Made an Example

Due to the number of lovely inquiring comments left upon my last post about a recent kinky dream, I decided it might be prudent to write a response in another blog post, since in reality the description of where fantasy took me after waking from the dream is enough to fill quite another entry... :D

As is typical with any kinky dreams that I might have the pleasure of stumbling upon while unconscious, this dream faded to a close before anything remotely kinky actually happened.

Before I could find out that I'd actually gotten into trouble, and therefore of course before any type of sentence could be placed upon me and carried out, I awoke to find my head full of lovely opportunistic ideas for the continuation of the dream... :D

Now that I was fully awake and could no longer blame the sometimes illogical fashion of dream-land, the first thing I had to do was think of a way to somehow justify receiving the maximum punishment option available within the boarding-school setting... despite the fact that my transgression was a 'mere' lack of adequate preparation in uniform presentation... : )

Perhaps, for example, it was only a couple of weeks into the start of the term, and during the first week the Administration of the school had made clear to an assembled student body that the first girl to be found lacking in uniform decorum would receive the highest order of discipline, in order to be made into an example for the rest of the girls... Or, perhaps I am even the first girl of the year to warrant any type of discipline at all, and thus the offense is doubly-exemplary...

Or, maybe the Headmaster has already been informed, unbeknownst to myself, of my illicit after-hours activities the night before which caused my inability to wake up in time to dress properly this morning -- an undisclosed and illegal romance with a boy from the neighboring school, perhaps, or a late-night carouse at the lively pub in town...

In any case, the daydream-ending to Doomed by the Bell did of course include the Headmaster noticing full well that I was not properly dressed, with undone school tie and unbuckled shoes, and having within his knowledge any number of other very plausible reasons to add to my punishment... In some form or another, I received an order to appear in the gymnasium at 7 o'clock sharp the next morning, to be given the maximum number of cane strokes, bare, in front of a school-wide assembly before classes began.

Perhaps it would have even been arranged -- due to the nature of the close relationship between the girls' and the boys' school administrations, or possibly due to the nature of my late-night meeting with a boy from the other school -- to have the entire student body of young men also partake, creating a joint-assembly for the first punishment of the year between the two schools... Just to make sure that the point -- an unmistakable lack of tolerance for any transgression throughout the year -- was made crystal clear to each and every eagerly riveted pair of watching young eyes.

Doomed by the Bell

My dream last night began with the distinctively crisp, clean, cool smell of early morning, autumn air, and the ominous chiming of a school bell. It might have been the bell in the school's chapel, or the one hanging in the school's clock-tower, but it was, in fact, a real, swinging, reverberating, larger-than-life bell, ringing darkly through the entire historical school.

All of the girls residing in this boarding school, including myself, knew to gather in the open courtyard upon the first bell's chime, and to be waiting in silent, still, geometric rows by the time the second bell sounded three minutes later.

For whatever reason, the visual scheme of this dream carried an oddly darkened hue, and consisted only of neutral colors: each girl wore a black blazer with black shoes, a deeply dark brown skirt and matching tie, with a white shirt and knee-socks. The stone walls and flagged floor of the courtyard were all a glistening gray, still betraying vestiges of morning dew in the dim, yet clear, sunlight.

(Artwork by Otto R. Eggers)

Each foot step upon the stony courtyard floor resounded almost as loudly and ominously as the bell had done, as the school's black-clad Headmaster, Housemasters, and Lesson Masters came striding out into the morning air before the rows of waiting pupils.

I didn't know for sure why all of us were assembled there in the dream, but it felt like a morning ritual of some kind... one having to do with a preliminary inspection before the first meal of the day. I was acutely aware, however, of the fact that I stood in the very first row, and that my unusually late start that morning had left me standing helplessly at the second bell with my tie not fully done-up to its expected standard, and my shoes as yet unbuckled.

Unable to move a muscle amongst the sea of stiffly silent, pale-faced girls, I could only swallow hard and pray that the Headmaster didn't notice either slip in my normally pristine uniform...

Of course, as the sound of his shining black shoes on the old stone floor grew steadily louder, closing in toward me with each approaching step down the first line of girls, my heart began to race, and the dream began to fade...

Spare the Rod... Spoil the Fun :D

Whiling away the hours at work can be a rather taxing activity... So, when the opportunity presents itself to entertain a lively spark of fantasy or intellectual fervor, naturally, I jump on it :D

Most of the time, I find myself near the front of the store where I work, running register (if anyone has ever worked in westernized retail, they will know what this entails, and thus the long spells of boredom which inevitably ensue...) On one particular day in the recent past, there happened to be a long, light-weight metal rod sitting serenely behind the customer service desk, in clear view from my perch behind the register. The rod was about an inch in diameter, made out of a combination of very thin metal and plastic, and about, hmmmm, I would say four feet long. Maybe three feet. Somewhere around the vicinity of a yardstick. :D

This alone, the mere existence of the rod itself, should have been enough to start my mind running in many lovely directions, which in fact it did quite well. But, lo-and-behold, here come the gentlemen with whom I work, and each in turn wants to test his strength with an attempt to bend this curious rod behind customer service -- what a display for the pretty lady standing nearby trying to find ways to occupy herself!

(Image courtesy of: Andevan Bronzeworks)

I watched, my face slowly reddening, as the young male employees of the store came up one-by-one to pick up the rod, some two-handed, some single-handed... swing it around in the air a bit, comment flippantly on what it would feel like to hit or be hit with it, make a joke or two about chasing annoying customers out with it, and then finally try to bend it one way or another.

The rod proved to be quite deceivingly durable -- as none of the able young men could get it to budge more than about half an inch in either direction, despite it having been warmed up by previous contenders...

I imagined quite a different and much less work-appropriate competition going on at the front of our store that day... involving that same innocuous metal rod and quite another set of skills entirely... :D

Strapped for Cheating

In high school, I had two most-favorite (among many just-favorite) subjects: Band, and English. Yes, English -- big surprise. :D Band, of course, because I have always loved music and marching band gave me an incredible social outlet, and English for many reasons, not least of which the story I'm about to relate to you here... :D

I had this wonderful teacher for two years in a row, for first and second-year English -- he just recently retired. He was very thoroughly my favorite teacher in high school -- and very quickly became something of a distant father-figure in the back of my mind. This probably had more to do than I might have thought at the time with the fact that he started off each year, on the first day of class, by discouraging any would-be cheaters with a compelling personal anecdote. Said anecdote was a rather overly-emphatic, detailed, interactive story about the last time his own father had ever had to physically punish him for anything, when he was the ripe old age of 15, and incidentally, for cheating on a test in school.

He would give us the whole run-down -- the incriminating act itself, the call to his father from the teacher, the *lie* to his father when confronted, the resulting discussion and sheepish confession to cheating between the father, son, and teacher, the tense ride home in the car... then he would ask the class, "What do you think happened? Hmm? Any guesses?"

The odd impetuous voice would perk up, "Were you grounded?"

"Yes, good guess, and what else...?" His eyebrows would creep upward -- I still remember the almost playfully inquisitive look that he would shoot around the silent classroom...

After a few seconds he would continue where he left off... with the instruction from his father when they arrived home to put his books on the kitchen table and to go get the strap (there was usually a muffled gasp or two by this point) and to wait for him in the bathroom... the description of said implement -- thick, wide leather -- and how it hung ominously there in the bathroom, in plain sight each morning and evening... How his father would come in a few minutes later, a stern look of disappointment etched over his face, and take the strap from him... issuing instructions for him to take off his pants, and then to bend at the waist over the edge of the built-in shower/tub and put the palms of his hands down on the shower floor, with his feet firmly planted on the floor of the washroom... At that point he would address the class again, which was by now entirely enthralled with the story.

"Anyone care to tell me what that position presents as the best target...?"

There would usually be a longer-than-entirely-comfortable pause, but almost inevitably some brave soul would speak up, and always with a question rather than an answer, "Your butt?"

"Correct." Would be the nod and the answer, which would then launch into a detailed description of how the strap would be doubled over so that each stroke felt like two, as the thick leather thudded into itself a milli-second later... the slow build-up of intense pain... the tears, and yes, he would reiterate, he cried as a 15-year-old young man... then the long talk with his father afterward and the full intention never to cheat or to outwardly lie in order to cover up errant behavior again...

You may imagine how such a story might affect me, a freshman in high school, sitting there in the back of the class, not even having turned 13 yet (my birthday was always a few weeks into the school year...)... He would usually take up almost a good half of the 90-minute class period with this story at the beginning of the year...

Did he ever notice how red my face must have turned in the back of the room? Did he ever guess that his story was leaving more of an impression on me, and maybe a few others, than he had ever really intended...? Did he ever realize that, rather than deter one particular student from cheating, he'd planted a rather uncharacteristic and tantalizing fantasy in her young mind...? :D

Bottoms Up!

As a small girl growing up in America under the parentage of the baby-boomer generation, my young life, like many of those in a similar situation, was filled to the brim with structured activity. Music lessons, tennis lessons, art classes, organized craft-making, swimming lessons, dance classes, you name it...

Of particular interest to my mother, due to her own experiences, were my dance classes.

I remember her taking specific care with all of my dance activities -- the right shoes, the proper leotards and tights, the right make-up, showing my new dance steps off to family and friends, coming to every recital with a video camera, etc... One of the dance-wear stores we visited once or twice (since it was a bit of a drive away) when I really needed something unique, had a peculiar and yet ever-so-fitting name which always made me inescapably uncomfortable...

"Bottoms Up!"

Just like that, with the exclamation point and everything...

As I wasn't a hard drinker as a kid -- or rather, didn't have the slightest inkling of anything to do with drinking ;) -- the phrase "bottoms up" didn't mean much to me other than it's literal translation.

When my mother first told me where we were going, I thought I hadn't heard her correctly, "We're going where?"

My brain filled with vivid images of what this dance-wear store must carry in product-line, to have such a suggestive name...

Suddenly I was quite sure that I really didn't want to go, and in fact could be found hesitating to enter once we'd gotten out of the car and traversed the parking lot.

But as my mother shunted me over the thresh-hold, I was surprised and relieved to see that it was just like any other dance store I'd ever seen -- leg warmers, dance skirts, leotards, dance bags, ballet shoes, nothing at all that would have suggested something to do with the literal meaning of the phrase, "bottoms up." (To my great and utter relief...)

We proceeded to shop quite happily for quite a while -- I left that store with a good haul of new stylish dance-wear, and, a new-found fascination for the multi-purpose phrase, "Bottoms Up!"

Luck of the Irish :D

Well, I guess I'm not technically Irish... but apparently around this time of year, there's enough luck to go around, because I was lucky enough to have a wonderful time at my first spanking party! (AKA, to find myself over the knee of a very considerate and personable spanker :D)


As the party upheld a St. Patrick's Day theme, naturally, I wore green (wanting to be spanked, not pinched...) And while I wasn't brave
enough to don something as straightforward
and demanding as this (true as it may be):



I did want to be prepared just in case my jeans happened to come down (which they did) and leave me slightly more exposed, so I found these:


At this rate, I'm going to end up with a pair of panties for every holiday!!

Happy St. Patrick's Day, everyone, and I hope you find what you're looking for at the end of the rainbow :D

Party O'Clock!

Today, I will be attending my first "spanking party!"

(Illustration by Brian Tarsis)

I haven't the slightest idea, really, what to expect. Will it simply be a bunch of spankos hanging out together? Or will it be more like a bdsm party where everybody is spanking everywhere? Perhaps it will be somewhere in the middle?

Will I get spanked?

What level of waist-down nudity is acceptable/expected at these kinds of parties? Are there special rooms for two people who've decided to engage in some spanking activity to go off and be separate from the crowd, or will people be getting put over knees right in the middle of the living room?

Might I be one of them?

How appropriate is it to watch/comment/interact while spanking may be happening? Who will be there? Is it going to be mostly spankees with nobody to spank them, or will it be a whole bunch of spankers with nobody to spank? Will the coffee table in the sitting room be arranged with a display of implements for the use of the party guests?

Would it be too obvious if I pointed at one and pondered aloud, "Ooh, I wonder what that one would feel like...?"

Will people be having casual conversations about spanking? Will they be pouncing on me with questions because I'm new to their party group? Will I clam up or will the social butterfly feel comfortable enough to come out?

Will somebody offer to/insist that they spank me?

What do people wear to these things? Will most people be going with the St. Patrick's Day theme and dress in green with leprechaun hats? Or is it more like the bdsm scene where people flounce about in thigh-highs with garter belts, and leather vests with bare chests?

Am I more likely to get spanked if I wear a skirt, or jeans?

Naturally, some/one question/s are occupying my mind more than others. :D

All shall be answered tonight, I suppose, when I venture out to experience a new type of kinky semi-public event... I hope to make some new friends, have some interesting conversations, ((return home well spanked,)) and report back to you soon, dear readers : )

Spanking in Wonderland

I have had the pleasure, recently, of bearing witness to the fascinating visual stimulation of the newest Tim Burton film, a re-imagined Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass conglomeration.


SUCH costumes!

Positively "crazy, mad," and wondrous :D My favorite character, though minor, is most definitely the March Hare -- you'll have to watch it to see what I mean.

Now, in the very beginning, we are still located in "real"-land, before Alice's great adventure. This real land happens to be London, during the century when the men still wore waistcoats and the women petticoats and corsets. Alice's father is discussing a bold new business venture with his fellow smartly-dressed gentlemen, when Alice gets out of bed and appears innocently in the hallway, silent as a mouse, but where her father can clearly see her.

He turns away from his business partners, concerned for his daughter. "The dream again?" he queries gently, and she nods.

Ever the father first, the business-man second, he lets his guests know that he "won't be long" and approaches his daughter, holding out his hand for her to take it, and (presumably) escorts her back to her bedroom. Once Alice is safely tucked back in bed, he proceeds to sit with her and allow her to recount the dream that has been plaguing her and waking her in the middle of the night... the dream with a smiling cat and a blue caterpillar. He then comforts her, and we are led to believe that she drifts back to sleep while he goes back to his meeting, because the next scene is a tremendous "13 years later."

As you may imagine, the version that ensued in my head went a little differently... causing me to be severely distracted for at least the next 3-4 minutes of real-time film...

In my version, Alice's father was still just as gracious and gentle, just as willing to put his family before his business, but this would have been the umpteenth meeting his Alice had interrupted, and he would have warned her that the next time, he would not be quite so forgiving. He'd have given her a soothing night-lamp and good thoughts to think to help her fall back to sleep after the dream; he'd have told her she was a big girl now and that he would have to start punishing her for getting out of bed so late.

This moment in the film, naturally, would have been the one time young Alice had set foot beyond her father's vast realms of patience, and although he would show no hint of this in front of his business partners, once the pair were back in Alice's room, he would fix her with a stern and meaningful gaze.

"Alice."

"Yes, Daddy?" She would look at him quizzically, unnerved by his tone of voice.

"You do remember what I told you the last time you came out of your room after bedtime, don't you?"

Her eyes would grow wide: "Yes, but Daddy--"

"I know you had a bad dream, but you are old enough now to know that it's just a dream and nothing can hurt you in your dreams. You know better now than to get out of bed and interrupt Daddy's meetings."

She would be fidgeting by now, bunching up her fists in her nightgown and staring down at the carpet. She would also remember what her father had said he was going to do if she got out of bed again... she just never thought he would actually do it...

Her father, watching her, would seem to read her mind.

"You know what's going to happen now, don't you, Alice?" His voice would be calm and quiet. He would not be happy about what he now has to do, but he would know that it is for his daughter's own good.

Alice's curly blonde head would rise slowly, and she would meet her father's eyes, trembling slightly. "Please don't, Daddy..."

"I must, Alice. You know better." With this, he would sit down on the edge of her bed, and gently pull her close to him. "I'm not going to stop until I think you've learned your lesson. Is that clear, Alice?"

She would nod mutely, her face still communicating a state of shock at the events unfolding around her. She would not even find the will to struggle as he guides her firmly over his sturdy lap, places his left hand around her hip to steady her, and lifts her nightgown.

His worldly colleagues would wait patiently for his return, sitting comfortably in the study, sipping cognac and listening to the telltale sounds of a responsible, concerned father disciplining his daughter. Small, knowing smiles would appear on their lips as they pondered the fanciful antics of youth, and the trials and tribulations of parenting. : )