I’m posting this eleven days late. This potential “didn’t post to my blog as I should” punishment is probably growing. I’m going to take a moment to talk about the phenomenon of me not posting very often. In 2013, I rarely blogged as often as I wanted to, and my posts often had more than a month of lag between the event and the write-up. This has been a constant source of frustration for me, as I would like to be able to sit down and write and then post things. There are a couple of reasons why this became a trend. The first is that in 2013, I was away from home 66 percent of the year, and it wasn’t until I moved into my new house here in Los Angeles that I was ever home for more than two weeks straight without traveling. I have a hard time blogging when I’m on the road, as I often am either very busy with shoots or trying to squeeze in as much socializing as is possible. Because I was never home for very long, though, this meant that it became impossible for me to get caught up on things, which lead to me feeling frustrated and disappointed in myself, which actually isn’t a useful emotional place for me to be in and accomplish things.
The second reason is because there were parts of this year which were very difficult for me. It was the epitome of a transition period. I firmly believe that when it comes to putting things out there on the internet, if you don’t have anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all. During these times of stress and instability (or the depression that I fell into when Malignus first broke up with me, for example) it was hard for me to have anything worth putting on the internet to say.
The final reason why blogging hasn’t happened as much is because I’m sometimes very naughty and play too much Pokemon instead of doing my writing like a good girl. This is the reason why I need beatings. ^_^!
The other circumstances will hopefully be mitigated in the coming year (and obviously my naughtiness will be totally and entirely corrected and never be a problem again, right? That’s how spanking works? :P). I intend to spend much more time close to home. I love everything about where I live: my house, my cats, my local friends, the people I get to work with, the places I get to go, the proximity to Disneyland and, of course, being at home (most of the time) with someone I love. I’ll still travel quite a bit, especially to national parties, and I’ll likely continue to visit Denver and Dallas as regularly as I can manage (they’re filled with some favorite friends, producers and clients!) but in general, the travel craziness will be toned down.
So, with this out of the way, it’s time to remember some fun things which happened in 2013! Onward! [Please note that some of these stories contain ellipses. These are real ellipses, showing that text has been omitted in between those words to keep each story brief and readable, not punk ass “I dunno how to finish a thought” type ellipses. Kthnx.
One of my fonder memories from January was visiting Amoni in Denver, where I did my second shoot for Real Spankings. I described the final scene I filmed that day like this:
When we were discussing these last two sets, it was up to me whether I wanted to do them with my jeans on or not. For the first one, I decided to do it on the bare because cane lines always look great, and because at this point in my life, it feels kind of unnatural to get spanked over clothing since baring is nearly always a part of my spanking ritual, unless it’s something extremely impromptu or it’s part of a mind-game. Shortly after we finished filming the caning sequence, I went to get changed to do the paddling one. I had originally said that I would take the paddle swats over my jeans, but I changed my mind at the last minute. My butt was sore, sure, but I wasn’t dying. I was really enjoying getting spanked, and I really wanted to feel the spanking I’d be getting that day.
After the interview, when it came time to actually take my jeans down, I felt a little apprehensive about my decision. It’s funny how the closer a spanking gets, the scarier it becomes. But I reminded myself that this was all my choice and I wanted it to be hard and got them down.
It was hard.
I got ten swats with the paddle, and each of them made me rise up on my toes, cry out, and contort my face in pain. After the seventh, I asked for a moment to catch my breath. I took a second to just breathe as Danny gently rubbed my bottom. I felt safe and secure, and relaxed myself again, stuck my bottom back out and took the final three swats.
When it was done, I had quite a mix of adrenaline and endorphins and a very sore bottom. That, my friends, is the ideal way to end a work day. 🙂
In January I also spent a lot of time with a girl who I was involved with at the time (and still care greatly about) called Panda, I was in Sioux Falls, and it snowed. I hate the snow if I have to deal with it for more than about fifteen minutes. In retrospect, January was very much like the year before it, although the rest of 2013 was really not.
In February, I was a busy girl. I spent the first couple of weeks in Sioux Falls, but then took off for the start of a whirlwind adventure which changed my life forever! I left to go to Los Angeles, where I visited Rafa, Zeki, Christy Cutie and Maddy Marks, went to parties, did shoots, worked on projects and ate delicious food. From LA, I flew to Las Vegas for the private party now called “50 Freaks,” where I had a remarkable time and got spanked quite a bit! On the last day of the party, Robert Wolf and Lily Starr took me to the airport, where I departed for my month long adventure in England. I had one of my favorite scenes of all time while I was in Las Vegas, with Richard Windsor. We built the energy for the scene up over the course of months, with internet bratting and scolding voice recordings which left me a (happily!) quivering mess. Here’s the meat of that story:
Richard had positioned me over a barstool … I was given a piece of paper which read “MR. WINDSOR IS NOT A LITTLE BITCH” which I was to recite after each stroke. … The first stroke made me gasp and whimper. I had trouble getting my voice in order to speak to read the sentence. I think I may have actually moved my mouth without any sound coming out, like trying to bring myself to wake someone sleeping in a dark room when my mind believes that it is necessary to be entirely quiet.
“Mr. Windsor is not a little bitch,” I managed. The cane landed again, in a hot, stinging stroke. Again, I repeated the sentence. On the third stroke, I had a moment of fear when I realized that I was only a quarter of the way done with the caning. Just like the hallway had before, twelve strokes seemed impossibly long. The scene had gotten into some deep part of my brain and had twisted my senses of time and distance. It felt like a very long time before the next stroke.Sometimes, I would rush the sentence out quickly. Others, I would whimper and wail a bit, catch my breath, move my feet and then whisper. At one point, I apologized, but I was firmly reminded that it was not the time for that. When I finally read the sentence for the last time and received my final stroke, I felt like I had been in the scene for ages, when in reality, I can’t imagine that it took more than ten minutes between the first and last stroke. Each one had been memorable, though: they cut, they bit, they slashed, they buzzed and itched and chewed at me.
March was one of the most adventure filled months of my whole little life. I arrived in England on the first and returned the the US on the 30th. I had a disastrous start to my trip, but things quickly picked up and became delightful. After spending less than a day in country, I flew to Holland, where I did two days of shooting for Spanked in Uniform and Real Life Spanking. From there, I flew back to England where I was collected by Paul to go to location where we were joined by John Osborne (“The Chief”) for another two days of shooting: one for Northern Spanking and one for Triple A Spanking. This was the second time I ever met Paul, having shot for him briefly at Shadowlane the year before. I was stressed out beyond belief during my first few days of travel, and I was deeply afraid to be in places where I knew no one, and where I felt fundamentally alone. I don’t have an explanation for this, and it this isn’t something that I retroactively wrote onto my memory because I remember thinking it to be very strange at the time, but as soon as I saw Paul waiting for me from across the baggage claim, I felt secure. It turns out that wasn’t just a fleeting feeling and wasn’t just my relief at seeing a face that I recognized. It’s a feeling of security which, very soon after this, became a permanent part of my life.
We spent two days doing our shoots. I got spanked by Paul for the first time, and several times after that: despite my somewhat frazzled state at the time, I was very aware of just how well we connected, even when our scenes were for films. When shooting was done, due to difficulties (I was originally meant to stay with SF while in England, but his infant daughter passed away during my first week in the country which changed things a great deal) I ended up staying with Paul for two days, during which time we played as much as possible and pretty much spent the rest of the time cuddling. It was magical.
From there, I went to stay with Pandora Blake for over a week, where we had lots of fun spanking adventures, deep conversations and much more cuddling. I also spent about half the visit following around and harassing her cat, Fatface. Observe this passage describing my feelings:
Fatface is a big, beautiful cat. She’s fluffy and mostly white, and most of the time, she gives zero fucks about what those weird humans are doing around her. The characteristics that make me like her more than the average cat (which I already like a lot) are as follows:
1) Fluffiness. 2) Passivity. 3) Facial expressions suggesting dissatisfaction with human company. 4) Adorable cat food (or “biscuits” as they are referred to in England) seeking behavior. 5) Fat. 6) Everything.
Yep, I’m still obsessed with Fatface: enough that I considered her enough of a highlight of my year to include in this post. Anyway, In addition to doing two more days of shooting during this portion of my visit (one for Dreams of Spanking and one for Nimue’s World) I spent a lot of time playing off-camera with Pandora:
That evening, Pandora and I somehow ended up in a competition to see who could finish posting to their blog first, which aided me quite a bit in actually getting this stuff done. Pandora, however, finished her post just slightly before I did. “I beat you to posting!” she said, “Now, I’m going to beat you in real life!”
The setting of additional rules to a competition after it’s already been completed like that is tremendously unfair. When I have a certain kind of energy with someone, though, I find unfairness delightful…
Pandora offered me a warmup, which I gladly accepted, and then put me over her lap and spanked me with her hand. It had been a long time since I was spanked by Pandora, and I was glad it was happening again. I don’t feel entirely submissive towards her, so to speak, but I do feel passive towards her in play, and I enjoy her receiving her Toppiness, and I was very comfortable with her occupying Boss-space for the moment … It felt sort of invigorating and exciting to be getting spanked by her. Once I was thoroughly warm, she directed me up onto her sofa for a whacking with a fairly big, leather paddle. I cuddled up to her stuffed dog, Fred, who is known as “Drop Dog” due to his ability to drop onto your head. “Comfort her well, Drop Dog!” Pandora instructed, “she’s going to need it!” (I liked that quite a bit, too). She gave me a spanking that was neither severe nor serious, but still hurt enough, and put me in a giggly, happy, nicely spanked mood.
Our visit was wonderful, I loved both of the shoots that we did, and I was happy to get to meet some additional awesome people like Nimue Allen, Thomas Cameron and D. When visiting time was over, Paul came to get me and I went and stayed with him for the rest of my visit. This time was laid back and extremely enjoyable. I did another day’s shooting for Northern Spanking and, just before I had to leave to go back, a day for Bars and Stripes.
Leaving to go back to America was incredibly hard for me. I had, sort of unbeknownst to me, fallen into a depression in Sioux Falls over the months leading up to my trip, and while I had been in England I realized this, because I felt like myself for the first time in a long time. I felt excitable and happy and vibrant. I didn’t want that feeling to be over. I had also grown very attached to Paul, and the thought of leaving him made my heart hurt. But all things end, and my trip ended just as the month did.
April was primarily spent trying to adapt back to my life at home in Sioux Falls, although I did steal away to NYC to visit friends and do a few shoots, and to Atlantic City for Boardwalk Badness Weekend. Boardwalk was an action-packed tour-de-force of spanking, including my first time getting spanked on a boat. Another significant “first” happened at that party: my first hand tawsing experience:
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 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 Malignus had taught me 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.
This post is too long to begin with, so I shall break it into thirds. Next third coming tomorrow. ♥