Merry Christmas!

Thank you, dear readers, for your support again this year; particularly in the past few months where I've been distracted by real life and not blogging as frequently as I'd like to.

As I said in my last post, I see my blog as a safe place where I can be me. From the start I've loved processing aloud, sharing my thoughts with you all. But, increasingly, I'm also enjoying sharing the photographs that capture the spirit of me.

This year's photo was taken by my good friend Master Retep during a visit to Camden Town over the summer. It's very fitting as this year's photo, symbolising the main change in my life this year - the move to London. But also showing EJ's cheeky, girly side that lurks within the confident career girl who more regularly travels on the London Underground.  And the faint blush of a smacked bottom reminds me that I'm never too far away from my next spanking.

I hope you love this photo as much as I do. To my surprise and delight, Abel had it printed on canvas for me and it now proudly adorns my bedroom wall.

Merry Christmas to you all and I wish you lots of love and good fortune in 2012!

Safe Places

When I was little my Grandmother’s house was a safe place; a refuge from the world of alcoholic parents screaming at each other, and being the eldest child who grew up very quickly. A place where I didn’t have to be in charge and where I was unconditionally loved.

Uni was my next safe place. Living away from home, making new friends, getting involved in things that interested me and for the first time feeling it was all about me. 

In myrew up very quickly. r ng the eldest chidl ld  kinky life my blog became another safe place. Where I processed my new experiences and grew up in the scene.  Amelia Jane put it best when she said her blog is her sitting room where she invites you in to sit down for a chat, but it’s her place and you are a guest.

I feel like that about my blog. It’s my personal place where I talk about what’s important to me in the scene and in my kinky life, sharing with other like-minded people.  But I have been reluctant to let too much of my real life invade this safe place. I preferred to record and live my kinky life only. I’ve never even talked about why I like discipline and rules in my kink, as so many others dissect. The truth is: I’m text book Freud; I grew up without either, I’ve always felt an adult in my house and I love to regress to be without responsibility. In my real life I am organised, controlling and at times domineering.

Apart from discipline and submission I love the catharsis of play. When I’m feeling vulnerable and emotional in my real life I find it empowering to play dark and abusive scenes, where I immerse myself fully and come out the other side having survived.

In roleplay I also get to act out another life. Caoilfhionn is the smart, sporty girl that’s uber confident. Lucy Plackett is the bitch I never was, even if I was capable of it. My Regency ladies are pretty, accomplished  and composed; the equal of everyone else.

And sometimes my EJ is petulant and moody. Sometimes she says things that aren’t nice. But luckily people who care about her don’t let her get away with it. The residual guilt that being nasty leaves me, is effectively dealt with through punishment. 

But despite those intentions real life is creeping in. I can’t explain where my head is at without giving real life context. And where my head is at, influences my play. Which is why back in May I blogged about losing a member of my family; I needed to process the link to roleplay and feeling disconcertingly disgusted by my kink.

Once again I find myself dealing with another family trauma; this time it’s my Grandmother. She’s dying of cancer and I am scared of losing my safe place.  As I come to terms with it I am leaning on my friends who are staying with me, despite the tears, rage and irrationality; a tantrum of epic proportions.

All my friends are being so supportive it’s humbling. Whilst both HH and Abel are offering shoulders to cry on, hugs for when I’m cried out, gentle admonishments when I’m out of line and discipline when the subsequent guilt sets in. The most powerful of which happened at Kink Towers, when HH strapped me for being a bitch and Abel observed. When I petulantly asked why was he even bothering if I was such a nuisance, his patient answer made me cry before the strap landed.

I’m hoping that opening up my blog to these things won’t take away the safety of it. After a couple of years in the scene I thought I didn’t have anything else to learn. The past six months have taught me I can’t pretend kink and real life can be kept separate. I can’t switch one off when I please; they both clamour for my attention and both insist on impacting the other.

Just as my friendships can no longer be defined as kinky or vanilla. They are simply friendships and how we met is now irrelevant. And the ones that have prospered the most are those where all aspects of our lives intertwine, easily and beautifully. I have found another safe place.

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...

A painful review

As those of you who are regular readers of The Spanking Writers will know, Abel is somewhat of a collector of implements. In one of his recent posts he listed a helpful Implement Rollmaker of Honour. Two of the entries in particular caught my eye.

The first was the Claire's Accessories hairbrush which seemed incongruous amongst the others:

"For hairbrushes: it just has to be Mason Pearson – although, bizarrely, I found the most gorgeous cheap brush in Claire’s Accessories when Emma Jane and I were on holiday in Belgium last month, which was very robust but not too severe, and worked rather beautifully"

I had to agree with Abel's assessment, and as you can see below it's a very cute and girly brush, but packed quite a sting and reddened me very nicely!

The second was the list of cane makers:

"For canes: Prysm, Maui Kink, Can-iac and Quality Control. Jack’s Floggers are also recommended (although try finding them at places such as the LAM; I never managed to get a reply to my requests to buy their canes online)."

It reminded me I still hadn't tried his new canes from Prysm.

On my next visit we put that to rights, with six strokes of each swiftly delivered, as blogged by Abel. And then once my favourite (read most painful) one had been established I got many more until a full sixty striped me all over!

I hope you readers appreciate the pains I go to to provide detailed reports on new implements!

At the moment of truth...

Kami and Abel recently played a very severe scene. (See her account here and his account here and you'll understand how severe.) In it they played one of his stories, 'The Punishment List', where the girl recieved a double caning; as severe as any girl could get.

Chatting to Kami in advance about the scene she had two worries about it: that she wasn't going to be able to take the pain, or that Abel wouldn't be able to go through with giving such a hard caning. In my own mind I thought the former wouldn't be a problem, but I wasn't so sure about the latter.

From my own experience, I know that fear, and the resulting adrenalin, can make you get through anything. My JCPs with Mistress Switch and Mr Allen have taught me that. They don't work without real fear and an unexplainable but resolute need to get through the ordeal. I knew that Kami had both the fear and the need and figured she'd be OK.

But such scenes also don't work without the knowledge that the Top will not stop, no matter how much you scream. Each time I've played with Mistress Switch I've been terrified. At my second JCP I thought I wouldn't survive 6 strokes of her cane, let alone 24. And yet I couldn't have safeworded and had she stopped I'd have been gutted. That was only the second time we'd met and the second time we'd played. My knowledge from the first scene and the lasting stranger element made it work, as well as knowing when she steps up she leaves compassion at the door. (That doesn't mean she leaves safety at the door too!) Her determination made me equally resolute to not to give in either.

When it comes to my own closest play partners, I've always doubted that they could do that do me. They know me too well, care about me too much. (Hence, my uncertainty about Abel and that scene and why I'm as proud of him as I am of Kami.)

Don't misunderstand me, I've played very hard with both HH and Abel, separately and together. (Scenes I've played with both of them like the Workhouse Flogging, might have been the hardest I've played with either of them.)

But because they care about me so much, I have doubted that we could do a JCP scene on the scale of severity like the one with Mistress Switch. Partly cos I wonder if they could actually do it. Watch me suffer like that and not let up at all? But mostly and more importantly, I don't know if I would go through with it.

I know I can take the pain but what would be the point? I'm not a severe physical player; I prefer headspace. My forrays into severe have been out of curiosity and a masochistic need to test my utmost limits. I have nothing to prove to either HH or Abel, or they to me. At the painful moment of truth I think I'd disengage: ask them to stop, tell myself we don't play like this, we don't need this. Or if I didn't give up myself, might feel that I could break them instead; be so piteous, so distraught they couldn't continue.

It's a dilemma I doubt we'll ever answer; I don't really want to prove or disprove any of my hypotheses!

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.

Beautifully me

I never thought I’d come to enjoy my body being photographed, either fully clothed or naked. I looked in appreciation at photos of other people. In my own head I applauded their braveness. And in my own way I was envious. Not of how they looked; what appeals to each individual is subjective, we see different beauty in everybody. No, I envied their confidence to share their pictures, in such glory and detail. Imagine liking yourself enough to do that.

HH being a keen photographer has been taking pictures of our play from the start. Back then for me it was just a record of a particularly interesting scene: I had no intention of sharing them publicly. I had seen his photographs of Nikki and Kami and many other girls who I considered worthy (and by worthy I mean pretty and sexy and interesting enough) on the blogs. I would not be competing with that. 

So at first I paid little heed to the photos; a brief look and a shiver of repulsion and I’d look away. Usually the marks were all I cared for. But as time went on I began to appreciate the story my face and body told. I came to understand how the photos could add to the scene write-ups and in time I came to enjoy looking at myself, both in the moment and looking back at scene gone by. I started to appreciate my body. To think that being pictured in the thrall of my kink was actually worthy; of being looked at and being shared.  

 

Like many people I know, I spend a lot of time frowning in the mirror, sucking in my tummy and standing on tip-toe trying to improve how I look. I agonise over weight gained, favourite clothes not fitting, wish I was taller and thinner, struggle to stay as fit and healthy as I believe I ought. (Please do not reply with a ream of platitudes and assurances that I am perfect as I am - that is not the point of this post. Let’s accept that we all have our own insecurities and hang-ups.)

So it gives me a thrill to see a picture of me that I like; one that makes me feel sexy and confident. More and more I ask to be photographed, both in scenes (as often documented here) and outside of them. The past week with HH in Scotland we had ample opportunity for out of scene shots and this post includes a selection of my favourite ones. 

Of course I’ve discarded those I felt to be unflattering. Photography hasn’t achieved miracles with life’s on going insecurities; the fact I find any that I like at all is the positive thing! Now I share these photos completely narcissistically, for once indulging in being beautifully me.

Whipped

The first Christmas I knew HH I gave him gun money as his Christmas present. (Gun money was what James II paid his soldiers with in the fight against King William. It was meant to be transferred for legal tender on his victory; but that never came about). The gun money came with a scene idea – a poor girl naively accepting the money as payment for work. When she tries to spend it is brought before the magistrate and sentenced to be whipped to set an example to others trying to do the same.

We’d long planned to play the scene but there was never a suitable time, until during our holidays, in a Scottish Castle, the setting was too perfect to pass up.

She was a poor girl, quite alone in the world, making her way to Dublin to try and find work. But she was soon to learn that people took advantage. After a few weeks working on a farm she was grateful to earn a whole half crown. The work had been back breaking but the money would see her to Dublin and help her find her feet. She thought it looked different to regular money, but the farmer assured her it was newly minted at the orders of the new viceroy.

Alas for our girl, she had been tricked into taking gun money; not only illegal but also showing her as a supporter of the papist James. When she tried to use it in Dublin she was arrested and brought before the district magistrate. Under orders to stamp out any perceived support for James and to rid the market of the gun money the magistrate made an example of her. She was to be turned over to the bailiff and whipped severely.

The next day she was taken down to the whipping room and hung from the ceiling to await her fate. She shivered in the cold, her bare feet numb on the icy floors, the thin drawers and chemise giving little protection from the chill.

By the time the bailiff came to deal with her she was weak from cold and fear. But he offered no comfort.

He removed her drawers and chemise, openly ogling her body. She flinched as he ran his hands over her, but this entertained him more: he assured her she’d soon do anything to stop the pain.

Laughing, he promised to make his little papist slut sing like a canary so the whole prison could hear her. She shivered as he picked up his whip. Long and black, with many thick strands of leather it looked terrifying.

She soon learned it felt even worse than it looked. The first few strokes made her gasp for air, spraying across her bottom and thighs, the ends biting into her cruelly. Before long she was screaming aloud with the pain.

In between the lashes he tormented her with his words and hands, laughing as she screamed. As bad as it was on her bottom and thighs when he switched his whip to her breasts and back she nearly fainted with the pain.

When he finally put the whip down she sagged in relief, burning all over from the nasty whip. But he was not done yet. Picking up a heavy leather strap her beat her relentlessly with it until she was hanging limply, crying noiseless tears. Her hands tied tightly above her were turning blue and lifeless.

Satisfied at last he stepped back to admire his work. Pinched and groped her lewdly, knowing she wouldn’t resist. Before leaving her hanging there, all alone, afraid of what might befall her next.

Intern in trouble!

One of the joys of going on holiday with a kinky friend is being able to exploit your surroundings in a scene context. Abel and I spent a night in Brussels recently and inspired by the types of people we observed around us, came up with an intern scene.

I was working in the city earning just enough to get by, but certainly not enough for any treats such as expensive meals out or new clothes. So I'd come up with a plan. I'd target business men on their own, go to the restaurants they'd eat in, flirt with them and see what I could get out of them.

Mr Jenkins had seemed very nice and had fallen under my spell as easily as the men before him. He had generously bought me dinner and cocktails after and walked me home, like a gentleman. The next day he texted to say he's bought me a present and invited me to his hotel to get it.

This was very promising. Usually the men didn't give presents so easily: I was thrilled. He was staying at one of the posher hotels and I made sure to look smart and sophisticated whilst also very sexy in heels and a short, tight fitting dress, under a demure black coat.

He seemed pleased with what I was wearing, looking me up and down appreciatively. The present was a beautiful handbag, very to my taste. This was so easy, I grinned to myself. And maybe we'd get up to some naughtier fun too, I was quite attracted to him: he wasn't not at all bad for an old guy.

But then things took a weird turn...

He told me about a friend of his who was often in Brussels. A friend who had met a young girl, just like me, who’d flirted with him in the same restaurant we had met in. I laughed nervously, what a coincidence.

Indeed it was he agreed smiling. Then told me firmly he knew my game and thought I had been very silly and reckless. If my daughter put herself in such compromising situations I'd be very worried he explained. I tried to explain I was in no danger that I could look after myself.

It was a good argument until I was up-ended over his knee and he was spanking my bare bottom. I was outraged but couldn't do anything and he seemed to enjoy making this point as his hand rained smack after smack: 'That a girl who turns up in a man’s hotel room could have anything happen to her!' When he finally let me up I was hot and sore, rubbing my bottom petulantly.

He continued to scold about personal safety: not trusting strangers, working for my treats and not blagging them from unsuspecting gentlemen. I'd hoped we were finished but he felt I needed a stronger lesson. Taking his belt off, he made me bend over the bed and strapped me very hard until I was crying and begging. How could it hurt so much?

But he had a nice side too, cuddling me in his arms afterwards he warned that he'd be keeping an eye on me. It felt very safe. And then he introduced me to other naughty pleasures I'd never even considered and that was lovely too…

Up to Mischief!

Abel and I went on holiday recently. We had a lovely time and got up to lots of mischief. Of course some kinds of mischief can get a girl into trouble. Like when we visited a lovely walled garden, full of delicious fruit for any naughty girl to be tempted by.

I couldn't resist and got so distracted that I didn't hear the gardener enter. I was caught in the act, stealing his prized apples. I was so afraid I ran away, but didn't get very far. The gates were locked and despite my efforts I couldn't get over them!

The gardener was very annoyed and told me I was in for a sound spanking. Over his knee I went there and then, squealing loudly as his hard hand punished my poor bottom.

And aftwerwards he tied me to a post, my red bottom on show so that everyone could see exactly what happens to naughty little thieves!

A day of punishment

As I write this I'm wearing a very unflattering dress and white knee socks. I'm also sitting very tenderly: my bottom is red and sore from multiple spankings and strappings. I'm resolutely blogging and my phone and knickers have been confiscated. You see today has been a day of punishment.

It's one that I asked for, but that HH has dictated. Borne out of me being rude and snappy over the past day, saying hurtful things and generally being damn right unpleasant. Even in play, I've been a nuisance, whining about my spankings and actually storming off in the middle of two of them.

It makes for a poor guest and an even worse play partner and I don't want to be either of these things. Yes, there are underlying frustrations and stresses and we've been talking them over, with HH as ever sympathetic and pragmatic. But we both agree it's not a justification for being a bitch. And we both want and need me to be in a more accepting and safe place. To enjoy the week ahead on holiday and the many fun scenes we've planned.

So a discipline fetish really does come in handy sometimes. My day has been mapped out completely; a series of chores and tasks assigned. As you can gather this was my time for blogging. Although I lacked motivation initially an OTK slippering (junior version, not senior) provided what was missing. 

I can already feel myself back on a more even keel and the change in my attitude is very apparent. Asking 'May I, sir?' for every little request makes one very humble. Being spanked for every minor infraction makes one much less likely to snap. And having all the control taken out of the day makes it both stress free and belittling. Not to mention in this frame of mind I want to please HH, I want him to be proud and recognise I'm trying to make amends.

I know I'll go to bed sore, but happy and calm and grounded again, in my happy disciplined girl place. And tomorrow I'll be ready to be in control of myself again; a happier, freeer me.

Look what we made!

It's a book! A collection of fabulous stories by 20 of the scene's best writers and bloggers! Abel and Haron have been the driving force, coming up with the idea, bringing everyone together and doing all the hard work of getting it published. Everyone gave their story for free and all proceeds go to Cancer Research UK. I'm sure you're all eager to buy it so click here for all the details you need. And while you're over there, give Abel and Haron a congratulatory hug: I hope they are very proud of themselves today as it's finally published!

As for me I am disgustingly excited to be part of it. All the stories are great but I'm honoured to share a book with my pre-scene, lurking day heros Paul Bailey, Serenity Everton, The Lowewood Writers, Casey Morgan and Abel.

I'll write again about my story but here's a little hint: the cover, painted by my wonderful twin Catherine Thomas, depicts a scene from my story (with me as the model gulp!) and it's called Slipping up.

And for those of you who are lurking on here, wishing you could be part of this community, take inspiration from Eliane's introduction :)

Your space or mine?

Since I've moved to London I've encountered a problem that I didn't have in Ireland. No not having to remember to pronounce H and R a different way or understand that supper isn't a bowl of cereal before bed, or all those numerous little details that one has to navigate in a new culture.

No my problem relates to playing in my house, or more to the point, my space. In Ireland playing in my house was usually out of the question due to my lovely, but vanilla flatmate. So when Abel came to visit we played in his hotel or when HH came we rented a house out of the city. Otherwise I just played at clubs and parties.

It's a new departure to have a nice big house and a kinky flatmate who's not going to be shocked at what she might hear. It was even something I looked forward to in advance of moving: being able to play in my own house, inviting people over for play dates, not always having to travel for my beatings. Oh the freedom of it.

Except it hasn't quite worked out like that. I'm finding it incredibly hard to play at home, to be submissive there. My house, my rules and all that. If a guest comes for dinner and I'm entertaining and cooking then it's very hard to switch to submissive mode, to let them into my head, to let them beat me. I feel my space is being invaded and the control freak in me rebels.

It's compounded by trying to play on school nights, when the brain hasn't quite moved out of work mode. As well as the worry that Furball will be upset or the neighbours will hear. Most of my play partners have more suitable houses for such things, particularly HH with his Kinky Narnia where no-one can hear you scream.

I am trying though. I managed at the party when there were enough people to make it feel less like my house and more like a club venue. And Abel and I did play a fun, little scene the other night where I was being spanked and made to clean up my messy bedroom which was just light enough to be bearable.

And with HH there's been no 'choice'. If I've earned a punishment then it will be delivered, no matter where we are. Complaining I don't want to be spanked in my house would likely result in another side of the road spanking! It's not easy though. The first evening is a battle of wills. Usually my control freak against my submissive side with HH refereeing. I am expected to obey him, expected to take deserved punishments sufficiently contritely and above all let him in my head.

He is not pleased when I resist letting him in and has a very suitable repertoire of words to break down my defences. Still the first 5 minutes of any Friday night spanking usually involve me tense and stubborn, riding out the pain, blocking him from my head. In the end he gets there and I feel relieved. It's a place I want to be; the good, obedient girl he expects.

But even he has his limits: morning play is far more difficult to achieve in my house than his and on his last visit he obviously thought discretion was the better part of valour and let me sleep on!

For all that I do prefer going to visit him or Abel. And upcoming holidays with both of them offer new opportunities to play, completely new spaces to be conquered and for me to feel anonymous and submissive in. Who knows what that will lead to?

I am curious though, am I the only one to experience this problem? Is it just because I've changed from never playing in my own space to trying to do so quite often that the shift feels too much? What do you toppy types prefer: is it easier to play in your space or mine?

When I first met..

There's a very nice topic trending on Twitter this past week: #whenIfirstmet. The idea is to tell about your first meeting with who ever in one single tweet. For example Jessica said of me "#WhenIfirstmet @lilemmaj I thought she was trouble. The good kind". And I said of Abel: #WhenIfirstmet @AbelJenkins I wasn't as scared of him as I expected cos I was laughing so hard at his shirt."

I've enjoyed this topic for many reasons. Not least because it's lovely to think back to the moment I met so many wonderful people who play a huge part in my life right now. And of course it's fun to hear what people's first impressions of me have been. But I also find myself analysing those early meetings: how I came across, what people thought of me and what my initial impressions were. And what, if anything, changed over the years.

Particularly considering where I am in my life now. I went from a spontaneous trip to London to meet Abel and 14 other kinksters to see a play, to having close relationships and friendships within that circle, to moving country to be nearer this group, this community.

Over the past two years, via the Gods of Ryanair, I bounced along to parties, roleplay events, the odd night-out I could manage and several intimate weekends with my partners. I was carefree, without repsonsibility, an escapee from the real world. So for at least 80% of that time EJ was on show. The vibrant, attention-seeking, entertainer. Less frequently you saw the real me: the career girl, bossy oldest sister person.

Of course people like Abel and HH saw it the most. Not least the arguments in the kitchen over the best way to 'skin a cat' or in HH's case avoiding my kitchen altogether. Or listening to me in work mode on the phone or my tales of older-sister-ness. (For example when my lil sister failed an exam she asked my Mam not to tell me!)

For most other people they are seeing that side of me more often; the grown-up me. Particularly those that have visited my house and experienced me trying to be a considerate host. (One can't dance on the tables whilst dinner needs preparing.) And I find it near impossible to play with anyone if I've been entertaining first.

Or those who've met me on week nights out. A couple of friends have even asked me was I alright, so quiet and different I seemed. On these nights, especially when I've come from the office and am still dressed in my suit, it's very hard to be the carefree EJ. And of course my housemate certainly lives with the real me. The person who is anal about matching crockery, laundry being sorted into three separate loads and what chopping board we use for the meat.

Not that I feel this is a bad thing. And certainly don't think people love or hate me any the less. I know people who like me accept all sides of me and that fundamentally I'm the same person. It's just a very interesting situation to have to relearn the person we thought we knew so well. Because of course it's the same for me: I am also learning about 'real' people. Having to change my perceptions, realign values, do things a different way.

The more we interact in non kink environments, the more we share and show our real selves. The thing that brings us together, our kink, for some of us our greatest secret, has been like a fast track system to immediate friendship. My friend Morena visited a few weeks back and was both curious about, and delighted at how comfortable I was with people I knew for what, in reality is a short period of time.

In comparison she and I have built a deep, lasting friendship over 10 years. She knows everything about me, my past, my family and my what makes me tick. We have a trust based on time and experience, from being together through the highs and lows of life's experiences.

Yet with my kinky friends there was almost instant trust, an immediate liking.  For me I suspect that I'm predisposed to liking other kinky people. Especially those who I've met through blogging or via a mutual kinkster friend. I expect to like them and for them to have similar values to me: I want to like them and I want them to like me.

So for me #whenIfirst met was as much about reflecting on what I thought then and what I think now; what others thought of me and how they see me now. The initial uncertainties that steadily developed into deep friendship, the chemistry that became love, the dynamic that became the deepest of kink connections, the spontaneous friendships that grew to make me move country.

#whenyoufirst met @lilemmaj I was a child standing enviously on the edges of the playground. Now I'm firmly in that playground, usually playing messily in the sandbox amd I've even learned to share it. But sometimes I find myself retreating from that playground and want to be seen and treated like a grown-up, and for everyone around me to be grown-ups too. But that's OK, cos that's just being ME.

Ritual

For me the ritual of a spanking is just as powerful, or perhaps even more so, than the actual spanking itself. When I fantasise about the simplest of scenes it’s always the ritual I dwell on. It’s been that way forever. From Enid Blyton perversions to designing my own school and rules.

Even now, despite all the school scenes I’ve played I never tire of that formality that comes with the ritual. Perhaps so much of the shame and humiliation comes from going through the carefully crafted routine that you know you could have avoided but didn’t.

So if it’s a school scene there’ll be the knocking on the door beforehand, standing before the headmaster, being scolded, adjusting clothing before bending over. In my fantasies I gloss over the actual spanking. As much as I gloss over the spankings etc. in spanking porn; I prefer the build-up, the story unfolding and the anticipation.

And I love how different people have their own rituals. Abel for example will regularly roll up his shirt sleeve before delivering a caning. Carefully removing his cufflinks, methodically folding the sleeve the correct number of times before he’s satisfied his arm is sufficiently free to deliver the punishment.   

Whilst HH will tower in front of me, looking down as he casts sentence, often raising my chin with his finger so my eyes can’t escape his censor.

Even Mr Allen, who I don’t role play with, also seems to have his rituals: taking his time in selecting his implements, weighing each in his hands and examining it carefully. Then with with great precision chooses his stance, measuring the implement exactly to the bottom, before any stroke is permitted to fly.

Then there are the rituals we create; that seem private to us. Although it’s unlikely they are, we just like to feel it is so, as proof our own special connection.

My favourite one with HH is having to ask permission to pull my panties back up after a spanking  or such. I can’t even remember when it started; if he first reprimanded me for not doing so or whether I asked for permission. That’s irrelevant now, but it’s one of the most endearing and lasting of our rituals.

I always ask: whether we are alone or in company, whether the spanking was light hearted or severe, whether in role or as me. And I say “may I?” not “can I?”; that’s important too. It makes me feel incredibly head spacey; almost as much as the whole scene before it. Usually he grants permission, but sometimes he refuses, enjoying my discomfort at being denied.

And I never forget. Until, I did, last weekend. On the Sunday HH gave me a final spanking before he was due to leave. Only his hand (as hard as it can be), given how sore I was. We cuddled afterwards chatting a while, me naked from the waist down. Until the time for departure drew near and I offered him a cool drink for the road. As I slipped from the bed to fulfil the request I absentmindedly retrieved my panties from the floor and pulled them on. 

The elastic had barely snapped into place when I swung around in horror. HH was shaking his head. ‘Oh I forgot, I’m sorry. I never forget.’ I wailed, dramatically. On the scale of transgressions it’s a pretty small one, but I pride myself in remembering.

Of course it didn’t go unpunished. Despite how sore I was, over the bed I went for a short but firm hairbrushing.  But I was glad to be dealt with for it, secure in the ritual and all that it means to us.