Is this a competition?

Once again Jessica has posted on a very interesting topic. I may have to stop reading her blog cos she makes me think too much and sometimes that hurts. I have to think all day at work, so I want to come home and relax. Not think!

But her topic today was competitive subbing. It doesn't sound like a nice thing to do. To try to out do another sub. Taking more than they can, or taking it more bravely or quietly or whatever.

And I hate to admit it but I am certainly a lil guilty of this. I never judge another bottom on how or what they take. I genuinely feel empathy and sorrow for a fellow bottom being punished. To the point I'm almost patronising. Offering to take it for them. Like I don't think they can or want to take it themselves.

But despite this I find public punishments bring out another side of me. I don't know if it's stubborness or competitive spirit but I always find I can take a lot more when there are other people watching. And I'm as stoic as possible. It's like I feed on the situation. The emotions of the scene don't get to me as much as an intense three-way or one-to-one play. With an audience it's a different matter. It's almost like playing for pride.

Yet I'm not sure exactly what I'm proud of. Playing in clubs is an excellent example of this. Especially when I'm playing with my good friend Caroline Grey. I want to take as much as she takes. I want to be strapped and caned as much as she is. Nothing less will do.

And I find I can take it long and hard in these situations. I don't know for who's benefit this is. Maybe the audience enjoys it, but in some way my ego certainly does.

I can't explain it. I'd be the first to tell a top to take it easy or advise a bottom to not push it too hard, but in the heat of the moment I get my kink on and I can't stop until the pain gets too much. Is this something I need to work on? Or is this truly letting go? Pushing myself until I'm no longer topping from the bottom or just taking things too far? I don't know.

Yet my favorite scenes are those that leave me weeping and broken. Crumpled up on the floor begging for release. I don't think I'll ever achieve this with an audience cos my pride and ego are in the way. But I know that if I reached that level of submission in public, and therefore freedom, I'd be truly sated.

At the end of the day I think this is a competition. But there's only one other competitor: me.

A sunshine spanking

I've been on holidays people. In one of those incredibly hot places that make me actually glad to come back to miserable, rainy, cold Ireland.

Anyway it was a fab, if totally vanilla holiday. I completely relaxed and went almost incommunicado, restricting myself to the briefest of glances at email and no writing or reading of blogs at all.

But even though I switched my kinky communications off and was entirely surrounded by vanillas, I couldn't switch my kinky mind off. My head was full of fantasies inspired by the slightest thing:

briefly clad girl on the beach (spanked for wearing a far too revealing bikini)

pretty girl chatting to a boy at the ice cream parlour (whipped with her father's belt for flirting)

naughty girl sneaking in from a late night beach bonfire (has to face her guardian's wrath)

Alas I wasn't getting any spankings at all, but I did manage to get a red bottom. It seems my bottom is a target that even the sun can't resist!

On one of the days I quite foolishly fell asleep on the beach with my bikini bottoms pulled up a little too far. That evening I realised that I was bright red from my lower cheeks to the tops of my thighs. A beautiful shade of crimson any top would be proud to lay claim to. It made me smile to look at it in the mirror and grimace as I sat down, feeling the all too familiar tenderness!

I'm just slightly worried that the very middle part of my bottom is still very white, not tanned like the rest of it. I'm concerned it may prove too much of a challenge for my next play partner wanting to colour in the lines!

Desolate fantasies

Last night before I went to sleep I had the following fantasy. In it I was playing with friends of mine and I took a lot of liberties with their characters, making them do things they probably wouldn't do, especially the last part!

I also took liberties with myself because the incident leading up to the punishment is absolutely not something I'd ever do, and I even blush writing it! But isn't that what fantasies are about?

Anyway the whole point of it was that the scene didn't end in nice comforting hugs, but with me alone in tears. It's actually a recurring fantasy of mine that I'm not sure I'd ever like to act out but I find the idea very hot. Punished and shamed to tears. Left alone to contemplate my actions. Being left in desolation.

I was coming to stay with Mr and Mrs Friend for the weekend but had given them the wrong flight details. So Mr Friend was left waiting at the airport for me for more than two hours while Mrs Friend was at home having made a nice dinner which was slowly going to ruin.

I wasn't the least bit apologetic that my failure to give accurate flight times had inconvenienced everyone else. I was practically belligerent about it. Nor did I apologise to Mrs Friend for ruining dinner or thank her for her efforts. In short I was being a horrible bitch.

So Mr and Mrs Friend decided I needed teaching a serious lesson in manners. I was hauled upstairs and forced over the desk in Mr Friend's study. Then Mr and Mrs Friend took in turns to hold me down while the other applied a senior cane to my bottom. Hard.

At first I kicked and struggled and yelled blue murder. But pretty soon I was too busy trying to cope with the onslaught of cane strokes to struggle too much. They had both swapped over several times before the tears came. And shortly afterwards I was babbling my apologies and begging them to stop. But they didn't.

I have no idea how many strokes I'd had when they did eventually stop. All I was conscious of was the burning, throbbing pain. Ordered to stand in front of them I was asked once more to apologise, which I did, trying to control my tears. A moment of silence before a curt nod from Mr Friend and I was ordered to bed with the warning I had better behave myself for the rest of my visit.

Alone in my room I lay on my stomach, carefully touching my welted bottom. And cried myself to sleep.

One of those moments

I was at a party with some vanilla friends lately. Lollipop was there too and we were all having fun, drinking lots and getting very giggly and happy. Then one of our friends (Fi) came running into the kitchen yelling that she needed a wooden spoon and opening random drawers. As she rummaged we enquired what she needed if for and were answered with a very giggly 'to spank Suzy', before she found a spoon and went running out to the garden.

In amusement we trooped outside to see Fi and Suzy posing for spanking photos. Suzy was bent slightly over and making the most wonderfully exaggerated expressions while Fi held the spoon behind and pretended to be whacking her. The girl taking the photos was being berated for not getting the spoon into the shot. It was all very light hearted and everyone roared with laughter.

I still have no idea where the inclination to pretend spank each other came from. I was far too conscious of not being overly interested in the goings on and I couldn't look at Lollipop at all. I suddenly felt very strange and ridiculous and unbelievably embarrassed. I know I have no reason to be, that I do what I do because I want and need it.

And of course the girls had no idea that they were making me feel uncomfortable and it's not like they were making fun of me. But sometimes the absurdness of this spanking thing hits me and throws me off balance. And I wonder what the hell I'm doing and what would vanillas like these think if they found out.

Happily my internal freak out didn't last long and I was distracted by moving on to more fun things, like cremating chicken on a overly flaming bbq and laughing as Lollipop singed her hair. But I'm sure it won't be the last time I have one of these moments and I had better get used to getting over them.

(II) You know you're a pervert when...

You know you're a pervert when you get your hair cut and you're worried you can no longer pull off little girl hairstyles! This actually happened to me a few months back but is on my mind as I psyche myself up for another trip to the dreaded hairdressers.

The last time I was there I decided to get a radical hair makeover. 'Cut it' I said, being brave. For me changing my hair is like facing up to caning, it's totally terrifying but exciting and you can't wait to see to see how it turns out.

So the hairdresser picked up her scissors and with with one fluid movement cut of my long hair. Making it short - in a very bloody short, 'I didn't want it this short' way. And a sudden thought popped into my head: 'Feck I won't be able to put my hair up in pigtails anymore. How am I going to look like a proper schoolgirl now?'

As I sulked into the mirror I realised the hairdresser was giving me a funny look, so I rearranged my face into a fake smile, told her I loved it, gave her a huge tip and went home to cry in private!

For weeks afterwards I was obsessed with hairbands and clips to make me look more girly. And it was also the start of my boater hat phase. I did try to comfort myself at the time that not having pigtails would make it harder for tops to catch me, but unfortunately that didn't transpire.

Happily it soon grew back, as hair is wont to do. And I'll be much more careful this trip and get a kink friendly haircut!

Masked ball descends into orgy

Grahame Bond, owner of Halswell House got a bit of a surprise when an organised party at his property turned from a Masked Ball into a full scale orgy at the stroke of midnight. The poor man was so shocked at such activity and blatant wearing of corsets, suspenders, leather and the like that he called the police. Yes that's correct, he called the police because people were having sex and obviously enjoying themselves far too much. Down with that sort of thing and all that!

Of course I think it would have been much more fun if whips and canes were produced and the female attendees were made to strip off and then be punished for the entertainment of the male guests.

Although goodness knows how Bond would have reacted to that. Called in the army?

Not one of my kinks

I have a dentist appointment coming up. It's only a check up but I still have the usual dread and fear. It's funny how visiting the dentist is one of my least favourite things to do ever and yet the feelings such a trip invokes are exactly like those felt during a schoolgirl roleplay.

In fact it's so similar to a trip to the Headmaster's office that I don't understand why it's not part of my kink!

I'm always anxious while waiting to be called in, then there's the lecture on eating too much sugar, the guilt and dread before the sentence, the humiliation of having to lie on the chair with my mouth open to be poked at, the discomfort of the procedure, me trying to stay in position as stoically as I can, the painful throbbing afterwards and it always ends with me promising to do better and swearing I'll never be back here again!

*SIGH* But unfortunately I don't get turned on by it at all, would be so much easier if I did...

Pictoral representation of kink

Below is a diagram that a potential supplier presented at his pitch a few weeks back. He was a consultant type charged with measuring the degree to which people liked and engaged with our brand.

How it works is that you ask a series of questions which you then plot onto the graph below to ascertain a customer's relationship with your brand. So he could tell us to what degree our customers were aroused i.e. engaged with us and where the points of pleasure and pain were.



Or something along those lines, I was too busy mapping myself onto the graph to hear what he was saying. I don't know how effective it will be as a marketing tool but it sure summed up my relationship to kink.

Dominated through humiliation and distress, to the point of arousal. Which then turns to powerful pleasure culminating in feelings of satisfaction, comfort and protectedness. All of which results in awe, fascination and infatuation with the kink.

Excuses, excuses

Most scenes or roleplays are a losing battle. As in I get punished for whatever it was I was supposed to have done and no amount of crying/apologising/lying/squirming will get me out of it. But despite the futility, I still like to fight the good fight. Go down with spirit and all that.

So I try very hard to wriggle out of it. And sometimes I surprise myself with the ingenuity of excuses that I come up with on the spot. Excuses that nearly make me laugh out loud, never mind the top. Excuses that would make a weaker top break.

Like telling the Headmaster I just happened to stumble across a spanking porn site as I was researching Victorian discipline methods for my essay. Or telling Mr Basford that I wasn't fighting with that girl, we were just practising a new form of pilates.

Of course then there's the excuses that get a girl into more trouble. The ones a toppy type might call lies. Usually accompanied by vigorous digging of a hole that is impossible to get out of. Often culminating in even more vigorous whacking!

That said I may get a shock one of these days if the top actually buys it.

'Yes I see, you just popped into Top Shop to buy your sick Grandmother a present before proceeding directly to the dentist. Run along then'

Not quite sure how I'd feel about that to be honest?!

For the love of roleplay

Don't you love when you're in the middle of a roleplay and enjoying it so much you don't actually want to get the spanking part?

Usually in 1-2-1 role plays I'm very serious, or sorry or obedient etc. Scary things are happening to me and the punishment is reflective of that.

So a roleplay I did with Abel a while back was a refreshing change. I was a 6th form school girl and he was my guardian visiting me in Dublin. He was a kind and rather indulgent guardian and I was a nice but slightly spoiled girl. I didn't think I needed to work at anything, secure that my parents' trust fund would be all I needed in life.

The best thing about this roleplay was the absurdity of the character I got to play. And the fact it began over dessert in our hotel. Abel asked me how my studies were going and I got to prattle away about my life. The latest shoes I'd bought, whether he'd take me shopping the next day, my need for money for more books (shoes!), my plans to go to the Costa del Sol for the summer to improve my Spanish and my ambitions to undertake a course in Transatlantic Studies which would require me moving to Boston and experiencing the American shopping culture.

Such chattering continued with Abel questioning me on my social life, my purchases, my studying (or lack of), my ambitions and my college prospects.

When he took me back to his room the conversation took a more serious tone, informing me of a letter from my headmaster about the number of classes I was missing and my all too numerous nights out in bars.

I was indignant that academic standards were too high at my school, that only high achievers were encouraged of which I certainly was not one. Not to mention there was nothing wrong with going to bars, I was 17 and this was Ireland.

It was an argument I wasn't going to win and I was soon over his knee being slippered to teach me a lesson. This didn't have the desired affect and our discussion continued. I was then sent upstairs to the study and a cane was produced. I was enraged that he would do this to me and after a few strokes was answering back even more, asking him did he enjoy beating me and was this what my parents meant by looking after me

I love how my character was trying to hurt him. Telling him I didn't want him as a guardian anymore and that he obviously enjoyed beating me. Eventually the caning got too much, until I couldn't bear the pain anymore. So I sullenly told him that I would behave better, not meaning a work of it.

He didn't buy it either and in disgust sent me downstairs to get ready for bed before coming down and repeating his lecture with a strap. For a long time I resisted until finally I crumpled onto the bed in agony, asking him not to hurt me anymore.

And then he broke me, my touching me gently and telling me he really did care about me and wanted the best for me and he was sorry that I hated him.

It was the perfect way to take me out of my sullen defiance and I assured him that I didn't hate him really and sincerely promised to try harder. The scene ended with me being tucked up in bed and all was forgiven.

It was so much fun and I loved how we played off each other, both completely free in our roles.

Stir, stir, stir

Most of the time I'm a nice girl. A good friend, empathetic and sympathetic. But sometimes I like to stir it up and get other people into trouble. Especially when I'm not there. Getting a comrade into trouble is almost like playing vicariously. And the brat in me loves it!

Such as ringing Sylvie's phone during class at Lowewood so Mr Basford strapped her for having it on.

Or like trying to get Eliane a few extra spanks for her birthday by asking everyone to give her hugs and spanks from me. And then trying to get her into more trouble afterwards by insinuating that Abel's birthday caning, delegated to Sylvie, wasn't as hard as it should have been.

And then there's the chance to get my own back on Kami for all the times she's wronged me. Like that time she begged HH to hairbrush me just to see how long I'd stay still for. So in return, knowing she hated his slipper, I asked him to give her 10 hard strokes of it from me. Which he duly did.

But even more gratifying was getting revenge for her 8 comments on the Over to you post. I innocently suggested that Abel should give her 8 strokes of 6 similar implements. Only fair right? But was it wrong to tease her about it, then tell Abel they weren't hard enough and get her punished again. Too far?

Is it very mean of me to enjoy getting others into trouble or is it just natural? Thing is, while I'm quite delighted at the thoughts of getting them punished, having to witness said punishment is another story. I've cried watching Eliane and Kami getting it in joint scenes and would have done anything to stop it. Oh the irony of it all!

Still I do like to stir it up now and then...

Overheard in Dublin

I was out last night, painting the town red as it were, but in the vanilla sense. I.e. the only pain involved was from my ridiculously uncomfortable high heels and the only part of me throbbing this morning was my head.

But I was in good company, with Lollipop in tow, both of us looking for devilment. As we tottered from one bar to the next we overheard the funniest conversation.

A group of guys and gals were walking behind us having a very earnest discussion about the Marquis de Sade. All seemed to be aware of who he was but not all knew what he was famous for. Words like sadism and sodomy were bandied about until a row broke out over the meaning of sodomy and whether Sade came up with the actual word.

It was a very surreal situation and I was tempted to intervene and help clarify matters but got distracted by the sheer entertainment of it all. I was almost sorry when we reached our destination and had to stop eavesdropping. But as we went inside I couldn't help but giggle, it's certainly true, you can overhear anything in Dublin. (And if you don't believe me click here!)

Lashes anyone?

If I'm in Dublin for the weekend, my absolute favourite thing to do on a Saturday is to wander around town. Doing so on my own is quite lovely but hanging out with a close friend or a motley crew of random friends and acquaintances is even better. We stroll around our favourite haunts such as Dublin's best kept secret (it's the most wonderful bar and no I'm not telling you where it is but if you come visit I'll take you there), the Temple Bar Food Market, George's Arcade and a host of other cool places.

So yesterday was no exception and I found myself with a gang of lovely vanillas having a very late lunch that then turned into afternoon tea (as in it was afternoon and there was tea, no cucumber sandwiches anywhere).

Nothing remarkable or kinky about that I hear you say. And indeed there wasn't, except we were in a cafe I hadn't been to before and looking out the window I could see the following shop sign:


Oh what I would have given for a kinky friend to nudge and giggle with! Various thoughts of being bold enough to wander in, ever so innocently, and asking what sort of lashes they offered ran through my mind. Floggers, cat o' nine tails, martinets? Did they have any specials? Ask for 50 lashes and get 20 bonus ones, or sign up for 10 sessions and get the last one free.

I peeped in when we passed it later and was very disppointed to discover it was just another beauty salon with not a top nor flogger to be seen. But I love the fact that no matter how vanilla the company is, my mind is never far way from a kinky thought. It makes me very, very happy!

A very warm welcome

Is it just me or is the spanking community made up of lots of nice, friendly people? Most of whom are intelligent and although seriously kinky have opinions and interests outside of that too. People who are also open and welcoming.

Sure they want to beat me, abuse me and make me cry. But they go about it in such a lovely way, I nearly don't mind at all. Of course I've been contacted by one or two that don't fall into this category but you quickly learn to weed them out and you realise it's not for nothing that they aren't friends with all the others you've clicked with.

I'm still amazed by the welcome newbies like me have gotten in the scene. The patient answering of questions surely asked for the 100th time, the indulgent tolerance of a newbie at her first party, the careful advice on limits, implements and play patterns. Or the lengths people will go to help you out or invite you to play. Like offering a place to stay, even if they've never met you before, or picking you up from the airport, or arranging a party for you.

So I'm still trying to figure out if the whole community really is so open and welcoming or if I have just been incredibly lucky. Either way I'm not complaining, and have certainly enjoyed the warm, sometimes roasting hot welcome I've received!

A real caning

Ever since I started playing in the scene and experienced my first caning I've wondered what a real caning would feel like. By real I mean what actual school kids had to endure. Of course I'm not really 12 years old and terrified out of my wits, so roleplay can only get me so far.

Therefore I define a real caning for me, as one where I'm not enjoying it one little bit. Where each individual stroke is feared and I certainly don't want to incur extras. Where I don't relax into it at all and I can't surf on the endorphin rush. Where I'm crying purely because of the pain. Where once I'm finished all I feel is relief and lingering pain.

I always figured things like no warm up beforehand or a more severe type of cane or having it applied with much harder force would get me as near to a real caning as I could go. I'd never considered the effect of getting caned on an already extremely sore bottom, as so happened during my recent playdate with Abel.

On the day we had done the 300 scene and a few gentler spankings and strappings afterwards. I was feeling a lot of pain by then and playing was difficult, if bearable. But it was the final scene of that visit that broke me. I hadn't cried in any of our previous scenes, yet I cried in this one.

I had done something quite bratty, pushing Abel off the bed to land on the hard floor. He was not happy. Especially as I'd just been warned to behave, sore bottom or no sore bottom. So I couldn't argue that I was too sore to play, having been so blatantly naughty. I was quickly made to regret my rash behaviour.

Ordering me to lie face down on the bed he promised six with the cane. Peering fearfully over my shoulder I saw it was the whippy cane and not the dragon cane. I breathed a short lived sigh of relief. Until he started placing each stroke right on the delicate crease of my bottom, each stroke on top of the previous. It hurt so much I couldn't help but move out of position each time. Kneeling up and clutching my bottom and shrieking in pain.

He gave me two before warning me that none of them counted unless I stayed in position. So with great difficulty I clung to the bed and hissed through six more. I was sweating with pain and effort by the end of it. Played out. Done in. No more. Except he was looking at me with that look on his face. The look that says we're not done yet.

He then instructed me to lie on my back with my legs straight up in the air, holding my ankles. I could see him lift the cane and strike it down. Once more it landed right on my crease, except now my skin was pulled tight from the position. It hurt so much that I shot up into the air and off the bed completely. The tears came straight away, tears of pure pain.

I looked at him in shock. What an earth was that? But he merely instructed me to get back into position, uncompromising in his tone. Trembling I lay there, waiting for the next stroke. How could it only be number two? Again another burning stroke and a corresponding leap from me. I honestly didn't know how I was going to get through six of them. Counting was an effort, staying in position was impossible. The only saving grace was that he didn't give me extras for it.

For the first time ever I thought I was experiencing a real caning. Each stoke felt like a brand. I couldn't comprehend how much it hurt. Trying to steel myself to take each one, I waited for each to fall with real, stomach churning dread. I cried miserably through each and genuinely wished I was anywhere but there. Time slowed down to a crawl and getting through all six seemed to take forever.

And to make matters worse, he started to coax me back into position by telling me how 'brave' I was and that I was a 'good girl really'. His gentle, encouraging tone only served to make me feel like I had no choice but to take my punishment. No choice but to be the good, brave girl he wanted me to be. The tears flowed and flowed.

I'm in no hurry to repeat the experience. Honestly, I'd rather have another 300. But now looking back I can appreciate it for another wonderfully intense scene. And I can revisit that feeling of utter helplessness and despair that a real caning invokes.

Ooops what have I started?!

A while back I very innocently posted wondering who Fiona Locke might be. I got some very amusing responses to my post which then inspired other blog posts as the theories grew legs. Speculation as to Fiona's identity now ranges from Abel to his wife Haron, to Pandora and her cat to Ludwig, Caroline Grey, Niki Flynn and Zille. All of whom have denied it. (Zille, Ludwig and Pandora all taking the time to blog to that effect). Oh and Lucy McLean who actually keeps insisting that she is Fiona, but no-one wants to hear that. We're far more interested in wild speculation and harassing those who deny it.

I have two more theories, that I don't think have been explored yet. Mija who writes wonderfully well as evidenced here. Or if we are going down the male route as several have suggested, how about Mija's husband Paul or Zille's master? Both of these men being English it would makes sense, the books being set in England afterall. But I'm really running out of theories here and don't see why my JK Rowling idea hasn't gathered momentum!

Anyway, the upshot is we still don't know. But of course that's because Fiona's friends are quite rightly not going to out her. (If I did know I wouldn't tell you either). For whatever reasons Fiona doesn't want to reveal herself. Lord knows we've given her much opportunity over the past few weeks. And of course it's not actually our intention to out her either. We're just having rather a lot of fun with our wild theories. I hope she's getting as much of a giggle out of it as we are!

Oh and by the way if Peter Markworthy would like to make himself known to me, that'd be great. He seems exactly the sort of toppy type I love to play with. And I promise I wouldn't reveal his identity either. Cross my heart and all that!

That spanking afterglow

I'm starting to notice a pattern with my play weekends. I play hard and intensely until I get to a point where I can't play anymore. To the point where I'm physically, mentally and emotionally played out. Then afterwards I sink into a wonderfully comfortable state where life drifts by and I'm happy just to observe.

Content to just reflect on events and enjoy my marks and the discomfort of sitting down. I feel sleepy and calm, almost tranquilised. It's a lovely change of pace from my usual manic state, where I'm always on the go and uber energised about everything. I don't even feel like playing or even thinking about playing, at all.

And this lasts for a few days. It's a great feeling. Made even better by the total confidence that my urge to play will soon return, further compounded by the happy knowledge that my next spanking is no longer that far away. Meaning I can totally bask in that spanking afterglow.

Hard or fast?

Eliane commented on my post yesterday asking whether I prefer hard or fast strokes. Having just experienced both in the less than 24 hours, it was timely for me to think about it and decide.

In a punishment with a finite number of strokes, like the 300, fast can be very good. Yes it hurts a lot and is impossible to process or breathe but it's over quickly. But in a scene where you don't know how many you're getting, fast strokes can be horrendous. All burn and no hope of when it's going to be over. Like the birching from HH, delivered so quickly and not knowing how many I was getting made it almost unbearable.

The other problem with fast strokes is the near certainty of a mishit. No matter how good the top is, it's hard to be 100% accurate, especially if the bottom is wriggling.

But mostly I dislike fast strokes cos I can't be brave. I can't hold my position and I certainly can't stop yelping and crying out. It takes control away from me completely and as with the other day, I end up in a heap on the floor. Dignified it is not. (So it's probably a more effective punishment!)

So I guess I prefer slow strokes more. Easier to deal with the pain and get into a rhythm and headspace. But of course slow strokes, particularly cane strokes, can be delivered much harder. And as I discovered the other day a fiendish top like Abel, likes to try (and succeeds) in placing every stroke on top of the other, making it excruciatingly painful. Not to mention the pausing in between allows each stroke to reach a crest of pain that just starts to ease off before the next reignites it.

Hmmm maybe I need to think about this again. Or conduct some more empirical research.

Ask and you shall receive

Having now had time to reflect on the weekend and the events leading up to my 300 strokes, courtesy of you readers, I realise that I've learned a lot since that post on Friday.

Here are some of the keys things:

It's not wise to involve the wider kinky community in your play scenes;

You have more readers than you think;

It's a a sure-fire way to make lurkers de-lurk;

Your friends will go out of their way to make sure you get more than you bargained for;

Bottom types are even more cruel and sadistic than the toppy types;

It can result in a wonderfully intense scene.

I will admit that every time I checked my phone on Friday for any comments emailed to me, my reactions grew more pronounced. At first I was giggling, then laughing out loud as the numbers grew. Especially as people justified their reasons for posting again 'I prefer prime numbers' or '42 is the answer to life and the universe' etc.

Abel was having almost as much fun, enjoying every shriek from me of 'oh the feckers, I can't believe it's 29, 35, 47' and so on. Yes on Friday it was all quite light hearted, all hilarious. Not to mention I was distracted by all the other scenes we were doing so not really comprehending what all these comments really meant.

But as I went to bed on Friday night the fear started to set in. I was already quite sore and having to lie on my tummy. I had already felt the dragon cane; it really hurt. How was I going to take so many with it, not to mention all the others before it? I was genuinely worried I wouldn't be able to see it through and have to come back on here and say so. Before I went to sleep I asked Abel to make sure we did the scene and that I got all the strokes I was owed. It had become a matter of pride. (My poor bottom wishes I had rather less pride!)

On Saturday morning the final tally of 50 comments were confirmed (thanks Eliane) and I was more than a little nervous. I was still quite sore from the previous day and the thought of 300 strokes was too much. So I decided not to think about it. The numbers would be Abel's concern, not mine. I'd just bend over and take it. Just another scene, right? Except it wasn't, because I'd signed up for this., I has asked for it. Don't talk the talk if you can't walk the walk and all that.

In some ways I felt like I didn't have the option of not going through with it. Like I didn't have the option of safewording if I needed to. Which is interesting because I never safeword. So far I've played with very experienced people who read me well and always just push me to the right stretch of my limits. And I always push myself too. Something would have to go seriously wrong for me to safeword, yet I was still quite worried. And I think Abel was concerned too. He'd be the one dishing it out. He'd feel reponsible if it went too far. Yet I had asked him to go through with it. There was a lot of trust involved, on both sides.

The actual scene was set in a reformatory. I was being admitted for stealing. Although already subdued at the thought of the punishment to come, Abel in punishment officer mode terrified and cowed me further. There was no fight in me, I just wanted to get through it, extras were inconceivable.

He explained that every girl admitted had to experience each of the 6 punishment implements, to be tried for their effectiveness. (Martinet, leather paddle, tawse, industrial school strap and two canes: one light and whippy, the other a dragon cane). The most effective would then be used for any future infractions of the rules. But of course serious misconduct was dealt with by the governor and his birch.

When he ordered me to strip I didn't fuss at all. (I do have some sense of self preservation in there somewhere). I was bent over the arm of a sofa and he administered each implement in turn. 5o of each.

Thankfully I didn't have to count the strokes, and the first three sets were delivered so fast I didn't have time to worry about large numbers. Although in some ways it was harder having to endure them so quickly, it was better than the agony of waiting between each.

The martinet stung and wrapped around my thighs but I stayed down for it, knowing worse was to come. The slipper paddle made my bottom tingle and burn. I yelped continuously, but I coped.

To be fair to Abel he wasn't using these as hard as he could have. But they still hurt, especially as they accumulated. When he started with the whippy cane, I was dancing around a lot more but mostly held my position. I was trying to count the strokes in my head but this was proving difficult.

So difficult that I got very lost and when he finished with that cane I was confused. I thought he'd only giving me 30. Now readers I'm sure you'll agree what I did next was very stupid. I asked was he sure I got 50. He threatened to give me 20 more just to make sure. But I didn't want that either. I just needed to make sure that I got 50 from each, 300 overall. I'm anal like that. I had to semi come out of the scene to explain this but Abel was understanding and it didn't upset the momentum.

So he spared me the extra 20 but the next 3 implements were notably harder. I found the tawse particularly difficult, moving out of position often and crying out as the 5 tails wrapped around my crease and thighs. The strap felt like a relief in comparison. It hurt a lot but was solid and didn't wrap. I was very good for that 50, staying mostly still but I couldn't stop my cries of pain.

By the time we got to the dragon cane I was feeling more confident. Sure I was in agony already but the finish line was in sight. The first 30 were hard and fast. Breathing wasn't easy. It's so difficult to process when they land that quickly. I danced on the spot and clutched the sofa beneath me.

But then the next 20 were infinitely worse. Each was agonisingly hard, slower and more spaced out. He really made them count now that he knew that I could finish. After some of these strokes I was on the ground and it was hard to get back into position. The waiting for the last one was the worst. I knew it would be hard. And it was. I crumpled up on the floor clutching my bottom. But I was done.

I had survived 300 strokes of 6 different implements. Strangely I didn't feel the huge endorphin rush I usually do or even the emotional release of ending such an intense scene. Maybe I had played beyond all that or maybe the premise of the scene over-rode it.

All I felt was a huge sense of relief.

Oh the red strokes...

They say a picture paints a 1000 words, well the pictures below paint 300 strokes. A more detailed post will follow about what happened when I blithely promised to take 1 stroke of 6 particular implements for each comment I received on Friday's post.

For now I just wanted to put your minds at ease, dear readers, that your efforts were not in vain. Each and every thoughtful comment was acted upon. And to you dear selfless friends who gave up so many minutes of your day to comment again and again and again, I applaud you. Yes your 50 comments were noted and appreciated.

Abel gallantly acted upon them accordingly, with barely a murmur at having to administer all 300. Yet another selfless friend; I'm blessed to have so many.

We set the scene in a reformatory. A girl just being admitted and having to experience each of the punishment implements in turn, with the most effective being recorded and used for any misbehaviour during her stay.

After each implement Punishment Officer Jenkins wrote down how effective he thought it was and below is a transcription of that record and the corresponding picture:

Martinet whip - Moderate

Leather paddle - Moderate

Light cane - Effective

Tawse - Very effective

Irish strap - Effective

Senior cane - Extremely Effective

Recommended: Senior Cane

And when it was all over and I'd been hugged and comforted and the redness had gone down, this was the blissful state I found myself in. Thank you dear, dear readers. I look forward to returning the favour some day soon. Real soon.

Brats, bratting and bratlashing

Jessica has written some posts recently about different types of subs in scenes; brats in particular. It's a very intersting topic and she makes a good point about how brats can ruin group play for everyone else by monopolising a top's attention and never letting up on the bratting or letting anyone else get a look in.

It got me thinking though. Do the brats know that they're annoying? Am I such a brat? Would someone be kind/brave enough to tell me if I was?

It's often very hard to see yourself how other people see you. So how do these brats know that their behaviour is pissing everyone else off? They're having fun and the tops playing with them are having fun too. They don't necessarily stop to think that maybe the other subs/bottoms aren't actually having an equally good time.

I would hate to be thought of as an obnoxious brat, but I know I can be quite the brat at times. And I don't even have to try hard to be that way. It's my natural extroverted personality and it comes across as much in my vanilla life as in my kinky life. When on form I have boundless energy and I don't hold back on anything, nearly always saying whatever comes into my head or acting on sudden impluses. In any scene or situation this usually gives toppy types more than enough excuses to deal with me, should they so wish.

At the same time I hate the thought of making anyone feel uncomfortable and I consider myself very sensitive to other people's feelings. But what if I'm not really? Maybe I'm missing the glares and mutterings and the general 'get off the stage' vibe that's emanating from the rest of the group.

So when I hear other people commenting on how much they dislike brats or how annoying they are, my paranoia kicks in. I can't help but think that I'm exactly the type of person they are talking about.

I am always disgustingly eager to play. I don't have the luxury of playing when I want to, so really look forward to my play opportunities. And in the heat of playing, I'm not necessarily wondering about everyone else. Which yes, is quite selfish, but not at all intentional.

So maybe do the brat a favour and tell them where they are going wrong. Maybe they can learn to tone it down, or maybe they're just not suited to group play. But don't let them ruin everyone else's fun either.

Over to you!

As I posted yesterday, I have a playdate this weekend and my generous neighbour Mr T gave me 6 implements to play with. Abel suggested that I have to try each implement in turn and that you lovely readers should vote on how many strokes of each I should get.

Of course Eliane, ever helpful as usual, jumped in with 12 of each and then some. But people calling out random figures isn't going to be that useful.

So here's what we do. For every comment I get on this post I'll get one stroke of each implement. That works out at 2 cane strokes, 2 straps, a leather paddle and a leather martinet for each one.

I put this out there with the comfort of knowing that the most comments I've ever got on one post was 17 (and 3 of them were mine). So lurkers, please pick another day to de-lurk!

She who goeth a borrowing, goeth a sorrowing...

Good neighbours can usually be called on for a lend if you're stuck for something. You know like a cup of sugar, a drop of milk or, in my case, a cane or two.

Yes the wonderful advantage of having a lovely kinky neighbour is the opportunity to borrow from his extensive collection of implements if the need arises! Which works out very useful when another toppy type is flying in and doesn't want to drag his own extensive collection around with him.

And Mr T was very generous in sharing his implements. Actually a little too generous if you ask me. While visiting toppy type may appreciate it, my bottom may not. Really there was no need to give me all of the below:

A long leather strap (half an inch thick);

A 5 tailed Lochgelly tawse;

A slipper paddle;

A martinet;

A thin whippy cane...

...and a vicious dragon cane!

I swear I haven't been that naughty. Honest! (Gulp)

More justice for knickers!

Well it seems at least one top took heed of my Justice for Knickers campaign. In fact Abel is now so understanding about how precious girls are about their pretty knickers, that he's determined to return this lovely pair to their owner.



Of course I'm a little bit baffled as to how anybody could leave them behind in the first place; they're so yummy!

Nobody has claimed them yet, but in true girly style many of the commentators have admired them and Eliane even wants to go off and get a matching pair.

So if they're yours drop Abel a mail and reclaim them. I dare ya!

I am not Fiona Locke

LOL, I got an email from a reader asking was I Fiona Locke?! Flattered as I am, I certainly don't write that well nor would I have the discipline to write an entire novel, let alone two. (For those of you who don't know who I'm talking about she's a writer of erotic fiction, most notably Over the Knee, which is the hottest book I've ever read).

Anyway after I stopped laughing I got to thinking, who is Fiona Locke? I've figured for a long time that it's probably a nome de plume. And have even got to thinking it might be someone in the scene that I know, who's probably laughing as they read this post.

Of course I might be totally wrong about it being a scene person. Maybe she's actually JK Rowling. There is that Scottish connection in the first book and she did come up with Snape after all...

But anyway just to be clear: I am not Fiona Locke!

Ode to Lowewood

When I was a child I made up school stories in my head. I'd spend hours thinking them through. I always picked the school name and uniform first. Once I was happy with that I'd choose my girls: their names, backgrounds and characters. And finally with the main cast in place, I'd come up with the classes and the teachers. I have no idea how many versions of the same school I came up with over the years!

I very rarely got to any plots because I spent so long on the detailed set up. Everything had to be just so. Every character had a birthday, a favorite colour and foods they liked or hated. I knew which lessons and sports each was good or poor at. Which were friends. Who was a good girl. Who was a naughty girl. I have always been a major fan of detail!

So in September when I first discovered Lowewood Academy it was the detail that really attracted me. Somebody (somebodies) had taken my school fantasies in all their detail, given my characters a much needed make over, added in a whole lot of CP and some hot sex and made my dreams come true!

I'm not exaggerating here. When I first read Lowewood I felt like I'd hit gold. At that stage I didn't have a clue who the writers were but I thought they were kindred spirits. I loved the characters, especially the variety of them. All different. Some I liked more than others, some I didn't like at all. Obviously no one person could have written them all. The creativity of the plots and punishments also thrilled me, but it was the consistent quality of the writing and frequency of updates that really blew me way. How was it possible for normal people with real day jobs to produce this? And all for free. Were they crazy or just as wonderfully obsessed with it as their readers appeared to be?

By then Lowewood was already in its third year, but not content with reading a synopsis of the previous two years I went back to the start and read each post in order. It took me two weeks and the loss of much sleep but my obsession was already born. From then on, every day at 12 I was on my phone checking for the latest update. Don't tell anyone but I once read a Lowewood entry in church. Or that at my first day at the real Lowewood Academy I was reading that day's update in class!!

And although I'm a very kinky girl and am turned on both by being punished and reading about such punishments, there were times when I was reading Lowewood and hoping the girls wouldn't get punished. I loved their achievements and victories even more than their punishments. Often I had to remind myself that they weren't actually real, and that I was meant to enjoy them getting whacked, not scream at the unfairness of it all.

Now the writers of Lowewood have decided it's time to call it a day. And while understanding that it's the right thing to do, I'm very, very sad. I feel like I've lost a good friend. I'll miss the antics of the characters, laughing at the audacity of what they get away with, delighting in their achievements and wincing along with their punishments. But all good things must come to an end and I love when things end on a high. Lowewood will leave all its readers wanting more, just as it should.

So if you've never read Lowewood before head on over to the first post and enjoy it all from the beginning, you lucky fecker. Or like me if you've been a fan for a while sure go over anyway, enjoy the sign-off post and then buy the team a drink for all the hours of entertainment and pleasure they've given us. Certainly well deserved!

Relaxing, kinky style

I've had a very dull and stressful vanilla week, with barely a kinky thought. Sometimes life gets like that. Work gets busy and I don't have the time or inclination to day dream as much as I'd like. And I was also off to spend the weekend with some vanilla friends. Although looking forward to it I knew there wouldn't be much time for kinky thoughts then either.

So when I got home from work on Friday I took a short nap to reconnect with my kink and relax myself. I closed my eyes, aimed my thoughts kinkwise and let my mind wander. This is where it took me:

'I was sent to my room to await punishment. Warnings had been given but not heeded. The stern tone enough to brook immediate compliance. This wasn't going to be a gentle reminder to behave. As I made my way out of the room he told me how he expected to find me.

In my room I quickly removed my clothes, putting them away neatly. Then knelt on the bed with my knees apart. I leaned forward with my elbows flat on the bed and head pressed down, leaving my bottom up high in the air. Vulnerable.

He didn't make me wait long. As eager as me to get this punishment over with. He didn't stop to lecture me. Knowing by my quiet submission I already repentant. I felt nervous and exposed. It's always harder for me when he doesn't speak. When I can hear him fetching an implement (or was it implements), but having no idea of what's in store. His disappointment hanging heavy in the air.

The first stoke lands without warning and I struggle to hold onto my position. A tawse. Heavy. Painful. Another lash just as hard. And another. And another. I fight to stay in position. The more I submit and take it, the sooner it will be over. Again and again it lands and I concentrate on not moving. The burn intensifies and my cries increase from whimpers to yelps. He moves it up and down my bottom. Sometimes landing 3 strokes in a row on the same spot. Agonisingly painful.

But I know worse is to come. He waits until I'm crying before moving down to my thighs. The first blinding lash makes me sit up. And I give way to sobs. In defeat I get back down again and suffer the onslaught on my thighs as best I can. I'm squirming on the bed, no longer at all brave, not at all obedient. Every muscle in my body hurts from trying to hold still.

By the time he stops I'm distraught. The pain and shame has overwhelmed me. I collapse on the bed and he waits in silence until I control my tears. I know we're not finished. I know he's waiting. I get back into position, arching my back, presenting my bottom. He stands behind me, hands gently stroking me, reassuring me. I take a deep breath and surrender to him.'

Don't you just love when your mind takes you to such hot places?

Technical glitch

Watersports are certainly not amongst my list of kinks. No surprise really considering I am very squeamish about bodily fluids in general. Even the thoughts of them make me gag.

So when I dropped my phone down the toilet recently it was very reluctantly that I fished it out and threw it in the bin. If I thought I could have just flushed it away, I would have, trust me. But I have a conscience and that won out.

I quickly got set up on a temporary replacement phone. But it doesn't do half the tricks my old one did; I can just about read and send mails. Once I got over the trauma of watching my phone come to such an unfortunate end, reality hit home. What an earth was I going to do without my super fancy phone that connects me to my kinky life 24/7?

And I mean 24/7. That includes the wee hours of the morning where I wake, check my mail, read any new blog entries and then go back to sleep. Or if I've had a particularly interesting kinky dream or thought I'll write up a draft blog entry.

And during the day at work when I can grab a spare few minutes I like to catch up with all my blogs. Not being able to read my daily dose of Lowewood has been particularly upsetting this past week. How can I be kinky without my on demand kinky literature? Not to mention what I'm going to do with so many vanilla weekends away, as well as a week long vanilla holiday coming up. I'm terrified of being out of the kinky loop.

Unfortunately I've had to resign myself to going primitive for a few weeks until our mobile providers sort out the paper work and send me a new one. The only light at the end of the tunnel is that my new phone will be even more shiny and super and gimmicky and addictive. And hopefully I'll be back to 3am blogging in no time.

So do excuse any lapses in communication in the meantime. Normal service shall be resumed as soon as possible.

Endurance Sports

Rebecca has signed up to run a half marathon. In case you didn't know that's 13.2 miles to cover. Isn't she brave? Or else a total masochist altogether!

Reading her post I was reminded of the time I completed a half marathon myself. I wasn't out in the scene or doing anything kink wise at all, but even then I remember thinking that I was behaving like a masochist. I ran 4 evenings a week for 3 months and mostly the only enjoyment I felt was when I'd get the run over with.

On the day of the race itself, I started off too fast. Between the pace and the hilly terrain (that I wasn't at all prepared for), I was done in by the 7th mile. So I ended up running the last 6 miles in severe pain and cried as I crossed the finish line. Only sheer willpower kept me going.

I love sports but my only strengths are enthusiasm and endurance. I have feck all skill (as evidenced by my netball display at Lowewood). So I've always been attracted to sports that I can succeed in through determination and stamina. That I can depend on adrenalin and endorphins to get through. Rugby in my late teens and twenties, then running and more recently kick boxing.

Always at my happiest when I can fully immerse into whatever I'm doing and push myself to my physical limits. Free to surrender to my sweat and tears until I am broken and exhausted, but content. And when I think back to the pain, the tears, the emotion and the euphoria, not to mention the satisfaction of completing my own half marathon, I can't help but compare it to a wonderfully intense scene. Liberating.

Three times the trouble

I've just had a conversation with a close toppy friend about how I'm really in for it the next time he gets his hands on me. By a horrible series of unfortunate events we haven't managed to play in ages. I feel neglected and cos it's my own fault it's actually more like I'm neglecting him (not that he is really cos the lovely Caroline more than keeps him on his toes!).

But it seems to be a particular downside of making new playmates. Yes it's wonderful. Yes I love meeting new people. But then I can't fit everyone in. I want to play with all my new playmates and play with my old ones too. Alas schedules never seem to work out to suit everyone. And there's only so much of me to go round.

But I can't help but wish I could clone myself and go on playdates with all my toppy friends at the same time as hanging out with my new kinky friends and keeping up my vanilla social life too. Then we'd all be happy and I wouldn't feel bad. Yes think I need three of me.

Now there's a scary thought, could the world handle that much of me?!

The little details

For me the little details in a scene are what it's all about and make a good scene great or unique. I try to make sure I include these details in my posts, not least because I don't want to forget them! But some details I'll never forget because they were so central to the scene, like the one below.

A few months back I was playing with my Scottish friend during one of his visits to Dublin. We were doing a school roleplay where I was a prefect sent to the Headmaster for being caught looking at inappropriate material on the school computers.

In some ways it was a very run of the mill school scenario. I was dressed neatly in one of my uniforms. He was the typical stern and imposing Headmaster. He lectured me gravely on my misconduct; I was suitably chastened and repentant. There was a caning bent over his desk, skirt up and knickers down. There was corner time. There was a letter home. All perfectly normal to any school scene.

But there were two things he included that really got to me. For my Scottish friend had been carefully noting things I had said in emails with the intent of introducing them in this scene. And they both happened in the opening 5 minutes.

First off I was lectured on my disgraceful behaviour. Nothing strange there. Until I was reminded of my standing in the school. A senior prefect, captain of the football and basketball teams, captain of the school quiz team and member of the debutantes committee. He read the list out and I had to confirm my position. As he knew well, each and every one was a position I held in my senior year at my own school. I was mortified that he remembered but even worse my instincts screamed at me to clear my name. I burned at the thought of ever having to be sent to my own Headmaster, that a good girl like me would ever have been caught misbehaving so badly.

After shaming me and making me squirm back to my own school days he then did something even worse, that brought me to the point of tears. He ordered me to remove my school tie. He told me I was in disgrace and wasn't allowed the honour of wearing the prefect's tie. I have never felt like safewording as much as I did then. Knowing I'd have to complete the scene without being fully armoured in proper uniform almost undone me.

If you know me at all, you'll know that the tie is my favourite part of my uniform. I don't feel complete without it and it has to be worn neatly at all times. For me a schoolgirl without her tie is a disgrace. I'd rather have been told to strip naked than give up that tie. But with shaking hands I removed it and gave it to him, keenly feeling the shame of having to do so. I silently applauded him at having so expertly derailed me and prayed the caning would soon start before I lost it completely.

Two little details that caused me to feel more infinitely ashamed and repentent than the serious caning that followed.