collar, was I a 5 year old? It wasn't even funny. The realisation that he was going to spank me right there in the open. In front of our friends.

Watched with pleading eyes as he cleared a space to sit on. Reluctantly came forward as instructed but didn't dare to protest. Wished the ground would open as he pulled my jeans and panties down. Was glad to hide my embarrassed face as he tipped me over his lap. Cried silent tears as he placed snow on my already cold bottom and smacked me firmly. Tried not to make any noise or movement, so conscious of how easily spotted we could be.



When requested stood before him meekly, trousers and panties still down to my knees and whispered, 'I'm sorry sir'. Waited for permission to adjust my clothing and gratefully took my hugs of forgiveness.

And for the rest of the afternoon existed in a cocoon of warmth that only such discipline allows.

Out of control

There's been a few posts on the issue of control over the past week, from my post on power exchange to Eliane and Indy's interesting comments in response to it and then Eliane's own post on the matter. In that post she writes that even in play she doesn't think she could give up control in the same way I do.

But I have to confess that giving up control isn't easy for me to do either. And it only happens with a few select people that I completely trust and have a certain dynamic with. Even then it's still difficult and doesn't happen every time we play. Which can lead to me being disappointed not to reach that high flying state that deep submission leads me to, even if the scene itself was great.

And sometimes I find myself falling into no-man's land. A place where I seem to be out of control; not fully immersed into the role to be entirely submissive, nor fully in control of myself to be reasonable and rational.

As bad enough as it when I'm playing with one top, when you introduce other tops and bottoms into the mix it really complicates things. I'm beginning to wonder if that state of giving up absolute control can ever really happen in a group scene. I'm too easily distracted or pulled out of my headspace by the actions of others. Actions that are in no way meant to be a distraction but end up being so anyway.

I've long since noticed that my behaviour changes around other bottoms. I'll be more stoic, more silent, more determined not to cry and more frustrated when the pain gets to me. More resistant to being submissive and yet more angry with my failure to be submissive.

And a couple of times now I have found myself getting tremendously angry either during or after a scene. Throwing a strop over the slightest thing, being furious that the play hasn't gone the way I imagined it, lashing out at the nearest person to me.

This always leads to me feeling ashamed afterwards, that I've let people down, guilty I've ruined the scene or upset the other players. And I get annoyed at myself for being so out of control that I can't temper my words or actions.

It's a subject I've been discussing with HH and as usual he always has an answer to make me feel better. His take on it is that a person who endeavours to give up total control to play and submit can't be then expected to exercise control when their emotions take over, or the intensity of the scene gets to them.

I'll concede that it's a fair point but it doesn't make me feel any better when I'm mentally beating myself up over a scene. Although it does help that he and I have agreed how such behaviour should be dealt with to both help me learn the lesson and also forgive myself afterwards. Time out from the scene followed by the conclusion of it. Or else a period of time afterwards to calm down and then being punished severely, as was the case during this particular episode.

But I can't help wishing I could put a stop to it, that I could be in control, even when I'm not.

The truth shall set you free

So I bit the bullet and told another 'nilla about my secret life. Lets call her Morena. I'd been thinking of telling her for a long time. I've known her almost ten years and she's a very chilled and easy going person and one of my closest friends. Deep down I knew she'd probably be fine with it, but the doubt was always there. That fear of a negative reaction. Of being ridiculed.

Funnily it was so often on the tip of my tongue to tell her, but I couldn't get the words out. It didn't help that very early on I tried to suss her out by saying I'd met some new friends online. The friends at the time being Frank and Caroline. When she reacted by asking me was I swinging I was very much put off, believing my fears proven, she wouldn't understand.

When we met last week I hadn't planned on telling her. There wasn't even any wine involved either! But as she asked about my weekends away, both past and upcoming I was suddenly weary of all the lying. Lately I've been feeling very overwhelmed by living this secret life. As much as I try to keep the details to a minimum and share only the activities that are non-kinky, it still involves some lying on my part. (Expert lying I might add but that's another day's post.) So in this mood of wanting to be honest I told her and nervously awaited her response.

It was not what I expected. Not only was she perfectly fine with it, she was actually interested! Delighted almost. Curious certainly. And she admitted to some skeletons in her own closest that we giggled over too.

Her only issue was how I could have kept it from her for so long. It was difficult to explain the fear behind my secrecy, especially in the face of her own openness and understanding. And when I told her of my early attempts to tell her, she admitted she had suspected something kinky but not in a negative way at all.

I haven't told her many details, just that I'm into a lot of kinky stuff, some sexual and some not so sexual. That I play with different people, in roleplay and re-enactments. She urged me to go for it and do whatever made me happy, assuring me it wasn't weird at all. And was positively envious of the upcoming Regency House Party. We discussed my blog and she asked for the link but I told her I wasn't ready for that yet. Mostly because I'm not sure she understands how honest I am on here, how much I tell and whether she'd be comfortable with reading some of my more intense scenes. That most of my play is not sexual, that it's the deep emotional reaction that I crave and that I can suffer a lot of pain in the process.

Telling her made me feel wonderful, not only to have told her but to see her react so positively. I felt the two sides of me fused a lil bit more and gave me hope that one day I won't have any secrets from my close friends. Something I dearly wish.

So now I think I may tell another one, but not just yet. Carefully does it and all that. Still I'm emboldened by Morena's reaction, even if she did get slightly upset when I called her vanilla. Oooops!