Officially Kinky

As is usually the case with public offices, the manager's office at work is equipped with a wide array of office supplies -- you know the drill: paper clips, pens, a hairbrush, sticky notes, a stapler, a computer, maybe a box of tissues, a heavy leather strap hanging from the back of the door...


Some of those may have been fabricated... but for the most part, you have the picture. :D

You may see one office supply not mentioned above -- though probably more likely to be found in your typical office setting than some of the similarly kinky pervert-ables listed -- featured here: yes, a ruler. : )

In fact, a ruler does reside in the manager's office at work. Most of the time, however, it remains docilely hidden in one of the many drawers or cabinets... Until one day, when I happened to be entering the office during a particularly long spell of boredom (aka, no work to do), for no other reason than to participate in some non-work-related chit-chat with the gaggle of managers inside... As you can probably understand, I was already a feeling a little guilty about the fact that I wasn't doing any work while at work, and on top of that, planning to continue not doing work in front of the managers -- but I know enough about the culture of my work to be sure of the fact that none of them would mind in the least, and indeed, probably wouldn't have been doing much work themselves for the past twenty minutes anyway. Still, the back of my mind managed to maintain a grip on this tiny guilty feeling of wrongdoing as I walked into the manager's office...

And no sooner had I entered said office than did the manager sitting nearest to my line of sight decide to slam the ruler -- which he just happened to be holding -- down on the desk as he turned toward me with a mock exasperated look on his face.

He merely meant to scare me (poking fun at how easily I startle, a personality trait of mine now well-known and widely taken advantage of at work), and make a comical sarcastic statement about the general lack of work taking place... Instead, I stopped dead in my tracks -- startled, yes, but oh so aware of the ridiculously kinky potential of an office full of all-male managers, with one female employee caught not doing work, forced over the knees of the already seated and armed store manager, and reminded of the strict and necessary rules of the workplace... :D

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, when the simple matter of a ruler slammed on a desk in joking fun strikes this kind of chord in me, I can formally say that I am: officially kinky. :)

The Right to Sign

Paddles generally reside relatively low on my list of favorite implements... Hard, wooden, unforgiving, and sometimes quite oar-ishly heavy, they can be quite a pain... literally. : ) This does not mean, however, that I can't appreciate their most satisfying and effective (occasional) use in spanking... Well-known here is my affinity for implements of the leather variety... but sometimes the stern woodiness of a paddle is a nice change of pace. :D

Just recently, I had the pleasure of being introduced to the paddle featured at left (speaking of oar-ish!!), thus having earned the right, as you can see, to place my name upon its soon-to-be extensive list of victims. : )

Not just a few light taps, either! We're talking being bent forward, gripping the seat of a chair, and taking four hard swats followed by a fifth that literally knocked me off my feet...! Thankfully, my jeans were allowed to absorb most of the sting, leaving me with the lovely (but no less intense) thuddy after-effect...

Signing paddles is something of a tradition, at least in the U.S., among fraternities and sororities and I'm sure a few other organizations... although I'm not sure that taking a paddling is a necessary prerequisite to signing the paddle in most cases... I know I've signed a fair few paddles as part of similar organizations, but this is the first time that such a requirement has presented itself to me -- and of course I leapt at the opportunity! :)

Thank you to my friend and spanker, and owner of this paddle... :) May you spank many more willing contributors to your list of paddle-worthy names!

Presidential Punishment

During one of President Obama's recent speeches, I had the pleasure of noticing certain juicy snippets which seemed a tad bit more succulent than the usual obligatory mentions of democracy and civil responsibility... (Which, of course, are quite appetizing in themselves -- don't get me wrong... just in a slightly different fashion... :D)

For one, he made a passing reference to a bit of history which until then had remained unknown to me: Apparently, the relatively short and turbulent history of American government includes, in fact, a caning, that took place on the floor of the Senate, in the 1850s. Now, the actual historical account of this event (as subsequently researched by yours truly as soon as was humanly possible) is much less erotically stirring than a simple passing mention -- in reality it was more of a violent attack than a 'caning.' But may we find solace in the fact that, without overlooking the undeniable importance of historical accuracy, there still exists a possibility of fudging the details a bit in a world of fantasy and letting imagination take flight -- provided, of course, that said imagination recognizes itself as an elaborate whim, rather than a factual occurrence.

As soon as the President said the word "caning," and then proceeded, quite suspiciously, to chuckle to himself, my mind took just such a fanciful flight: right back to this intriguingly thought-provoking photo (below), that I had stumbled upon only about a month ago among the online White House photo albums.


Somehow, somebody got the chance to snap this lovely photo.

Somehow, somebody allowed it to be posted to the public White House photo site, despite its incredibly potent content...

An authoritative male figure seated behind an ornate and regal desk in the background, clearly working intently on some immensely large and important tome... A waiting, silent, be-skirted female figure (need I mention the particular area of her figure which has in fact been framed so perfectly?) in the foreground, her hands clasped behind her back in -- is it nervousness? anxiety? shyness? uncertainty? all of the above?

Perhaps I am simply listening to the President's speeches and clicking through his online photos with the eyes and ears of a hard-wired spanko, but for goodness sake, how could you miss it? Is there something about Mr. Obama that he's not telling us? Wishful thinking, no doubt...

Well, at least I live in a country where I can make these kinds of imaginative leaps concerning our national leader without being hauled off to jail, or publicly flogged, or sent to meet him in his study wearing a skirt and glancing warily at the bundles of canes sitting serenely in an antique vase before his gilded desk... :D

"I See a Rayne Butt!"

This past weekend, I had the pleasure of attending the second edition of a newer BDSM event in the area -- I'd been to the first one, which constituted my first public event, and it was a blast :D The second one turned out to be just as wonderful! :D

After a day of BDSM-related classes, stimulating discussions, and a lovely event-wide dinner, the evening play-party began. I found myself in a pair of over-the-knee stockings topped with pink ribbon, a shorter-than-usual black skirt, heels, and a tight, black, low-cut top.

I was being proudly paraded around with both hands cuffed together and attached to a lead in front of me. :) My captor and I discovered, through the course of the night, that whenever he had to attend to something that required his leaving me where I was for a few moments, I felt infinitely less alone when he took an extra second to tie or otherwise attach his end of the lead to some inanimate object while he was away. Somehow, even though in most cases I could easily have freed myself if I needed to, it left a solid vestige of him there next to me, even while his true presence wasn't fully there. Only in friendly BDSM circles, such as the one at this party, would this gesture be seen as romantic, rather than as an outrageous comparison to some kind of chattel. :D

As the play party warmed up, my shyness began fading accordingly, and I could feel even the tenseness in my body loosening up. I'm sure my partner could sense this, too, because it wasn't long into the evening before I found myself over his knee in the middle of the downstairs play/lounge area. *blush*

It was at the playful coaxing of a fellow subbie friend, who happened to be sitting right next to us, and into whose lap my head ended up once I'd been over-turned... My skirt, too short to cover me anyway in this position, came up, and I could feel his hand caressing my skin, warming me a little before he started... :D When I am exceedingly (and yet pleasantly) embarrassed, I can't stop smiling. It's a personality trait that has gotten me in 'trouble' a few times, and this time was no exception -- "She's giggling!" my friend exclaimed playfully, before suggesting to my partner that he must need to spank me harder if I'm enjoying it so much...

The playful banter between the two of them with my head in her lap and up-turned derriere in his was enough to make me even more embarrassed, which only encouraged them both... :D

Then, to top it all off, one of my other subbie friends happened to walk by and notice my predicament, to which she pointed and cheered happily to the room at large, "I see a Rayne butt!" My face must have flushed beet red. :D

It wasn't just a short session, either -- no, my partner had me there for at least a few minutes, using both his hand and other implements, regardless of how many kinky pairs of eyes were upon us at any given time... : ) When he finally let me up to perch on his lap, flushed, smiling, and trying to hide my face, I accidentally made eye contact with the couple who'd been sitting directly opposite us the whole time... They both smiled knowingly at me, before I buried my face in his chest and he and my girlfriend next to me chuckled over my antics...

What a very lovely way to kick off an evening of fun :D Thank you both! *Hugs and Kisses!!*

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