Stir, stir, stir

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Overheard in Dublin

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

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

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

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

Lashes anyone?

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

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

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


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

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

A very warm welcome

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

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

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

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

A real caning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ooops what have I started?!

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

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

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

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

That spanking afterglow

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

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

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