So, I know that this is entirely out of chronological order, but I made this video blog with Christy Cutie at TASSP and I wanted to share it. The spanking at the end is very playful and not meant to be serious in any amount, or to actually hurt. Here, we share some of our adventures from TASSP.
I only have three more things that I really feel are important to share about BBW. The rest of the party was wonderful, but it was ages ago, and holy crap, really Alex? You need to get caught up. So, here are my final three stories. I’m totally writing this from TASSP right now. My inability to keep up to date with this stuff is OUT OF CONTROL. Additionally, I’m sorry that recently my blog has simply been a series of stories about adventures most of the time, in case anyone finds that boring. Soon, my life will be settling for a while and I’ll get caught up and back to my regular programing. I’ve had really ridiculously low traffic this month, so I’m sorry for whatever isn’t awesome about what I’ve been up to recently. I’m still here, and I’ll do my best to get back to updating regularly and excitingly as soon as I can!
There were a lot of British people at BBW, including a handful of my favorite people. I think it was Richard Windsor‘s idea to have a “Meet the Brits” party. I liked this party quite a bit because various people had brought biscuits and sweeties and other things that I was missing after returning to the US, and I munched on this stuff while socializing with whoever was around. At one point, Bad Alex and I ended up chatting to Mr. Allen again. I mentioned earlier that Bad Alex had sort of punched me on the knee earlier, and it had marked up. As the three of us hung out, I noticed this bruise again. “Mr. Allen,” I kind of whined, “Alex hit me. It left a mark, look!” He looked, and asked Alex if she had, indeed, hit me. She openly and unabashedly admitted to it, and probably included her trademark phrase: “sucks to suck!” As the victim, I was asked what punishment seemed appropriate and I suggested that she should be caned.
“Fine,” Alex said. “But tattletales get double.”
“Agreed,” said Mr. Allen.
Then my head exploded. Where was this rule every time that I did the tiniest little thing wrong and Mila felt it was her sisterly duty to tell everyone she could think of about it? It seemed to me that when someone tattled on me and I complained about it, the response was always “She’s just looking out for your best interest” or “She needs to protect herself.” The unfairness of the universe was overpowering. I probably stamped my foot, but I don’t remember.
Alex got her caning, which was enjoyable to watch. There was some sliver of fairness left in the world, because each of the six strokes obviously hurt, and everything is right when Bad Alex is experiencing something painful as consequence for her badness. Then it was my turn. “This isn’t fair!” I reminded everyone. “I didn’t do anything wrong!” Mr. Allen looked at me with an expression that suggested that I was close to earning even more strokes if I kept up my complaining, though, so I bent over the chair. They weren’t hard, full bodied strokes, but they weren’t overly playful, either. And, as the other stories in the previous posts will remind you, I’d played a lot that weekend. I was sore as could be, and each stroke made me whimper and yelp. Near the end of my thrashing probably at the tenth stroke or so, Lucy and Stephen came into the room and sat down at the end of the bed next to us. Lucy inquired about why I was being caned and Mr. Allen and Alex explained it to her.
“Yes, that seems quite fair,” Lucy said.
“WHAT?! Why does everyone think this is fair?!” I protested, making a scrunchy face at Lucy. (My blog doesn’t support me making the emoticon scrunchy face but you’ll just have to imagine it. A lot).
“Mr. Allen!” Lucy immediately called out, “Alex just made a horrid face at me!”
“Did you?” Mr. Allen asked and I nodded pitifully, unable to tell a lie. “You’ll be getting extra strokes,” he told me. In my mind, the amount of extra strokes was four, but it’s very possible it was actually two. My memory can be a bit faulty when it comes to these things, especially as time passes.
It was impossibly hard not to scrunch my face up at this announcement, but somehow I managed, knowing quite well that it wouldn’t be a wise choice. The extra strokes (however many they were) were harder, and I yelped more loudly than I had previously, shuffling my feet and grinding my toe against the floor. This was the first time I’d ever been punished for making a scrunchy face. It was not the last.
|The good and the bad!|
The spanking was brisk, and I was already sore, so I wiggled and squirmed around. When it was done, Rich got me up and got ellee out of the corner and directed us to bend over opposite sides of a small table, where we’d be receiving our canings.
|In position! (ellee is the cutest girl ever to live)|
He then gave ellee the first stroke, which made her yelp. After that, he walked around the table to my side, to deliver my first one. This process was long and very, very anticipatory. Anticipation can be a hugely positive factor in a scene for me, and a lot of the play that Richard and I have engaged in together has emphasized this. The whole set up served to get into my head quite a bit, which seems to be another big factor in the scenes that Richard and I have done. After I got each stroke, I saw ellee’s face as she got hers. We grabbed each other’s hands in solidarity and comfort, and I felt her squeeze me as things hurt.
|EVEN HER HANDS ARE CUTE!|
Eventually, we worked through all the strokes, except for the additional two that I’d be getting. At this point, I was greatly regretting my antics earlier. The caning had been quite hard, and I’d gotten a few on my thighs, making me cry out and whimper lots and lots. I wasn’t crying, but I was quite contrite and well thrashed feeling. The last two really “counted.” This is the way of the world when you earn extra strokes, I suppose. I considered going back to being an excessively good girl all the time, in order to avoid any more of these in the future. 😛
The scene ended with the two of us in the corner, then we had that semi-awkward moment where we broke character, then we giggled and hugged.
|So much sweetness.|
The final noteworthy adventure at BBW took place IMMEDIATELY AFTER THIS, and much running around was involved to get from this adventure the next. The next was the “Adult Speaking” boat cruise, which was really, really fun. We had to change quickly and then basically teleport to the place where the bus was taking us to the dock, except that we can’t actually do that, so we had to run really quickly through a big hotel instead. But it was worth it! It was lots of fun to hang out on the boat, once we all eventually got there.
I like boats. I like boating. I grew up in Southern New Jersey on the coast, extremely close to where we were boating at the time, and I felt very, very at home. It was a wonderful feeling to be able to be being myself, totally and entirely while I was in my home setting. I spent time with each of the people who had come on the boat that was special to me. I had a couple of drinks. I had Pandora take photos of me climbing stairs in my sailor dress:
Then, of course, there was the customary “Drawbridge spanking” where everyone lines up and gets spanked in front of a drawbridge, while everyone in their cars can see us. I was slightly embarrassed by this idea, but I went for it anyway. Joe (drlectr) spanked me. I love Joe.
|This is one of my all time favorite photos.|
That’s really all I have to say about the boat trip. I do want to share one more photo, because I feel that it’s a gem beyond compare. Here’s me and my darling twinsie, ellee, on the boat:
|ellee looks so thoroughly spanked. I don’t look to pale myself!|
This concludes my posting about BBW. Onward to further adventures! Thanks for your patience! I love you all! ♥
This is an interruption to my recent narrative, because this post is important. It’s been stewing in my mind for a couple of weeks, and I’ve decided that I’m going to post it.
I get lots of questions in the inbox on my tumblr page, and I try to answer all of them. I like to have an open line of communication. I try to respond to Fetlife messages and emails, as well, but contacting me with something small over tumblr is pretty effective. A couple of weeks ago, I got the following question in my tumblr inbox:
“You have a large, chubby, big bottom. Do you think you
can take a hard spanking because it has so much padding?
Do you like your bottom?”
My natural reaction to a message like this is to feel badly about myself. Oh. I’m big. Thanks for reminding me. In fact, there have been times when these sorts of messages or photo comments or emails really tore me up. They pushed me over an edge of self doubt and lack of confidence. They reminded me of the thing that I feared: that I was fat. That I was the biggest girl making spanking videos. That I was really not all that pretty. That I largely got by as a model on my personality and, as the note mentioned, my ability to take a beating. That I’m not a tiny little thing, that I don’t fit over a lap as easily as the more petite girls and all my other fears and doubts relating to my height.
The truth is, I’ve spent a lot of my life feeling extremely insecure. I wrote a long post about my feelings towards my vertical size just about a year ago and it was one of the most vulnerable and personal things that I’ve ever written on this blog. I’ve never really mentioned my insecurities about my figure too openly, but I think a lot of people know that they’re there. I’m in a very body centric profession with a shape that’s different than many people in said profession, or even in the visible media. I put myself in a position where people discuss me in a public forum and where other bloggers think it’s a compliment to describe a girl as “pretty despite her size” when in reality, she’s about a size 8 and tremendously beautiful. It’s not hard to figure out how all that might make me feel.
A few months ago, my insecurities were peaking. I just flat out didn’t like myself physically. I was losing weight, but I was never satisfied. I didn’t like my shape. I didn’t like my height. I didn’t like my curves. I didn’t like bottom. Because modeling is my job, I pressed through working, but I didn’t expect to like any of the things that I saw. I was negatively comparing myself against some of my friends who are just built differently than me, and I was making myself feel awful about it.
|There’s nothing wrong with me.|
Eventually, I got to the point where I was honest with my friends about these feelings, and basically everyone I talked to was tremendously supportive. I was struggling with a general sense of depression to some degree for a while, especially over the winter, and that was adding to the way that I was seeing myself. I’m not going to name the people who talked to me about my body and my self image, because our conversations were extremely personal and intimate, but I’m eternally grateful for them. Their combined efforts helped me to realize that I was viewing myself through a dysmorphic lens and that I’m really actually quite pretty.
This is a feeling that’s been blooming and growing recently. I’ve gone into whatever the opposite of a depression is. Happiness. I like my life. I like the way that things are for me. I like what I do. I like the people I do those things with. I like myself.
And I mean that.
I feel drastically differently about myself than I used to.
I don’t feel ashamed about myself. About anything. I don’t feel ashamed of my sexuality, or of the things that I want, or of my history, or of the things I don’t know and can’t do well, or the times when I’m just not a real adult, or of my emotions. I don’t feel too tall. I don’t feel too fat. I like my shape. I like the way I look and feel draped over a lap. I like my long, curvy legs.
|I feel like I look tall in this photo, and that’s okay with me.|
I want to stress that no one ever made me feel the way I did before. In fact, I had tremendous emotional support to try and help me be my best. I just… did.
Now, I don’t.
So, I’m going to answer my Tumblr question.
I don’t really have that big of a bottom. It certainly doesn’t need three adjectives to describe it that way. I have a round, perky, spankable bottom. I like it. A lot of people like it. It’s my favorite part of my body. I like the way it looks. I like the way it bounces when I’m spanked. I like how it looks when I’m bent over, or over a lap. I like the way it fills out panties.
|Chubby isn’t the word I think about myself when I see this.|
I like the way it looks when I walk around. I like how it looks in a short skirt. I like how it looks in jeans. I wouldn’t change it. I mean that. It’s mine (well, and someone else’s, too, and that just makes it even better!) and I’m proud of it.
I don’t think that I can take a harder spanking because of the way that I’m built, but I wouldn’t entirely discount the idea. Honestly, I think that I can take a hard spanking because that’s what I’ve always wanted, and because Malignus taught me a lot of wonderful things about both active and passive submission over the years. I know that I’m less at risk at having my bones struck because of the way that I’m built, and I’m grateful for that because I do like being hit hard (in the right situation).
I’m not less spankable because of my shape. I can still feel comfortably emotionally small, vulnerable, physically supported… everything that I want to feel. I’m not just saying this. It’s a real change.
I hope that this answers the OP’s question. ♥
Before the party, Mike Tanner had written to ellee and I and asked us if we’d be willing to participate in a sales contest during the vendor fair. Due to our nature as good, helpful girls (captains of the Good Girl Society!) we were excited about a chance to help out and started planning ways to do the best job at this ever. This involved wearing matching outfits, of course, since ellee is my most beloved twinsie and we’re very good at matching. She picked out some adorable pink sweater tops for us to wear with school uniform skirts, and she also got both of us and Beth matching heels that look like bunnies. They’re basically the greatest thing ever created by science (science OBVIOUSLY goes into making shoes. Duh). We got ready and looked incredibly cute, if I must say so myself. In a horrible turn of events, no one took a photo of us. WTF. I don’t even have a response to that. Oh well.
We went down to the fair, where we found out that we were vending for Strictly Spanking, which was kind of an honor since it meant that the organizers trusted us enough to assign us to their table. Miranda explained what we were to do to help the sales and then we got to work, chatting up everyone from friends to strangers, bouncing around energetically, suggesting to the bottoms that the soothing lotion was indeed the most soothing and telling the Tops that they could test evil implements on us. I was bruised and sore from my scene with Stephen just a little while earlier, but I was still full of bounce, so I didn’t really mind the fact that I found myself bent over the front table with my school skirt lifted again, and again and again, often next to ellee (ok, who could mind that?!)
Doing this forced me to be outgoing, which isn’t always my natural state (I’m technically an introvert who learned extroversion, and now I can happily exist in both states). At one point, I re-met someone that I had met briefly at Shadowlane: the aforementioned Mr. Allen. I didn’t remember that I already kind of knew him, but once I made the connection, I realized that I found him very enjoyable and I was happy that he was there. We chatted for no more than one minute before I had a strange, almost out-of-body experience. I heard my voice, as if coming from somewhere other than my mouth, as if controlled by something other than my muscles and breath:
“Would you tawse my hands later? I was told that you’re good at that.”
dlifgdklfgjdjklghodirugy9SU*Efyhtisughxfjkhvdfiougyiny eor8ntu er89yfiseufhisuhvdxjkvhgyei7yeiuwryhoaeiwrhefkuhsiuhidfughISUEhtwioty iweuhreoshvnsdohvdsugheiosugiuefgyhesioufysdhvjkdhvhifxv!!!!!!!111!!1!11one
Brain! I thought to myself as soon as I had finished speaking. Now is not six months from earlier! Now isn’t even six hours from earlier! What’s wrong with you? You can call it morbid curiosity. You can call it a lack of self preservation. You can call it the inability to deny what I want, an obsession with pushing limits, insanity, whatever you want. There’s just a certain… something about me at times like these.
Mr. Allen gladly agreed to introduce me to this time honored practice and instructed me to find him later. I was then swept up in the whirlwind of whatever it was I was doing at the moment and didn’t have time to worry too much about what I had gotten myself into.
As the vendor fair came to a close, we were instructed to walk around and encourage people to come to the table who may not have otherwise. I was feeling pretty good about the work that ellee and I had done. ellee was amazingly chipper and outgoing, and she really kept me at my perkiest as we strived to compete against the other tables. Besides, she looked really good in her sweater. 🙂 Now, I split off from her and went around to talk to strangers by myself so she could cover different territory. At some point, Bad Alex came up and started following me around like a lost puppy. Instead of being useful and encouraging people towards my goal, she started being counter productive “Don’t buy anything!” she told people. “We want them to lose!” “I want to see Alex get spanked on stage”– that was the punishment for losing, and I wasn’t all that concerned about that, nor was I all that interested in the physical prize for winning (a bottle of lotion). I just wanted to be a winner. I can get horribly competitive. I wanted ellee and I to win and that was all I really cared about. I started to get pretty annoyed at Bad Alex, and I insisted that it wasn’t funny. As I took a moment off to socialize with Lucy and Stephen again, she came up and started telling them not to buy anything from me. “Alex!” I shouted. “Stop being such a cunt!”
And that was how in one single motion I found myself no longer on my feet, and instead over Lucy’s lap, getting scolded about how she KNEW that I wasn’t supposed to talk to my friends that way and that such language was most unladylike. She was, of course, correct on both counts. Bad Alex was FAR TOO SMUG about this turn of events, though: a trend that will continue throughout the story of this adventure.
General advice: there are certain words that it’s just not worth saying to your friends at a spanking party.
Soon, the contest was over and the winners were announced, with me and ellee bringing our team to the winning position. There was much rejoicing, and ellee did her patented bounce.
I don’t remember if the next part of this story actually happened in this sort of chronological order, but it seems that way in my memory, so it’s going that way in the post. 🙂
That evening, I was in and out of suite parties, running around, playing with friends and visiting with others. I got to know a few new people and did the sort of stuff I usually do at a party. At one point, I was running around on a mission to find Stacy because she had something that her husband needed, and I ran into Mr. Allen. He asked me if I was ready for that which I was due, and I politely explained that I had to run and find Stacy, then disappeared again. Just seeing him refreshed my memory on the subject that I had previously put out of my mind. Later that night, I walked into a suite in which he was hanging out, accompanied by none other than my worst behaved counterpart, Bad Alex. Part of me wanted to come up with some excuse for why I wasn’t going to get my hands tawsed. I had to go somewhere. I wasn’t feeling well. I had suddenly remembered that I was REALLY REALLY SCARED of this. But I knew I wasn’t going to chicken out. I knew that I could be calm about it. If I wanted to do this enough to ask for it, I wanted to do it enough to go through with it.
Holy hell, I was scared though. I’d heard all sorts of stories and had talked to various people, and everyone said that nothing compared to the pain of that. Nothing. It was the worst. My “big game” that I talk about my ability to take pain is all about spanking. I seriously tear up if someone high fives me too hard. Somehow, though, I agreed that I was going to have my hands tawsed, and some of the process was explained to me. I originally thought that a girl I had just met for the first time, Em, wanted to get her hands tawsed again and was volunteering to go before me, but I later discovered that Mr. Allen had conscripted her to serve as a demonstration. Somehow we ended up in a line with Em at the front, me in the middle and Bad Alex ended up behind me. (Em is extremely nice and I’m glad I got to know her over the weekend, but I feel a bit guilty now that she got tawsed on my behalf! Awww!)
The idea of the three of us lined up to get this made it a lot more comfortable for me, because it ritualized it beyond that which already existed. It was explained that Em would be getting one on each hand and that the Alexes would each get two per hand. The tawse that Mr. Allen had for these purposes was an authentic, old one, stamped with an H for “heavy” and it had clearly been used many, many times before. I shuddered just to look at it. At this time in my life (not at present, any longer) the tawse was the one scary implement that I wasn’t really well acquainted with. There will always be strange new things that pop up, legendary implements, particularly cruel versions of something familiar, but this was all around strange to me, and only accompanied by a whole host of stories. I could see it there, mocking me. I knew what Mr. Allen was going to do to me with it, but I didn’t know how it would feel. I could imagine, or so I thought. My heart pounded hard. I was sweating a little.
Em came forward and put her hand out, supporting it with the other one. She had obviously done this before. Mr. Allen lifted the tawse and brought it down against her palm in a motion that didn’t even look particularly aggressive or violent. There was obviously finesse involved in it, but the thing seemed to be mostly carried by gravity. Em reacted much less strongly than I would have expected, shaking her hand a bit, and exclaiming verbally, but then she swapped her hands and took her second stroke, repeated the same level of reaction, thanked Mr. Allen and then went to spectate. I was trembling as I walked forward to take the position at the front of the line, even though her reaction hadn’t been all that bad. Mr. Allen instructed me regarding how to position my hands, then he said:
“This is going to hurt very, very much. Don’t move your hand.”
There’s nothing like telling me that something is going to hurt to get into my head. Such a simple thing, usually the honest truth, but I have almost no defense against it. It melts my toughness. My heart pounded and pounded. Then Mr. Allen raised the tawse and brought it down on my palm.
Then I exploded.
Or so I felt. I at least screamed a little. I had never, ever, ever felt something that hurt so much. Not the longest, hardest caning in my history. Not a heavy ebony hairbrush on my thighs. Not being smacked on the tender areas near the backs of my knees. Nothing hurt like this. It was nauseating. It was disorienting. I don’t remember moving, but I discovered that I had my hand clutched between my thighs, because it was the sort of pain that I simply had to apply pressure to. There was no other choice. Holy. Fuck. I trembled.
“Other hand,” Mr. Allen instructed. I looked up at him pleadingly, but he had a stern and serious face. That confidence and his unbending nature comforted me, pacifying me enough to stand up straight again and put my other hand out. I forced it as far away from my body as I could, looking away to avert my eyes from what was going to happen.
That’s what happened. I crumbled, sort of bent in half, rocking and rubbing my aching, burning, terribly sore hands together. I knew that there was a crowd of people around, that we were playing in a suite, but I wasn’t aware of anything around me. Just the hurting. It was all that my mind could process. I didn’t even feel entirely in control of the parts of my body that I normally am, unsure of how to breathe or move my muscles.
“I can’t take two more,” I told Mr. Allen. This was huge. I’m horribly proud. It’s rare for me to beg, to protest, or try to get out of something. I am, after all, the kind of girl who intentionally gets herself into situations like this. But here, I felt that I had met my match. This hurt too much. I wasn’t tough enough for two more. I just couldn’t. There was no way. I shook my head, tears soaking down my face and gathering on my sweater.
“You can and you will,” Mr. Allen told me. “You’re going to. Put your hand out.”
I wanted to protest more. I couldn’t. I might die. I might *actually* explode. My hands might come off. I was entirely beyond rationality. Instead, I felt comforted by his statement, and my panic started to fade. I felt the tranquility of being out of control, feelings of comfort in the inevitable that I had been taught to embrace long ago. I could do this. I could.
I put my first hand out again. It already felt about twice it’s usual size. I closed my eyes and tried to relax into what was going to happen. I shrieked anyway, quickly devolving into sobs again.
Somehow, I got my other hand up without having to be coaxed, with Mr. Allen praised me for before bringing the tawse down the last time. This one felt like the worst one, both my hands swollen and red and sore, my world illuminated with a white strike of agony. I fell to my knees with both hands clutched between my thighs, trying to press the hurt out of them, trying to squeeze them back to feeling their normal size. I was concerned for a moment that I might throw up, but I recovered remarkably quickly as a powerful, almighty rush of endorphins came and took me over. Mr. Allen went away for a moment and returned with a bowl of ice. I buried my hands in it, and I felt infinitely better.
“You took that well,” he said as he comforted me. I laughed. “No, I really didn’t.” I think it was the least well I had ever taken anything.”Well, you took it. That’s something,” he said with a supportive smile.
He told me that he knew that there was no way that I was going to be alright with myself if I didn’t take the second half of the tawsing, which is why he had been so insistent.I didn’t feel like weakness left me and afterwards, that hollow space left was inflated with strength. I felt all the things in me, the feelings and the vulnerability harden into an unbreakable, positive core. I felt safe. I felt like myself. I felt like everything that had been dark had been illuminated. I was very glad for this. I needed it. I needed that extra push. I was proud of myself in this moment, although I did acknowledge somewhere that this was no longer a limitation in my mind, and it could potentially happen again, but I tucked that away in case I ever needed something to be afraid of. 😛
To give insult to injury, it was now time for Bad Alex to get her hands tawsed. She took her four strokes without event, without struggle, with hardly even any sound. She gave 0 fucks about the exact same experience that had just knocked me off my feet, literally. Fuck you, Bad Alex. (Note: I love Bad Alex. She’s a wonderful friend. But fuck you for having a better pain tolerance than I do, and for your ability to get me into trouble no matter what.) At least she didn’t gloat. Much. ♥
I am going to get through this complete narrative if it’s the last damn thing I do. I don’t know why it’s so important to me that I do, especially because adventures keep happening and piling up and it would make more sense for me to cut my losses and just jump to the more recent. But I’m going to. Really.
I know there has been some lag in when this blog has been updated, but I guarantee you that this time, I’m on a good schedule for quite some time now. Thanks for sticking by me as I’ve been busy darting around the world on spanking adventures. Your readership means so much to me.
The first person to spank me on Friday morning at BBW was YS. After getting ready for the day, I crawled up on his bed and we chatted about things that were going on in my life at the time. When that was finished, he put one leg out and put me over it (a very practical form of on the bed OTK) and then spanked me. He spanked me with a bunch of things, but I didn’t really get a good look at them. I just got a good feel of them. Many of them were wooden, and they hurt. It was still early in the day, and I think I may have been a bit whiny about things at first, but I quickly broke down and let myself fall into things. Damn, it hurt. YS almost always spanks me quite hard, but I felt very safe and comfortable in the position that he put me in. I was somewhat physically resistant, though, by the standards of this relationship. I clutched at the blankets and wiggled a bit and despite being reminded to, I was unable to keep my body relaxed. I worked at it as the spanking went on, and I think I made some progress, but it wasn’t easy. When YS was finished, I felt very physically worn out at first, and cuddled on the bed next to him for a while. After that, I was back to my perky self, and we went off to lunch.
|I think that Beth took this photo. If so, thank you, Beth!|
I spent a lot of the rest of the day hanging out with friends and having fun. At one point, I did something annoying to TheBadAlex and she responded by whacking me in the knee. This left a bruise that will become significant later on in the story. [God, Bad Alex, stop being such a bitch!] Later, we went to the meet and greet and I hung out with a nice variety of people, as basically everyone was there. The Famous Kat, who I met for the first time after years of internet friendship, showed me a place where I could stand on the balcony and it would make my dress fly up. I like that. I like that an awful lot. The lightweight nature of dress material is an important factor in my selection of clothing on a windy day. 🙂
After the event, SpankingJoe (different than Drlectr) and Bad Alex and I got together to talk in Joe’s room. This was a very complex proceeding that involved Joe setting up chairs in front of a desk and getting out a big, school type paddle. Because he knew that having the two of us together would probably result in mischief. Alex did, indeed, say something off color or complain about something, I don’t remember what, and she ended up being bent over the desk for ten swats. I probably gloated a bit about the fact that she was getting spanked, and I think she certainly would have found a way to throw me under the bus (such a bitch! Damn you, Bad Alex!) but it was time for me to go.
Earlier in the day, I had a very intense conversation with Lucy, which was really wonderful for me. It’s part of my personal life, the stuff that doesn’t go on here, but we talked about a lot of things and she looked after me in with a level of dedication and caring that was more than most people ever have in my life. That’s not meant to put anyone else down, just to say that she went above and beyond the call, and that I adore her for it. Part of this involved her setting things up for me to play with her partner, Stephen Lewis at a set time and location, and that time was nearing.
Stephen and I had never played together off camera before. I knew that I liked scening with him for work purposes very, very much. He’s good with characters. He’s willing to be a bit weird when the scene calls for it, and he’s very willing (perhaps even eager) to go to the darker places that I have recently found that I delight in. We weren’t going to roleplay this time, though. We were just going to be ourselves, and I was greatly looking forward to that. I knew that he plays hard. I’d seen photos of him having played with other girls where they were quite marked. It may have only been Friday, but at that time for my own reasons, I wanted to play hard. I wanted someone to beat me, and soundly. I felt very stable and secure because I knew that he would. I knew that I didn’t need to ask him to, or to sell him on the idea. I felt confident that he understood me enough to do what needed doing. As I walked to the room he and Lucy were sharing, my heart pounded against the inside of my chest with heavy anticipation. My tummy felt funny. It was wonderful.
I knocked on the door and he opened it. We talked a bit, and then he put a straight backed chair in the middle of the room and took off his jacket, having me hang it up. Then he put me over his lap and he began to spank me. I had let him know that I wanted my thighs to be spanked as well, and he was more than willing to do so. Every smack hurt in a way that radiated through my body. Often, when I really feel the need to be spanked hard, I find myself easily overwhelmed when I get what I need, lost at sea, struggling and crying and that letting go process leaves me feeling strong again. That wasn’t what happened this time. Stephen spoke to me very positively, and the combination of his words and the pain that grew and grew in my bottom and thighs (especially when he switched from his hand to a lightweight little hairbrush type paddle, and then to a much heavier and thicker one) made me feel edified. I didn’t feel like weakness left me and afterwards, that hollow space left was inflated with strength. I felt all the things in me, the feelings and the vulnerability harden into an unbreakable, positive core. I felt safe. I felt like myself. I felt like everything that had been dark had been illuminated. I didn’t cry. I had assumed that I would, but instead, I felt joyful. I could feel the red growing, could feel that there were probably purple speckles forming, especially on my sit spot and thighs. Each smack felt hot, and burning tingles radiated out from the center of the impact. Finally, eventually, it ended.
“This is about what you need,” Stephen said, “but it’s also about what I want. I want to cane you now, so I am going to.” I was, in that moment, entirely submissive, which is a rare thing for me when I’m playing with someone with whom I don’t have a dynamic. I knew that it was a temporary and fleeting thing, and that was fine, almost positive feeling. Having it be an encapsulated moment instead of a part of a timeline (not to say that we’ll never play again, as I’m certain that we will have other chances to, but there was nothing being built or worked at, it was just a moment) made it all that more refreshing, and I needed that.
I climbed over the end of the bed to be caned. I think I took a total of 33 strokes, many of them on my thighs, although by no means all of them. He used several different canes, increasing in intensity as they went on, but I don’t remember very much about them. I just remember the process: calm, stillness and then a white, hot pain, and then the secondary pain that follows– an aching, chewing pain. Then calmness, and another interruption. When it was finished, Stephen sat at the head of the bed and I cuddled against him for a while, having quiet and gentle conversation about how well I took my thrashing. I felt proud of myself. Instead of getting hung up on something I hadn’t done the way I’d like to, I just felt pleased with my endurance, my reaction and the whole experience And I felt sore. I felt incredibly, incredibly sore. I almost didn’t want to sit. My thighs felt swollen. I was bruised and welted. I was happy. Stephen is a really good friend, and a wonderful Top.
During the post-scene cuddling, we talked about various things, including why getting hit on my thighs was so important to me. I think everyone who reads this has heard it a million times: I like getting hit on my thighs because I hate it. It challenges me. It pushes me. It’s the first thing that ever really made me acknowledge my submission, and it continues to be effective at getting inside my head. “There are other things that I think could be like that for me, but that I’m too scared to even try,” I told Stephen. He asked me what those things were. “Like hand tawsing. I’ve been hit on the hand with other things before, less serious things, and it’s just far, far too painful. I can’t endure it.” I told him the story about how I somehow ended up on the other side of the room insisting that I was literally going to die the first time that Malignus had hit me on the hand, and he had a chuckle at that.
“If you ever want to try it, you should either ask Lucy to do it or Mr. Allen, since they’re the best at hand tawsing,” Stephen told me.
“I know I’ll eventually want to try it. I have a horrible morbid curiosity, but I’m just not there yet. Maybe in six months or so I will be. Right now, it’s just far too scary.” This was acceptable, and the conversation moved on to other things. Eventually, it was time for me to go and get changed, as the Vendor’s Fair was that night.
|I took this photo when I got undressed to change in my room later. Sore girl!|
This story will continue in the next post. Stay tuned! ♥
I find it tremendously difficult to write about spanking parties after the fact.
So. Much. Happens. It’s hard for me to tell what things are interesting and worth writing about and what things are needless details. It’s also unfortunate that I never really get around to writing about them as soon as they happen, as I tend to have quite the backlog. So, I’ll do the best that I can. If I don’t mention a fond memory that I shared with you there, please don’t be hurt. It probably means a lot to me, too.
The first thing that I clearly remember about Thursday of BBW was Richard Windsor‘s pool party. I was full of bounce and excitement that afternoon, and I spent lots of time with Pandora again, making up for all the time that we had been apart. We splashed around in the pool a bunch, and later moved into the world’s biggest hot tub*. Here, I ran into my friends Korey and James Johnson (of Stormy Night Publications) and we got to catch up. I hadn’t seen them since July, and we had lots to talk about, including reminiscing about a most ridiculous night at CCM and, once again, discussing How To Have Two Concubines For Five Dollars A Day®. Korey and I engaged in lots of girl talk, which continued out of the pool and into the changing room. Eventually, Pandora had someplace to be so she took off, and I got dressed and headed out of the pool.
|I actually wore jeans at a spanking party. No one died. Amazing!|
I wandered off somewhere and ran into my friend BradD. Brad and I had known each other for a long time over the internet, and he’s always been really kind and supportive towards me. We’d hung out briefly at other parties, and he was meant to go to my cabin party but unfortunately fell ill and couldn’t make it. As things went, we had never played together. Now seemed like as good a time as ever, so we headed up to his room. We chatted a bit more before things moved rather seamlessly to me being over his lap. I hadn’t played yet at this party, and Brad was very kind about warming me up gently, first spanking me over my jeans. I don’t get spanked over jeans often, since I much prefer to run around in skirts at parties, but I do very much like the feeling of it. There’s basically no stinginess and just the feeling of impact, which is very similar to the way that my mind interprets spankings once I’ve falled into a subspace type mental state. Because of this association, the “over the jeans” spanking made me very passive. Soon, though, Brad had me get up and he took my jeans down before returning me to position, where he commented that he liked my underwear. That’s always points in my book right there. He then spanked me over it, and I was quite surprised by the difference. His hands are big and firm, and he was very effective at spanking with them. I squirmed a bit, but my attitude was mostly giggly, as we were both in very high spirits and he was simply spanking me because we both enjoyed it, and we both enjoyed each other. I love a huge variety of types of spankings, but there’s something very pure about that type. We do the thing because we love the thing.
When the spanking was completed, I felt simultaneously properly warmed up to play for the rest of the party and delightfully close to Brad. It really was ideal. Unfortunately I didn’t get to see much more of him for the rest of the party, so I was glad that we got that time, and it started things on the right foot for me.
Shortly after I left Brad’s room, I got a text from Lucy letting me know that she and Stephen had arrived and were in their room. Lucy and I had been texting while we were both in New York, but our schedules hadn’t lined up (largely because of my running around) so I hadn’t seen her since I left her and Paul’s house in England nearly a month ago. I headed up to their room and had hugs, plus the showing off of fancy fabric that Lucy had purchased in the garment district and the return of all the stuff I had left in England because it didn’t fit in my suitcase, despite Lucy’s nigh godlike packing ability. It was very nice to catch up with her and Stephen, as I’d missed being around them since I left England. From there, I think I went to see The Bad Alex, Latte and Josh, but I’m not clear on this order of events in the least anymore. I know that I did get to see them, and that I told Latte that I was pleased to meet her, as I do every time I see her, since the second time that we hung out I was half drunk and another half asleep and temporarily had no memory of our first meeting. It was good to see her and Alex again, though, and immediately I got up to mischief with them. It was also lovely to meet Josh, as we’d corresponded online for quite some time, and he was really, truly nice in person. I also got to meet a girl named Feisty, who clearly lived up to her name. 🙂
I’m usually really quite good. Really, I am. At one point, though, when Josh started spanking someone, I decided that some of the implements in the room were just to mean for the public eye, so I hid a couple of them.
No one noticed that I did it. That’s the benefit of usually being so good: people don’t watch you as closely.
I then texted Alex from across the room to let her know that I’d been up to something already, and she swore up, down and backwards not to tell if I told her what I’d done. Because I trusted her, I did. Instantly, she threw me under the bus. INSTANTLY. She didn’t even give me time to get my fingers off my phone’s keyboard. What a “great friend.”
“Hey Josh! Alex hid your cane.” Alex said. I was shocked and appalled, and sheepishly returned it. Of course, I got whacked with it. That’s how this works. That doesn’t mean I didn’t protest, and most of my angst was about what a horrible, lying tattletale Alex is (like a lot of my friends, it seems).
[Dear Bad Alex: fuck you. Love, Good Alex.][There is a message to Bad Alex in invisible ink there. Don’t read it if you think that I should be nice to my friends on the internet.]
I think it was after this that we went down to the Burger Bar area for registration and hanging out, where I got to see a bunch more people that I was quite excited about. I spent that entire portion of the evening flittering around from group to group, trying to see everyone and catch up. Finally, YS texted me that he and ellee had arrived, and I literally ran to the room number he had sent. There were hugs and very quick cuddles, as it was approaching an event that they needed to be at. It was lovely to see them. They’re some of my favorite people.
The rest of the night was kind of a blur. There was a mass spanking of several of my friends for some sort of prank that I wasn’t entirely aware of, but which was very entertaining to watch. It was especially visually appealing to watch the portion that involved YS spanking Beth, as YS is a joy to watch while he’s hitting woman. He moves his body in a way that looks strong and powerful, and he has a smug look of satisfaction on the entire time. After the event was over, the group dispersed and I don’t really remember what I did, but I’m sure it involved running around and probably getting spanked. As the evening drew on, Pandora mentioned that she wanted to spank me before she went to bed so I climbed over her lap. She was wearing the most ridiculously wonderful dress ever, which she had purchased while we were on the boardwalk earlier in the day (I just don’t remember when that was). It was low cut and tight to her body and made her ass look perfect. I hadn’t been able to keep my hands off her all night. It was very nice to lie over her lap while she was dressed this way. And by “very nice” I mean “it was hot.” Pandora spanked me with her hand while I giggled and moaned over he lap, and I felt very nicely connected to her. As Pandora noted in her post, it was only made less than perfect by a bystander commenting about how cute it was that there were two little girls spanking each other. Shut up. This is serious business. Well, maybe not, but it’s still no less serious than any one else’s play, and certainly not something to patronize us over.
As the night wore on and I was getting tired for bed, YS decided that it was time for him to “get me,” much to my delight. Not so much to my delight, he had found a cracker barrel type paddle (I think) that was one of the most evil things I’ve ever met in that manner. He bent me over a spanking bench and began to spank me with his hand first, and then with this horrible thing. As usual, he spanked me hard. As usual, I wailed and cried. I felt a bit odd about doing this with people around, especially since PTL had previously been asleep on the sofa pretty close to where my face ended up being, but eventually I lost myself in it. At times, I felt myself panic, tighten, feeling unable to take it but YS reassured me in his usual way: “You’re okay. You’re a sweet girl” and this softened me up to take more. When he finally stopped, I felt swollen and bruised (although I didn’t really look too much worse for the wear, due to my body’s natural magic these days) and we shared a cuddle. I also felt sleepy. Tremendously sleepy. It was late. So I headed off to bed, looking forward to another day of adventures. ♥