I’ve never let this blog sit around uncared for for such a long time. I finally have the basic pieces of my life in order now, though: my house is nearly unpacked, I have most of the furniture that I require and all of my appliances, my cats are happily adjusted to the new home and, perhaps most importantly, I finally have internet. It took them two weeks to get around to setting it up. It was ridiculous. I got tremendously behind on everything that I needed to do, since nearly all of it involves being online.
I’m finally getting caught up now. It’s very time consuming.
But life is good.
Paul and I are growing into a comfortable lifestyle as things get settled. Like everyone else in the world, we spend most of our days doing our respective jobs, but we both do large parts of that from home so we spend a lot of time together. I make dinner nearly every night and do lots of baking, which makes me happy. Between work and chores and making cookies, there’s time for me to do the silly things that I like, such as drawing with sidewalk chalk, chasing my cats around and doing craft projects such as making foxes out of paper.
|Two dozen cookies from scratch, one dozen foxes from construction paper|
After I made them, Paul used string to carefully hang them from the weeping branches of the tree in our yard, whose trunk is wrapped with tiny, solar powered Christmas lights. Our mail box is matte black, so I color on it with the sidewalk chalk. We have a pumpkin on our stoop and yellow flowers growing in a planter. It’s so incredibly obvious that I live here. It’s a very happy house.
Paul and I have grown very comfortably into having D/s as part of our daily lives instead of maintaining a long distance relationship, probably partially because the foundation that we built during the time that we were long distance was so strong. Aiding in the ease of this transition is the fact that we both have a very strong and well defined idea of what we want from one such relationship and that those ideas are very much in line (see also, our compatibility). I’m sure that being seriously in love doesn’t hurt, either.
Just as our daily life has become very domesticated, our daily kink life has, too, in a way that I find infinitely comforting. Spanking fits into our daily life seamlessly. It’s the most natural thing in the world. Our bedtime ritual involves me getting spanked each night as a re-affirmative act, but spankings just happen throughout the day, too, whether it’s taking a break from work for spontaneous play or setting time aside to address something more serious.
Interestingly, now that I’m living in a location where I have a lot more kinky friends and scene activities to participate in, I’ve found myself much more involved and interested in my vanilla life. I’ve been reconnecting with old friends, doing personal writing projects, doing craft projects, doing more baking and more experimental cooking and just generally rediscovering interests that I had put aside.
One thing that I really like is walking. That sounds like a very lame thing to like, doesn’t it? I do, though. In college, Zeki and I used to walk huge distances, sometimes passing through two or three towns, or even out of the county. We’d talk and share stories. Some of our best mutual ideas were fostered during these walks. Other days, I would walk by myself, usually on a shady trail that followed the Bronx River. I would get deeply involved in daydreaming and often make up spanking stories in my head or review others that I really enjoyed, sometimes from films, sometimes from my own limited experiences with SF.
The other day I decided to go take a walk, since I needed to talk to someone on the phone I get antsy when I’m just sitting still when I’m on the phone. Paul was working in the study, so I told him I’d be back shortly. I did plan to be back shortly. Maybe I didn’t really plan at all, because I was wearing jelly flip-flops and I didn’t have any water with me and it was a particularly dry, hot day. None the less, my conversation ended pretty quickly, but I kept walking for a while, daydreaming happily like I used to do. I realized that I was walking in the direction of a particular major road where Target is located, and I decided that it would be neat if I walked all the way there. It’s about a mile away from my house, so it was certainly feasible– I’ve done 8 – 10 mile walks in the past. I needed to go there anyway, and I estimated that I was about halfway there already. I’d walk the rest of the way, get the hangers I needed and then walk home.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t actually walking the way that I thought I was.
Two miles later, I was hot, dehydrated and tired. My feet were incredibly sore and seriously blistered. I decided that I needed to give up and turn around.
I tried to walk home, but I got about six blocks before I realized that there was no way I could possibly do that. I was tired. I needed a drink. This was a stupid idea.
I slowly began to realize how poorly I had planned this. Why did I think it was a good idea to walk in the heat without water or proper shoes? I hadn’t even told Paul where I was going, and he was under the impression I was going to be back shortly. I realized that I’d been gone for nearly an hour. Under the strap of my sandal, my feet looked like they were about to bleed.
It was then that I realized I was going to have to ask Paul to come get me in the car. It was also then that I realized that I was probably going to be in pretty serious trouble. Taking care of myself is pretty much rule #1. This was a serious failure in that department.
Paul agreed to come get me without really saying anything about it, but as soon as I got into the car, I knew that he was seriously displeased with me.
“Are you mad?” I asked, my voice small and meek.
“You’re going to be punished when we get home” was his only response. We drove back in silence. I could do nothing but think about how thoughtless this had been. I’d interrupted Paul’s working. I had entirely failed at taking care of myself. Tears ran down my face, and I sniffled a bit.
As soon as we got in the door, Paul turned to me and said “Go to your room.” I went into our bedroom and flopped on the bed. I didn’t want to stand up. My feet hurt too much. I was hot. I was tired. I was in big, big trouble. I lay there like a lump, doing an activity which really can’t be described as anything but “sulking.” In the seeming eternity (but actually one or two minutes) before Paul came in I could hear him moving around in the kitchen. Then I heard the sound of a cabinet being opened and shut again, and my heart began to pound.
There’s a shallow, white cabinet in the kitchen. It’s separated from the other kitchen cupboards and obviously original to the house, but it’s only about three inches deep. I’m not sure what it was used for, but it’s become the official storage place for some of our meanest implements.
I wanted to mope about the fact that I was about to be seriously corrected, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I knew that I deserved it. Still, my tummy hurt.
Paul finally came into the room holding a cane. I had sort of known that was going to be the end of this story from the moment that I realized that I had messed up so badly, but the reality of the situation was sinking in very quickly.
In addition to feeling upset about how thoughtless my actions were, I had been really focused on worrying that Paul was mad at me for inconveniencing him. Having to stop your work to go rescue a silly girl who got herself into a mess is bound to annoy anyone. But once he began to scold me, I realized that he was much more upset about the fact that something bad could have happened to me. I felt very loved as he lectured me about thinking before I did things and taking care of myself. I could feel how precious I am to him, and how he won’t let any harm come to me, even through my own poor judgement.
Then he ordered me over the bed and began to spank me. While technically a warmup, he started hard and furiously. In my tired, vulnerable state, I pretty instantly started to sob hard, offering absolutely no emotional resistance to the spanking. I needed it. I knew that.
I felt impossibly sore after the warm up, but this was probably mostly because of my mental state at the time. Then Paul ordered me to kneel up on the bed, which I did quickly. I kept my feet off the edge of the bed because they had gotten filthy as I was walking around on the dusty sidewalks in flip flops. Paul noticed this, too, and said “You’ll clean your feet after this,” which I quietly affirmed through my tears. “Get down on your elbows,” he told me, and this made me cry harder, but I did as I was told. This position means only one thing: strokes to the tender area where my thighs and bottom meet. Paul then tapped my bottom with the cane before simply saying “Ten.”
The first stroke startled me into some sort of clarity for a second, although after the initial crack, during that long moment when the pain begins to built and develop, I felt overtaken by hurting and began to cry again. The next two or three were quickly paced– no time for one to finish building before the next and I could make no attempt at processing them. I wailed. After five strokes, he gave me a little break, pressing his hand against the welts in the same motion that I do when a beating is over. The pressure seems to hold the pain in for a moment. I caught my breath, but didn’t slow my sobbing.
The next two strokes were to that aforementioned tender area. I did my best not to yell, but I felt an overpowering warmth: burning, biting, pinching, gnawing heat. The rest of the strokes came in quick succession, and after each one, my cries became louder and more desperate.
It’s a very good thing that we live in a house instead of an apartment. I’m….noisy.
When the whole thing was over, Paul immediately sat down on the bed and pulled me onto his lap, holding me close to him. I wiped tears all over my face in some attempt of cleaning myself up and apologized over and over. He stroked my hair and told me he forgave me.
Part of our protocol surrounding scenes is that I always thank him for spanking me. This is something that I initiated because it makes me feel very submissive in the best way. After being soundly punished I felt a bit shy to say this this time, but I managed it out in a coy whisper. “Good girl,” he told me, kissing my forehead. I sat there on his lap for a long time, entirely vulnerable, my bottom aching and burning but my tears drying. I felt lucky to be so loved. I was filled with contentment.
Finally, I felt calm enough to get up and get myself properly cleaned up. I rinsed my feet off and then climbed into a cool bath, the water still feeling tingly and antagonistic against my welts. I was glad, though. I didn’t want them to be fully soothed. I didn’t stop to take a picture of the lines, but they were impressive: perfectly parallel and close enough together that they very nearly touched, but not quite.
Anyway, I’m back now. I’ll be updating one to two times a week, as I used to. I’ve missed writing, and I hope you’ve missed reading.♥
In January I made this post detailing what kind of comments I frequently received on Fetlife that I did not appreciate. This post created some controversy, because people don’t like to be told that they are doing something that pisses others off. I actually lost a friend because he said that I was too picky about comments. -_-
Fetlife comments that are annoying, not appreciated or offensive continue to be a problem. I’ve branched out to notice several new types of annoying comments. Here is the updated list. Please note that this post isn’t exactly sweet and positive. If you don’t like this or you have some kind of delicate sensibilities and can’t deal with me using “harsh language” then I suggest that you skip this one.
1) Creepily sexual comments.
I’ve already pretty well established that excessively sexual comments from strangers make me, and NEARLY EVERY OTHER GIRL ON THE INTERNET at least somewhat uncomfortable. I do acknowledge that there are some girls who get off on the idea that a stranger wants to put his tongue in them for hours, but those girls really aren’t the majority. I’m moving on to include “creepily sexual” in this category, because those are even worse. Topping this list is the comment “I hope you are looking forward to me sneaking up on you to give you a good fuck.” I hope the commenter is looking forward to me stabbing him the throat in self defense. Strangers being sexually forceful isn’t actually hot. It’s just…rapey. In a bad way. In a “if this comment was a neighborhood that I was driving through, I would lock my doors” kind of way.
2) Sexualizing non-sexual pictures or trying to force a picture into a different fetish.
I know that Fetlife is about kink. It’s also basically where I hang out all day. I have more friends that I actually value, talk to and visit on Fetlife than any other place. Because of this, I sometimes post pretty vanilla stuff to my Fetlife page. I try not to post things that are excessively “Vanilla and Unpopular” like pictures of what I ate for dinner or a photo of some rocks, but I do post pictures of me just hanging out and doing regular-person stuff that have nothing to do with kink. It makes sense: I do stuff other than get spanked. I wear clothes most of the time. My whole life isn’t one big spanking video. Sometimes, commenters don’t understand this. Once, someone commented on a photo of me and a friend (I think Heather) at a mall or something with “Did you guys have sex in the foodcourt?” No! We walked around and looked at clothes, talked about whatever we were feeling insecure about, drank an Orange Julius, tried some dresses on and then went home.
Another time, I posted a photo of a cake and someone commented that he wanted to jizz all over it. Fuck you people.
Equally obnoxious to me is when people try to make up a story which fits my photo into a different fetish. For example, I uploaded a perfectly innocent photo of myself in the corner and someone commented with “Sent to the corner with a butt plug and vaginal dildo in place and told not to touch yourself.” No, just sent to the corner. End of story. You can think about whatever you want when you look at my pictures. Just don’t write those words down if they aren’t the kind of thing you share with everyone else.
Popular among my friends is the story of a comment that was placed on this photo:
|This awesome photo is by Amoni Jones. I love her forever.|
This is a picture of me that my good friend, Amoni took during an Alex in Spankingland themed photo shoot. At some point, I’ll be re-doing my blog to include some of these photos in the layout. I feel like this picture is fairly straight forward, especially considering that the next photo in the series is of me bent over that rock behind me with my bare, spanked bottom on display. I’m about to be spanked and I’m petulant about it.
According to a commenter, this is a photo of “a young school girl pissing out of doors.”
Oh. Ok. I GUESS I can see where you could kind of get that idea from. Maybe just a little.
Anyway, this became hilarious because I was amused by the syntax “pissing out of doors” (when he clearly meant “outdoors”) and did a literal demonstration (without actually peeing, of course) of what that looks like in my head: a girl opens up a door, stands in the frame, then thrusts her crotch forward in an attempt to piss out of the door. I imitated this a lot at Chicago Crimson Moon this October. I also got spanked for doing so. 😛
3) Complaints about pantie placement/what I’m wearing/how I’m posed/other details
I personally like panties a lot. I buy lots of cute ones, and I want to take photos wearing them. I love the way that my red butt looks sticking out from my panties. Often times, when I take pictures, I’ll pull my panties back up after a bare bottom spanking because I like that look. So. Many. People. Complain. About. This. It’s almost enough to make me not want to post photos of my butt to the internet anymore when I post a picture and I get comments like “that should have been on the bare” or “why did he leave your panties up”? It isn’t like I never post bare bottom photos. I’d say it’s a pretty even split. If you don’t like a photo with my panties up, go look at one with them down. Bam. Problem solved. Once, maybe a week after a photo of me having been spanked in my swimsuit was uploaded, someone commented on it saying “Could you take one with the bottoms pulled down?” Oh, yes. Let me go back in time to when I got that spanking and take a picture to your exact specifications.
I get these complains about lots and lots of things. “I wish your pajamas were dropseats.” “Next time, take a photo where you’re bent over the couch.” “Take pictures during the spanking, not after.” -_-
I usually just delete the offending comments and then move on with my life. One that I found particularly annoying was left on this photo:
This is probably my favorite photo of all time, leaving aside a couple of pictures of me and my brother, and it’s certainly my favorite spanking related photo. Why do I like it so much? Because those moments when I’m worn out and crying after a long, hard spanking and Malignus is holding me and calming me down are some of the most special moments in my life, period. This is the only time when there was someone else there at that moment with a camera, so it’s the only photo that I currently have of this kind of moment. It’s also from the first time that I visited Malignus, before I was his girlfriend, before we moved in together and built the life that we have now. It just brings up a lot of positive memories. It always makes me smile.
Someone commented on it saying that it would be better if my socks were white.
4) Comments not related to photo.
This is a practice that a lot of people are guilty of that I just find really rude: commenting on a photo to say something which is unrelated to the picture. One time, one of my friends uploaded a photo of her thighs after they were spanked and it turned into a giant discussion regarding whether or not thighs should be spanked. Another time, a different friend uploaded a picture of her being spanked by a play partner and several girls started using the comments there as a place to brat their Tops. People start having side conversations. Someone comments on a photo to say something that’s just about themselves and is only tangentially related to what’s being pictured. A girl uses someone else’s photo comment thread as a place to be disrespectful to someone who isn’t even included in the picture in order to get attention. All of this is just, in my opinion, unacceptable. If you want to talk about something like whether or not thighs should be spanked, start a thread. If you want to brat your Top, go write on his wall or IM him. If you want to talk about yourself, post your own goddamn picture. I’m not saying that my pictures are uploaded just so that people will talk about me and pay attention to me, but it’s still my photo, and that’s not the right place for your discussion. You can argue this with me if you don’t agree, but I really find that disrespectful to the person who posted the picture.
5) Your ass is too pale/Those marks are too much.
I don’t bruise like I used to. A really hard and severe spanking can leave me in a condition which photographs as “pink”. I’ve accepted this. Not bruising is convenient when doing lots of shooting: it means that I can do back to back shoots and never have to worry about asking Tops not to mark me. It just doesn’t always look as epic in the photos. People complain about this, or they diminish the intensity of the spanking that I received. “Nice warmup!” or “Off to a good start!” comments are always kind of snarky in a way that I don’t appreciate. On the other hand, when I *do* have noticeable bruises, there’s always someone who comments or otherwise points out to me that they think it’s “too much for their taste.” My spankings are tailored to me. I don’t upload photos from something that wasn’t a positive experience. If I’m bearing marks and I’ve photographed them, it’s because *I like them.* Aren’t you people ever satisfied?!
6) I like the one on the left.
In general, I don’t like it when I upload pictures of myself and people talk about me like I’m not involved. “I like that girl’s ass.” “She’s got nice tits.” Those aren’t enough of a peeve to warrant me including them as a category here. What really bugs me is when I upload a picture of me in a group of girls and someone comments saying which one of us they like the best. This happens a lot with my Sternwood Academy pictures, or pictures of me hanging out with friends at parties. Someone will comment and say “The third girl in is the hottest!” or “I like the one on the left.” Nothing makes a girl feel great like saying “Your friend is hotter than you, I just wanted to point that out!” It doesn’t matter if the girl that they are singling out as “the hot one” is me or not. It just isn’t nice. Not to mention that the language used in these comments is often really objectifying. Harumph.
-End of List of Things I Don’t Like-
Because for the fast few months I’ve been trying to focus on the positive in life, I’m going to do a quick positive affirmation to make up for all the negativity in this post.
I get LOTS AND LOTS of awesome comments that make me feel great about myself. I love it when people take the time to let me know that they enjoyed what I wrote or a photograph of me. I love it when people tell me that my cuteness made their day. I love it when I inspire people to to take their own photos or write their own blogs. I love it when my friends are concerned about me and want me to be happy. I love my readers. I love it when people reblog tumblr pictures of me and attach my name and link to them when someone just uploaded a promotional picture or whatever. I love it when people comment on my blog to just say “I read your post and liked it.” I love my friends. I love my boyfriends. I love my Bosses of Me. I love my sisters. I love spankings. I love my hair. I love my pajamas.
Also, I recently drew this as an assignment from YS. Pretty epic win, huh?