New Year, new 'old' me...

As I continued to heal and work through my grief, a great many things got back on track: work, friendships, relationships, health and kink. It wasn't all straightforward, and there have been a few steps back, as well as the many forwards, but the progress has been noticeable.

Throughout my scene life this blog was hugely important in helping me process my new experiences. The volume of posting had naturally diminished as I had fewer truly new things to talk about, but when I was going through the most painful experience I'd ever had, I found it impossible to write.

For me, writing has always been about processing, accepting, growing and moving on, i.e. dealing with something. But dealing with my sister's sudden death was not something I actually wanted to do. Without trying to be purposely self-destructive, I didn't consciously want to accept it or move on from it, because doing so meant letting her go, and the fear that I would forget about her. Therefore to write about it, or by association writing about anything at all, was too overwhelming,

Now I'm in a much better place, the solace of writing has presented itself to me again. A new awakening in kink too has meant a revisiting of old feelings that require documentation and debate. So I started writing again, just before Christmas, but not on this blog,

A little confession to make - I've always had another blog, Pollyanna. When I was fairly new in the scene and first writing, I was quite careful about being explicit about D/s and sexual play. Partly because I was shy, but also because I wanted A Painful Awakening to be about processing and reflection and a more rounded portrayal of me, Emma Jane. Pollyanna is in a very different style with little or no introspection. And therefore it was the easier of the two blogs to start writing in first.

Now I'm a lot less shy, and a lot less caring of what people think of me; crafting a public persona of Emma Jane is no longer important, and I'm happy to share Pollyanna's secrets. Not least because I have so many fabulous friends in this scene, who have seen me at my worst and supported me through hell; I've been more raw and exposed through real life pain than any scene could achieve and that's been truly humbling.

Looking back over the year, there's been many changes and notable events, but above all I feel I've reconnected with the people who really matter and have discovered a new kink awakening:

Abel and I are now living together and although we are open and playing with other people, we are not poly.

HH and I have ended our play relationship and discipline dynamic - a mutually beneficial change, but a painful adaption none the less.

We attended Shadow Lane for the first time, and loved seeing so many of our American friends. We are hoping to attend again this year, watch this space!

The Fawcett Hall Regency House Party proved to be as amazing as ever, with a wonderful group of people and some very entertaining moments throughout.

The Kinky Society (KSoc) met regularly throughout the year and makes me very happy to see so many of my scene friends in the one place.

And there's been numerous smaller kink events hosted by us, or our friends, that we've thoroughly enjoyed, as well as enabling us to meet some lovely new friends along the way.

So for the coming year I hope to continue healing in all aspects of my life and enjoy my kinky reawakening. And I also hope to get back to writing and sharing more frequently here and on Pollyanna.

Thank you, and Happy New Year!

Making my way back...

The signs had been good. Slowly getting back into wanting to play 'properly'. Certain types of scenes: caring, DD, and relatively easy headspaces. With time and practice and the desperate need to reclaim my head I was starting to get into proper roleplay again. Some times it's been easier than others but all the while I've definitely been moving forward. And within that, little by little, going deeper and deeper.

When Abel and I played a school scene during the week I felt I was almost back to where I used to be: so quickly had I slipped into Lucy's shoes; how easily I'd been that errant young student; and how ashamed I felt to have let myself and my school down.

And so I confidently planned scenes in advance of my recent visit to HH; I felt ready.

The first scene was to to start from the train and was intended to help me cast off my work persona and get into a good space to play. It was a fairly innocuous scene in theory: a young woman who'd lost her way and got into too much trouble, sent to a new guardian to make a fresh start in life. The idea was that careful guidance and a certain amount of discipline would set her back on track. There was nothing dark or abusive about it and I had planned to play her lightly - not taking the new life very seriously, at least at first.

To my surprise it was far from light. Ally turned out to be a complicated character and one I became so immersed in that I could see every aspect of her life: her past, her fears, her frustrations. All of which were hidden by the outward defiant persona that Mr Wilson (HH) was seeing. 

She fought back on everything from refusing to answer to Alison, to disdainfully wearing the clothes provided and insisting she wouldn't obey his stupid rules. She even refused to go across his lap for a spanking earned through her rudeness. Nor was it a cursory refusal as I would often do in a scene: it even getting to the point where it could have derailed the scene completely. Ally was outraged about being spanked and twisted and kicked and punched against him, but he was too strong for her. Finally overpowered, she gritted her teeth as she lay across his lap, waiting it out, trying not to show that it was hurting. Each time he paused to check on her attitude she threw barbed insults at him.

When he tried to take her knickers down the battle started afresh, with no let up from her, even when he threatened to rip them off. Normally in something like this EJ will take over and give in to keep the scene on the road, especially if a pair of knickers was at stake. But Ally was in charge. So Mr Wilson changed tack: sat her on his knee; explained how he could help her; made her aware that if he really wanted to beat her into submission, he could, but that her life had to change; emphasised that she no longer had any friends or family who cared about her and this was her last chance. It worked. Breaking into tears she let herself be hugged as she admitted she just wanted to go home.

Ally stayed in my head for a long time afterwards. And even when EJ eventually resurfaced I didn't feel at all like I normally do after great immersive play; I was down, upset for Ally and unable to forget her. The feeling lasted much longer than usual and it troubled me. Yes it was normal to have a period of resurfacing after scenes but these feelings were surprisingly painful. I couldn't cast off her despair. Was it because those feelings of misery were too like those I'm experiencing in my real life?

It made me doubt the other scene we'd planned: a much darker context. A maid who had breached her contract and had been sent to the House of Correction as punishment. It was to start with admittance to the institute and a private flogging which I knew would be severe. Despite changing the original premise of the scene, from one where she was blameless to where she was culpable of the offence and had redemption and hope when she finished her sentence, I still expected it to take me to dark places. I just wasn't sure I wanted to go there anymore.

I was worried about how I would feel post scene. What if I didn't fly? What if I got trapped in her misery and struggled to come out of the horrible dark place? I was also worried on practical level: I hadn't played a severe scene in a long time; I was afraid of how much it would hurt. In the end I decided to go for it, letting my fear build up as HH made his preparations.

Again I quickly slipped into Nancy's head: she was regretful of treating her employer so badly; wishing she had worked harder for him and not been so lazy; pitying herself for being sent to the House of Correction. Her hands shook as she made her birch, needing several attempts to secure the bundle. Blushed as he made her strip naked, laughing at her predicament. She was already crying by the time she was chained to the whipping bench. A properly terrified girl.

Anyone who's ever been spray birched can attest to how agonising it is and for Nancy nothing could have prepared her for the searing pain. She screamed in shock as the first few strokes fell, building quickly on each other; anticipated each following stroke in terror as she heard it swishing down with the shards breaking off every time it connected with her skin. It wasn't long before she was sobbing. At times she couldn't breathe, couldn't understand how she was surviving it. But she had no choice: whatever feelings EJ had on the matter were dismissed - there was only Nancy and the warden.

He was thorough and vicious: alternating between slow and fast strokes; ensuring the birch crept into the sensitive places exposed by how stretched she was over the bench; taking his time to land strokes precisely on her inner thighs, laughing at the louder shrieks of pain this elicited. He was a man determined to take her to the point of doing anything to make him stop: when he demanded what he wanted she didn't resist but silently complied. And then the last dozen strokes fell on her limp body as she lay crying silent tears.

Post this scene I hid under the bed covers on my own trying to come out of the scene. At this point HH always checks if I want him to stay near or leave the room. Either way he waits until I want him but he knows I can't be touched until I take Nancy out of the scene and then get out of her head. I cried until I retched, for her, for her misery, for the promise of more abuse to come, for the physical pain I was feeling.

But when I started to calm down and disassociate from her I cried even more to realise I wasn't feeling the usual relief in surfacing. The misery and fear refused to leave, the despair hung over, it all felt too familiar. Now I was crying for me, for the familiar feelings of fear and despair that are never far away. And I wondered why the hell I roleplayed such misery and fear when I've had so much of it, seen so much of it this year?

I didn't really recover from this scene until we played the rest of it the next day. When the Master took his turn to abuse her: birching her on her breasts and thighs, threatening a full repeat of her recent birching, so she was amenable to what he wanted. And when she faltered at a request, took a strap to her until she screamed, stuffed her mouth with his handkerchief to muffle the screams and then whipped her some more until he was satisfied she was fully compliant.

The difference with this scene was that I didn't go nearly as deep - I was Nancy, but EJ wasn't far away. But it brought closure to the character and in the end  I did fly and feel thankful that I could go back to the deep dark places and it wouldn't kill me. But then the real life deep dark places don't kill you either: you just make your way back, slowly, slowly, slowly.

Pain

I can't take the pain. It's too much. Too severe. I want it to stop. He holds me, saying nothing, listening to me scream.

 "Please, it's too much, I can't cope, I just can't cope"

I'd never imagined anything could hurt so much. I thought I was tough, I thought I was brave, I thought I was invincible.

I fought the tears of course. Tried not to give in. I've learned that if you build the walls high enough you can fight off most onslaughts. But he knew what he was doing. They all do. Expertly find the chinks in my armour with their weapons of choice: kind words, sincere hugs and unexpected presents; sometimes they even cry with me.  

His weapon was putting me over his knee, spanking me hard until the walls loosened, gently then so the tears started and finally a short firm burst, until I was sobbing.

Afterwards, when I've cried myself out I lie quietly, feeling better for now: beautifully, emotionally numb. My mind wanders to other times I've cried like this with him. The levels of physical pain he has caused me; the dark places he has taken me to and how much I loved the pain and misery that accompanied those times. I used to think I knew what severe pain was: I was wrong. 

In real life there are no safe-words. There is only time and love, and eventually the faint stirrings of hope.

Discipline, rules and consequences.

As regular readers of the blog will know, discipline and punishment is one of my main kinks. It's a dynamic that I have with HH, and only with him. It's not something that lends itself to multiple relationships and it requires a deep level of trust and understanding.

In the past few months when I haven been playing much the discipline has still been important. I ask HH for help with things: generally eating and sleeping properly and staying safe. I've written about such punishments on here previously and, generally, serious punishment doesn't happen very frequently.

A few weeks ago I sent him some new rules I wanted help with; ambitious ones. So ambitious that I soon gave up even adhering to them. On one level I knew I was getting into trouble and that made me happy (temporarily), and on another I excused myself as they were too stringent in the first place.

Combined with my return from the non-kinky wilderness I threw caution to the wind: I wanted to play and play hard. Somewhere in my head the line between roleplay and discipline muddled itself. So I made sure he knew I wasn't even trying with the rules. I wanted to be punished. I wanted to have no reason not to go through with it.

HH pulled me up on both of these things: wanting to be in trouble and setting rules I couldn't or wouldn't adhere to.

My 'don't care attitude' lasted about a week and then an email from him brought me down to earth. He reminded me the rules were meant to be about keeping me safe and healthy - not an excuse to enjoy being in trouble. Therefore he was going to punish me in such a way that neither of us would enjoy it, to make sure it didn't happen again.

In advance, we talked about how our weekend would work and I asked to be punished immediately so we could enjoy the rest of it. I also suggested being punished from the train, something we'd never managed to do before when I came to visit.

On the day I had to write him a list of all the rules I had broken and email it to him; it was a very long list. My initial attitude had been that if I was already in trouble what did it matter how many rules I broke? Writing the list it started to dawn on me that it would matter. His response confirmed it.

I was sick and nervous for the rest of the journey, and not in a good way; there was no anticipatory thrill, not relishing being in trouble.

When I arrived at the station he wasn't at the platform to greet me. Although I knew that he'd be waiting in the car it still hurt. Having to get into the car, with no hello, no hug, and driving home in silence was awful. Reality was dawning and it wasn't a comfortable one.

Once home he sent me upstairs to wait for him. The tears were already pricking so when he came up stairs and made me look him in the eye, as he lectured me, they started falling immediately. He didn't mince his words. Told me the rules were not for fun, not convenient reasons to find excuses to play. That he respected them, respected me; more than I did. Told me how he was genuinely disappointed to have to punish me knowing I hadn't even tried, that there was nothing to be proud of me for. That he wasn't used to having nothing to be proud of in my behaviour.

Looking into the eyes of someone you respect as much I respect HH and hearing that broke my heart. I was ready to accept all the pain he could create for me so I could absolve myself. At that point I needed for the guilt to be thrashed out of me.

But that wasn't to be. I wasn't allowed to escape that easily. He had warned me he would punish me in ways I truly wouldn't like and so he did. And some of it hurt, but mostly it just made me face up to parts of me I don't like and be bitterly ashamed of myself.

Once the initial lecture was delivered he took my jeans and panties down and put me over his knee. Calling me by my real name, he explained this wasn't EJ having her naughty bottom spanked, it was me, he spanked me with his hand. It wasn't even very hard, leaving me to think about how the real me, the career girl, oldest sister, control freak, perfectionist was across someone's knee getting a spanking. The stuff of fantasies once upon a time; the stark reality made me cry pitifully.

Afterwards he put me in the corner: nose to the wall for 6 minutes, timed with an egg timer. It doesn't sound like a long time but believe me it was an eternity. Having to stand still, time to think, feeling your panties and jeans pooled at your ankles, dreading what was to come next.

And next was being back over his knee again, another lecture directed to Me. The eggtimer again, this time for a steady hairbrushing. If 6 minutes had felt like an eternity, this 3 minutes felt like eternal hell. And as much as I tried to be brave and to not kick and wriggle I couldn't manage it. Another piece of me died.

The next part is so hard to think about, let alone write about. I swore afterwards I wouldn't blog it but it was a big part of the punishment and HH was adamant I couldn't hide during it. Hiding from my blog seems wrong.



He put me over his knee, my bottom high up in the air and gave me an enema. As he did it he described every step in detail, repeatedly using my name. There was no place to hide: his voice in my head, the uncomfortable sensation inside, the water trickling out; I was mortified.

When he was finished administering he hair brushed me, still over his knee, as I struggled to maintain control. And when he was finally done I pleaded to use the bathroom, natural urges overcoming my embarrassment.

But that was denied, I had to serve more corner time first. When he finally gave permission he told me he would allow me to close the door, but if he ever had to seriously punish me again he would stay in the bathroom with me. This small crumb of comfort broke any resistance I had left and I cried emptily.

I was completely broken and ready for the punishment to be over. He had made his point. But no, I hadn't been punished for everything yet. It was a long list, he reminded me.

Making me wear a pair of white panties and a white vest, he sat me at the school desk to write 100 times: "Agreeing rules and then disobeying them is silly and childish".  For every line that wasn't perfect he would give me one stroke of the cane.

The shame burned on so many levels. Not permitted a uniform to escape into a role, wearing white after the enema and not being allowed to leave the desk until my task was complete, not to mention the lines.

For people who don't know me very well this was another horrific task. I do not have neat hand writing and I'm too impatient usually for my writing to be even legible. It was one of the worst tasks he could have given me, but he knew that. Somewhere I applauded his ingenuity but mostly I hated how well he knew me and how that could be used to terrifyingly to my disadvantage.

Something inside me snapped. I was humiliated to the core, afraid of what was to come next and set up to fail with writing lines. I needed to fight back, but quietly. So I tried my hardest with the lines. I wrote each one slowly and carefully, concentrating on every letter. It took me well over an hour to write them all. My hand ached and I was cold, but they were perfect and I didn't get one cane stroke. It was a tiny victory.

Unfortunately we still weren't done. Printing out my email of transgressions he set it in front of me and asked me to write a list of the punishments so far and then read it to him, so I had to say it aloud. He  explained so far he had punished me for all but two of the rules I'd broken: there were two more punishments to come.

Taking me downstairs he told me to get the slipper. I didn't have the energy to beg or resist, just cried silently as I fetched it and got into position. He placed me over the bed, with my bottom and thighs tight and struck with his full weight behind it. It was excruciatingly painful and resulted in the normal howls of misery.

But it was familiar at least, and I could cope with it. Afterwards I was out of it, completely drained by the evening and promising never to do anything to earn such a punishment again. HH confirmed what I suspected: he hadn't enjoyed it either. He promised that over the weekend we would revisit the rules and come up with new ones that were less ambitious, with no excuses for not obeying them. He reminded me part of the lesson I was learning was not to be disrespectful of the discipline dynamic and to not set unrealistic expectations, putting to much pressure on myself.

The cuddles and reassurance afterwards were much needed. And although I had the exercise punishment to come, I knew I had mostly paid my dues and things would be OK.

That said by the time we did the forced exercise routine on Sunday I was shattered and bitterly resented having to go through more punishment. So what should have been a straightforward work out started and ending with a hard tawsing on my bottom and thighs and included an over the knee spanking in the middle, with me crying tears of misery throughout.

A friend texted during the weekend saying she'd never understand why I do the punishment stuff but just wanted to check I was OK. The truth is I don't understand why I do it either. It's just something I need; deep down really need. I don't want to receive a punishment like this ever again but it appeals to my kink knowing that the boundary is there, that HH will enforce it, if I need it.

It's all about discipline, rules, consequences and ME.

The naughtiness continues!

This evening Abel and I went out to dinner with some new friends. Let's call them Bambi and the Hunter. Mainly because one will really hate their name and the other will be bemused by it.

We've met Bambi and the Hunter a couple of times now. Enough for EJ to start escaping. Both are fairly new to the scene and meeting kinksters, although both experienced with each other. They're partly contributing to my kinky re-awakening as I look at their enthusiasm to play and their precious time grabbed with each other, making the most of it. I used to be like that; before I got spoiled and had play on tap. Before there wasn't room to flirt and brat and fantasise because my play was all around me.

But I digress, that's a blog post for another day. Needless to say with EJ escaping and finding a kindred spirit in Bambi the evening turned out to be playfully mischievous. First there was a ride on a carousel for Bambi, Abel and me. (Oh how we sniggered that Abel rode Joseph!) Then a trip to the big purple cow to sit on the magic mushrooms (work that one out yourselves people!) Before dinner in Yo Sushi.

Now this is one of my favourite places to eat at the minute but I hadn't truly appreciated the potential for brattiness. There's the water taps on the table: if you push the tap too hard everyone on the table gets splashed or if you overfill the drip tray people's feet underneath the table get wet! Then there's the fun of pressing the service bell, on and off, lights flashing and announcer claiming table 12 needs attention, followed by the exasperated look of the waiter arriving to find we weren't in need of anything at all. Or the fun of the carousel with the bowls of sushi. However, I'm not going to describe the strange chocolate dessert, save to say Abel's description of 'japanese condom' was very apt!

As the Hunter took Bambi off he promised she would pay for her naughtiness. Abel assured him I would pay for mine too. And so I got my first caning in my new home, with the dreaded dragon cane. I would have gotten six, but HH on hearing I was to be punished was so approving that Abel decided to double it, in his honour.

I can't tell a lie: the 12 strokes really hurt! But I was a good girl and took them bravely(ish). Didn't I stripe beautifully?

That feeling...

I've got that swoopy feeling in my tummy. You know, that squirmy, oh oh I'm in trouble, eeek feeling.

It started with a cheeky email, sent to that person, after a few glasses of fizz. It was bratty and provoking and he responded on form. Surely time to back down? Oh no, I haven't felt bratty in a long time, best to go all out, not leave him in any doubt of my intentions. Hence, I bravely declared that he didnt scare me: oh no, not a bit.

But sometimes he knows me better than I know myself. Today there was a short message: "I expect you've been regretting this. If not, you will." Not a threat, you see, but a promise. Now I'm properly scared; deliciously so. You see, I haven't felt properly scared in a long time, wouldn't let myself be. So yes, I'm worried that my bratting will be dealt with, know it will hurt and that I'll be crying regretfully. But at the same time I'm welcoming that feeling, so long absent.

And enjoying that feeling whilst still being properly scared is the delicious contradiction of consensual kink, right?

The words won't come...

I'm waving shyly at you lovely readers and hoping my absence will be excused. That's the first problem I face returning to the blog that I have shamefully neglected. Shameful not just because of the perceived neglect of the readers I've had for so long, but the neglect of myself and my need to document and process.

All I can offer is that it's been a challenging couple of months with health issues and family and personal stresses. But I feel in a better place now; not a perfect place, but a good place. Nothing is easy, but nothing is impossible either. Kink wise I'm playing with the people I love and trust the most and when play doesn't work out I still feel safe and cared for. And I'm surrounded by my friends, some of whom happen to be kinky, but it's not the defining link anymore. As ever my family are special and important.

Finding energy and space to write hasn't been a priority, yet I know I'm missing out on so much: I miss my blog and I miss my readers. But the words won't come. I want to talk about the wonderful kinky weekends and parties I've had and been too, the scenes that were great and the people I love. But the words won't come. And nor will the capacity to process the more difficult elements: the scenes that didn't work; the sudden and irrational anger, frustrations and jealousies; the relationships and groups dynamics that are tough to navigate. The words just won't come.

So here are some pictures to keep you close to me and let's all hope the words come back, when they're ready, when I'm ready.

I celebrated my 30th birthday recently and had a party with a London Blitz theme - the house was decorated in blitz style and all our guests wore 1940's costumes, and thanks to Lucy, all had perfect 1940s hair too. Below is just one of the many decorations and posters my dear Catherine Thomas made for the party! And the fabulous cake Kinky Ella made (using all her ration for months to do it!). Of course I went as an evacuee, determined that EJ's girly spirit was just as strong, even in my 30s ;-)

I've been trying to improve my overall health by getting fit and having a better diet. HH and Abel are very supportive of this, so much so they delight in over-seeing my training. This is all for my own good you see; as is caning me as extra motivation. Nothing whatsoever to do with their sadistic natures, apparently.

The last two are from a recent weekend away in the darkest countryside with HH and Abel - a weekend where I was their play thing, abused and used for their pleasure. Abel has written a great post about it here, for those of you who would like more detail. But I think these two pictures tell it all: the submissive girl, birch in hand going to meet her fate and the broken girl, sore and sobbing but yet feeling comforted and safe by those who know her best.

Happy New Year!

I couldn't decide which photo to use on Christmas Day and in the end I took the lazy option and decided to share the other picture with you today.

It was taken by HH, at Kinky Towers; a fabulous venue hired by Abel for a kinky weekend with some of our closest friends. This was just one of the amazing rooms in the house; a medieval kitchen with huge fireplace.

I love how vulnerable I look, shivering naked in the fireplace, a little girl in the enormous room. This was taken just after a particularly severe scene with Abel and HH, which I intend to blog about later, but it's enough to say that the redness of my bottom and thighs only tells half the story!

I hope that my Kinky 2012 will have the same ingredients as this picture has: sadistic partners, pain, humiliation, great friends and fabulous weekends of pure escapism. Happy 2012 everyone!

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…