Last Thursday, I got up in the morning after having hardly slept at all. I’d gone to sleep at my bedtime like a good girl, but I found myself just lying there, unable to relax into the sleep I knew that I needed. When I got up, it was going to be a busy day, and I needed the energy, but I was pulsating with excitement and could hardly lay in one position very long. The next time I went to bed, it would be with Paul. How could I possibly sleep when I knew that it was down to the HOURS before I’d see him? It’s annoying, the way that my body responds to excitement. If I could have just slept, the ten hours I ended up staying in my bed for would have flown by. My boyfriend from High School used to describe sleep as “Time Travel.” He’d intentionally sleep as much as he could leading up to things he was looking forward to. Me? I tied my covers in knots with my tossing and turning and looked at my phone to see what time it was every five minutes. Finally, around 7 AM, I fell asleep.
When I woke up at 10:30, I had the worst sleep-eyes I’d ever experienced, and hardly even looked like a human. This called for some teabags soaked in ice water resting on my closed eyes for fifteen minutes. Now, I’m someone who has stood in corners for long periods of time rather habitually, and I’ve waited in other boring, unpleasant ways, too. This time passed impossibly slowly, though. I thought that my timer was broken about eight times. In about the twelfth minute, there was a knock on the door. I was expecting mail, so I answered it. It turns out that it was a couple of people wanting to talk religion. They asked if my parents were home, and I told them they were not (in fact, they’re very far away!) so they left. I suppose the teabags must have worked, if I was being back to being mistaken as a child.
After this, I got to work doing housecleaning. I’d been preparing for Paul to come back in various ways ever since he left. I had set up a garden area in the back yard, complete with plants, yard chairs, a small table and a little outdoor fireplace (inspired by the fact that Paul had mentioned several times that he missed sitting by a fire in the evening, since few homes in Los Angeles have fireplaces, it seems). I had done lots of cleaning and organizing in the house, adding little touches here and there to make it feel more put together. And for the past month, I’d been coloring a “Welcome Home” sign for him, working on it a little bit each day. I’m not really “good” at arts and crafts (the thing I’m best at making is a mess!) but it came out very cute. It’s quite obvious that I drew it, and I think that’s what counts. Anyway, I wanted the house to be as spotless as possible, so there was tidying done, laundry and dishes washed and put away, floors scrubbed, the bathroom cleaned and so on. When it was finally done, I cut some flowers that were growing in an area that I consider to be part of my yard (there has since been some debate as to whether these were technically not mine) and filled vases with them. I set the sign on the bed. Things looked perfect, and I was very pleased.
Next, it was time to make myself presentable, since I pretty much looked like some kind of cleaning wench at this point. I ran myself a bath, where I quickly washed my hair and face, then put a hair mask on my hair, wrapped it up in a towel to sit, coated my face with a delicious smelling treatment from Skinfood (mmmm, strawberries!) and added a fancy bathbomb to the water. To make thing more interesting, I added a Crayola tablet which turns the bath water colors, so I was soaking in floral scented, pink water. This, my friends, is the life.
Now, months and months ago, Paul and I had been in the drugstore looking for something else when I had come across these water coloring tablets. We had the following conversation:
Me: Paul, may I have this?
Paul: No, you can’t have that. It’s likely to stain the bathtub.
I’m sure I then whined quite a bit about how unfair this was, but Paul held his ground. A couple of weeks ago, I had been in the grocery store looking at bath products (they’re one of my obsessions, as bath-taking is borderline fetishistic for me) when I rediscovered these colored tablets. I was already buying more bath stuff than I needed (milk-bath mixture, chamomile bubble bath AND scented sea salts) but they looked just as appealing as they had the first time I had seen them. Who doesn’t want to take a bath in brightly colored water? How fun! (Un)fortunately, this time, I was all alone and unsupervised in the store. Somehow, I managed to convince myself that Paul had meant that I couldn’t have any bath colors THEN, not that I couldn’t have them EVER. Clearly, that’s what he meant. In fact, I was sure that he said “Not today” somewhere in that conversation, which meant that since it wasn’t that day anymore, it would be just fine for me to buy them. Besides, I had been very good recently. There would be no consequences to this action. Of course not. Just fun, colored water.
So, yesterday, I soaked in the pink water happily until it was time to get out. I spent a while getting ready and making myself look as cute as I could:
Then, I went out to my car. It was only 5:45, and Paul’s flight wasn’t scheduled to land until 7:15 and then he had to go through immigration, but I wanted to be there early. I wanted to find the door that he would have to come through to get to baggage claim and pounce him with the biggest hug ever. I didn’t want to waste one possible minute that we could be being together upon his arrival. In fact, thinking about seeing him again in the airport had temporarily replaced spanking scenarios as my night time, pre-sleep fantasy. So, I would get there very early and have time to prepare for this.When I got out to my car, it had a mostly flat tire, probably caused by the fact that I had recently sort of scraped against a wall while reversing through a tight space.
Fortunately, I had time to go to the gas station and put air in, which I did very carefully as I was wearing a short skirt and had just spent about an hour in the bath, but I then had to return home to wash my hands and knees off from kneeling on the ground and touching the wheel. Soon, I was back in the car and I entered the airport into my GPS. I was reminded that portions of the 405 are currently closed or seriously delayed. The 405 would have been my best route to the airport, but I chose to take a more complicated route instead to avoid the 405.
Unfortunately, it seems, so did everyone else. It took me an hour and a half to travel a distance which usually takes me about 40 minutes, and the whole time I was worrying that I’d done the tire pressure wrong and my car was going to exploded, or that Paul would get through customs and not have anyone to greet him.
Finally, around 7:40, I pulled into the parking lot at the International Terminal. I raced down, but went in the wrong door and ended up in a part of the airport which primarily had its signage in Japanese. As I was semi-frantically running around, I got a text from Paul saying that he was outside. I had no idea where that was.For a second, “MISSION FAILED” appeared across my vision, but I managed to keep from falling apart. I felt really, really sad that he had gone all the way through baggage claim without being intercepted by my giant hug. I found a doorway to the outside world, and was attempting to text and walk at the same time when a familiar voice said “Boo!”Then Paul was standing in front of me, and I fell into some kind of confused trance, overwhelmed with feelings. I fell into aforementioned giant hug, which turned into a long, passionate kiss.
After this, I sort of bounced around, talking about many things that didn’t really relate to each other. I was in a state of giddy, hyperactive derealization. This has always been sort of a “problem” for me in my relationship with Paul (I say “problem” in quotation marks because there’s nothing actually bad about it, but I don’t know what else to call it). I sometimes interact with him in a daze because it’s difficult for me to believe that he’s really here, that a person as wonderful as him is real and that I’m actually loved the way that I am. It leaves me in a perpetual state of wonder and gleeful amazement, but then, the world felt almost unreal.But it was real. This is my life.
I apologized for not having been at the very first door I could have been, and explained what had happened and Paul didn’t seem too disappointed. In between my talking a mile a minute about whatever was popping into my head at that moment, I asked if it was alright for us to grab some groceries before going home. When I had cleaned the kitchen, I realized that the cupboards were primarily bare except for candy. File that under “the dangers of leaving me unsupervised.”As we drove to the grocery store, I chatted about all the things I had done that day to get ready for his arrival. When I got to the part of the story about my bath, there was an awkward little pause. We were stopped at a red light, which seemed as good a time as any to bring this up.
“Paul?” I asked, my voice sounding quiet and vulnerable.
“Yes?” he responded, obviously aware of what usually came out of my mouth when my voice sounded this way (either a request for something I feel shy to ask for or a confession of some sort of bad behavior).
“Do you remember the day that we were in the store and we saw those bath tablets which change color?” Paul confirmed that he remembered. “You told me that I couldn’t have any, but you didn’t actually mean that, right?”
Paul’s face was a mixture of annoyance and confusion, with traces of amusement showing through under the stern. “Why would I have not meant it?”
“Maybe you meant that I couldn’t have any just then, but I could have it another day?” I explained.
“No. I told you you could never have any, because they’ll stain the tub,” he told me, shaking his head.
“But they didn’t stain the tub! It’s fine now!” I rebutted. I reeled back for a moment, realizing that I had admitted my disobedience. Paul gave me a serious look. “Am I in trouble?” I asked very meekly.
“Yes,” Paul said, leaning in close to me. “I’m going to have to spank you for this when we get home.”
Being spoken to this way, by him, in person, for the first time in ages sent my mind spinning off into a happy place and I had to focus on driving very intentionally when the light changed again.We got groceries and then went to an all-night diner for some food, where we both ate breakfast. We sat together on the same side of the booth and cuddled. By then, I was getting sleepy from my lack of sleep the night before, and I can’t imagine how tired Paul was after his long day of international travel. We returned home, where I showed him my series of surprises: the garden area, the little touches I’d added to the kitchen and living room, the way that I’d finally gotten the study set up (as it had previously doubled as a storage room until I had tackled it recently) and then my sign. He was thrilled by everything, but especially pleased with the sign. After looking at all of this, he carefully unbuttoned my dress and pulled it off.
“You did something that I told you not to while I was away, didn’t you?” he asked me, his voice a mixture of sternness and affection. I played with my hair and looked down.
“Yes, Paul,” I whispered. He scolded me about the bath tablets (although he ultimately agreed that I could keep them, since they don’t actually stain anything) for a moment before turning me over his lap.
I know that there have been many times in my life when I needed to be spanked very badly. There have been long spells where I was strongly desiring play and just not getting it. There were also the first eighteen years of my life before spanking became a reality and when it had only been a fantasy. Still, it was hard for me to think of a time when I wanted to be spanked more. There was none of the anxious apprehension which had surrounded my first spanking adventures, and none of the guilty hangups that had come into play when I was not getting spanked due to relationship problems in the past. Everything about this was right, and I lingered in each moment.
I was shocked by how hard the first smack was. It echoed in the room and made me gasp. I was aware that my bottom was probably extremely sensitive, considering that I had been playing much less frequently while he had been away, yet all I felt were endorphins. Within a few smacks, I dived directly into a place which has often been illusive to me in my years as a spankee: the floaty, subspacey place where spanking just feels good. Everything felt amazing, and my response was to gasp and push my bottom up to meet Paul’s hand as it descended again and again and again.
I didn’t wiggle: I writhed happily. After some amount of time had passed (I have no idea how long it actually was, since it felt like both an age and a moment) he pulled me up onto his lap for another kiss, an we spent a while kissing, cuddling and enjoying each other. After a bit of this, he turned to me and said “I’m not done spanking you yet” and directed me back over his lap, where he continued to spank me very hard and I continued to offer absolutely no resistance: I had nothing to resist. It was the greatest feeling ever. I cooed and purred.
Eventually, he paused and talked to me, rubbing my bottom gently.”You belong to me, Alex,” he affirmed me, “and I’ll smack your bottom until it’s red and sore whenever it pleases me.”
I shivered with delight. There was no part of me that was focused on anything but the fact that I belong to him and love him. By the time the spanking was finished, my bottom felt hot and swollen, and as I calmed down and caught my breath I became aware of how stingy it was. I changed into pajamas (new ones that I’d been saving for his homecoming) and became suddenly very aware of how tired I was. Soon, we were curled up in our bed together, and the world was a place where everything was right and good.
Last week on Fetlife, I responded to a comment on a Fetlife photo letting someone know that I didn’t appreciate the way that he had spoken to me. One of my friends wrote back saying that maybe I could do a guide regarding what kind of comments are and aren’t okay, since some people are genuinely not sure. I don’t expect that this guide is going to make a difference in the way that people comment on photos, but it will make me feel like I did my best to share my thoughts on what is and isn’t okay. So here it goes!
Note: ALL the comments I use as examples in this are based on real shit that I got. As always, these thoughts are my feelings, and I’m sure that there are many people who don’t agree with me. Take them as such, not as the Holy Gospel of Spanking Truth (because that’s not the name of this blog, is it?)
1) Rule one: respect.
On Fetlife, tumblr, blogs and other social media used for kink, people share photos with strangers that are of a kinky and or sexual nature. Just because someone is showing themselves off sexually it doesn’t mean that they are inviting you to talk about them in explicit, objectifying ways. This is an idea which is very hard for a lot of people. Recently, there was a high profile piece of writing on Fetlife in which a girl said (I’m paraphrasing, but these are the real ideas) “If you’re a smart girl, you won’t wear slutty clothes in a dark alley at night because you know that makes you likely to be raped. Likewise, if you’re a smart girl you won’t post slutty photos online, because you know that makes you likely to be talked about in a way that makes you uncomfortable.”
I was in a horrible rage after I read that. I had to quit the internet, go cuddle my cats and then take a walk before I could get back to work. The idea that if you show yourself off and get attention that you don’t want, it’s your own damn fault for tempting others with your body is one of the biggest problems with our culture. A girl can want to look sexy and be treated with respect. These are not mutually exclusive. A girl can put her photos out there because she wants attention. This is not a bad thing. It is okay to want attention. Wanting attention doesn’t mean wanting every kind of attention. Throw the attitude of “If you didn’t want me to say xyz, then you shouldn’t have posted naked photos to the internet” in the trash, now. The guiding rule to commenting on kinky photos anywhere on the internet is to treat the people in the pictures with respect. They’re making themselves vulnerable, whether they are professional fetish models like me or “amateur” exhibitionists doing it for a thrill or anything in between. You get the reap the benefits of an internet which is stuffed to the gills with every kind of sexy, kinky photos you can imagine. Treat them with respect. Unsure how to do that? Read on!
2) Don’t say anything in a comment on someone’s photo that you wouldn’t say to their face. Sometimes, the anonymity of the internet makes us feel braver than we actually are. Imagine yourself at a party and the person whose photo it is walks in. Chances are, you’re a total stranger to this person. Would you really lean in and say “Wow, what a butt, I’d love to be balls deep in it”?
3) There are some thoughts that are best kept to yourself.
As a fetish model, it’s my job to make people horny. I’m under no illusion as to what many people do when they look at my photos and videos. It’s the same exact thing that I’ve been doing while looking at spanking photos and videos for the past ten years. You don’t have to tell me about it, and if you do want to, there are right and wrong ways to do it. Here’s a list of examples, ranging from nicest to most awful:
^_^ Wow, I really enjoyed this photo. Thanks for sharing, it made my day.
😀 This is a really erotic shot. So hot!
🙂 You’re super sexy and it’s so working for me.
: / This made me incredibly horny to look at.
-_- Yikes, I need to keep tissues by my desk when looking at your profile.
>_< When I saw this, my dick got hard and I stroked it while thinking about you until I came all over my pants.
>_< *Emails or uploads a photo of having printed out stranger’s photo and ejaculated all over it*
How come certain comments about being made horny by photos are okay and others aren’t? For one thing, comments that come from a friend, play partner or lover are going to be greeted with more excitement than those that come from a total stranger. If you don’t know a person or know who he or she is involved with, don’t take the fact that the poster responded positively to one such comment as an invitation to add a similar one of your own. Another thing: being funny about it, especially in a self deprecating way, makes it less uncomfortable, although again, this works better with people who you know. As a general rule, the more language relating to your genitalia and the fluids that come out of it when you’re aroused that you include, the less likely it is to go over well.
On a related note, nothing gets a stern “No” or a comment deletion from me more quickly than describing what sort of sexual acts you’d like to do with me. I post a photo of myself posing nude on the sofa with my bottom out and someone responds with “That ass is just calling for me to stick my thick cock in it and make you squirm with pleasure.” I promptly delete that, because who the fuck are you?! I don’t want your dick. Remember this, strangers, unless you happen to have the proverbial chocolate penis which shoots money, I don’t want your dick (and even then, I mostly only want it for entertainment/money collecting purposes, because chocolate is probably not a good thing to put in your vag). I have five sexual partners. All of them use Fetlife. All of them manage to keep their internet comments about my body classy, 100 percent of the time. So can you. So, go ahead and have that fantasy. Spend so much time thinking about how my curvy bottom must feel to touch that you miss the bus and end up late for work. Just don’t comment saying “I spent so much time thinking about how your curvy bottom must feel to touch that I missed the bus and was late for work.” I don’t find it offensive at all if you fantasize about having hardcore, D/s sex with me. I just don’t want you to write me a two page long poem about how you fantasize about having hardcore, D/s sex with me.
4) Watch the language you use to talk about someone’s body.
Don’t tell a girl that her tits are small, even if they’re small. She knows. Don’t tell someone that she’s chubby, even if she is. She knows. You think that really tall girl looks weird OTK? Don’t point it out. Don’t call body parts “fat,” “wide,” “huge,” “chunky” et cetera, even if it feels like a compliment in your mind. I have a friend who has really big breasts. I think they’re gorgeous, but I don’t comment on her photos saying “You have really big breasts.” Why? Because I don’t know how she feels about it. Maybe she hates her chest, since it developed when she was in middle school and subjected her to teasing from her peers, makes finding appropriately fitting tops difficult, causes her buttons to pull uncomfortably during professional settings and draws unavoidable attention to one of the most sexual parts of her body wherever she goes. Sure, maybe she loves it. Maybe in her mind, it’s her best feature, and she loves the way her shape accents her femininity and she feels empowered by the fact that she can make even a baggy, old men’s shirt look sexy as fuck. The point is, I don’t know how she feels about her body. Besides, I can compliment her breasts without having to talk about the size of them: “You have a gorgeous chest” works just fine. I much prefer “I love the shape of your bottom, it’s delightful” to “Wonderful plump rump!”
If you’re in doubt, compliment the entire thing instead of just a single body part. “You have such a great figure” goes over much better than “I love your tits.” On that note, try to find words to describe body parts that are somewhere between ridiculously childish and offensively crude. Guys, would you like it if girls referred to your “peepee” when you upload a sexy, nude photo of yourself? That’s how I feel when guys use words like “tatas” or “hooha” to talk about my body. It’s embarrassingly uncomfortable. On the other end of the spectrum, I don’t want you talking about my twat or cunt. No. Do not do. Someone once referred to my butt as a “sexy shitter.” Worst. Ever. Can’t come up with a word that doesn’t seem uncomfortable? Don’t make the comment, easy as that.
5) This is not your scene.
“That’s a well spanked bottom, but why are your panties still up? I only spank on the bare.” “Sexy lingerie, but I don’t like the heels. I prefer a woman barefoot.” “Great outdoor nude, but you could use some cane stripes on that bottom.” “What a fun day, but you’re wearing too much clothing! You look so much sexier with less on!” “Needs more color, that’s just a warmup!” “Woah, that’s way too severe for me! Redness only, no bruises here!” “Just corner time? I give my subs corner time with a butt plug and vaginal dildo in place and tell them not to touch themselves. Your way is lame.” “If I did that to a woman, I’d report myself to the police.” “The front of the thighs? That’s not a spanking. Yuck.” “If someone treated me like a little girl like that, I’d punch him in the face.” “I would never go out of the house wearing that, it’s way too short!” “You call that a caning? I’d make you bleed!” “Why are you wearing clothes in the bath, idiot?” “Stop smiling! It’s supposed to hurt!” “Wet and messy is fucking disgusting.” “He missed a spot! Go back and get her thighs!” “What a tame photo, not sexy at all.” “You have too much stuff on your walls, it’s distracting me from your tits.” “Those socks suck, take them off so I can see your feet.” “I hate the cane, it’s too brutal. I’d give you a nice hand spanking instead.” “Granny panties? Where’s your sexy thong?” “I don’t want to see anymore pictures of your ass looking like hamburger meat.” “Why aren’t you nude?” “Flashing your panties in public should earn you another spanking!”
Shut up. Just shut up. It is not your scene. It is my scene. I enjoyed this scene, so I took a photo of it and put them on the internet to share with you. I can’t please everyone. I do a huge variety of things, and post a variety of pictures. If this one doesn’t satisfy you, look at some others. If none of mine do, find another person whose pictures do. Don’t want to play the way I do? You don’t have to. No one is asking you to. If for some reason you feel the need to share the fact that you don’t like to play a particular way that someone else does, there’s a nice way to do this. For example: “That’s a bit too intense for me, personally, but I’m glad that you got what you needed!” or “I prefer to only be spanked on the bottom, but if you liked this thigh caning, more power to you!” Or, have your own damn scene.
6) Singling one person out for a compliment is a passive insult at the rest of the people in the photo.
“I like the bottom on the far right,” said one commenter on the group shot I posted of all the ladies following our spankings for Sternwood Academy. He was talking about Cheyenne Jewel’s gorgeous bottom. The problem is that there are seven girls in the shot, each with their own, uniquely gorgeous bottom. Everyone who is into girls and is looking at a group of girls can pick out the one which they think is the most attractive. When you comment to let us know which one it is, you’re telling everyone else in the group that they aren’t your favorite, especially uncomfortable when the picture was posted by someone who you didn’t choose. My ex used to say “When girls aren’t having pillow fights in their pajamas, they’re comparing themselves to each other.” While this attitude on women is a bit dismissive and problematic, there is a twinkle of truth to part of it. Girls compare themselves to each other. Chances are, if you have seven girls in a photo, every single one of them thinks that they look the worst out of the bunch. One girl feels too tall. One girl feels too short. One girl worries that she has a fat butt. One girl worries that she doesn’t have enough of a butt. “Her thighs are thinner than mine.” “Her legs are longer than mine.” “Her feet are more dainty than mine.” “Her hair looks better than mine.” “Her butt reddens more than mine.” “She’s more spankable than I am.” “She’s cuter than me.” “She’s younger than me.” It goes on and on in our minds.
Don’t play into this. Either compliment the group or don’t comment.
7) Respect that your kink is not necessarily my kink.
There is one person who frequently comments on my photos who is really into enema play. I’m not really into enema play. On nearly every spanking photo, he comments with a description of how he imagined the scene went: “After a long hard spanking, she got a big, cold water enema to clean her out, leaving her feeling really punished!” I always end up either deleting the comment or responding saying “No, that’s not what happened, or what will happen.” This is sort of a combination of keeping your fantasy to yourself and understanding that this is not your scene, but it’s a particular thing which happens an awful lot, so I figured it needed it’s own note. I especially notice that there are a lot of spankos commenting on pictures of girls who have the (in their mind, unfortunate) combination of an attractive bottom and a different fetish than spanking. They tell these girls that they have very spankable bottoms, and that they’d love to turn them over their knees for a good bottom reddening. If someone told me that, I’d smile. If this person’s kink is decorative rope bondage, or service oriented submission, or feet, or anything else that isn’t spanking related, then this comment is putting your fetish on someone else who doesn’t have that kink, and that’s an uncomfortable feeling. Don’t know if someone is into your kink? Check their profile for signs that they are before you comment to such an effect.
I might come back and add more to this post later, but for now, I think this covers the basics (and I’m hungry, so I think my writing quality is deteriorating). Thoughts? Please add yours in the comment section (respectfully, of course!) ♥