[No cats were harmed in the making of this blog. They all love to be spanked.] Exploring the psychology 'behind' spanking through fiction and poetry. Because, nothing says 'I love you' better than a red, sore, bare bottom. Comments welcome and discussion encouraged. I believe spanking between consenting adults leads to closer and more intimate relationships. Spanking is not a kink, not a fetish, not a lifestyle, but rather, a healthy and honest means of communication. Let your mind free and respect will follow. Contact me firstname.lastname@example.org
“Chemistry, don’t pick me
Can’t believe, chemistry
Go away please
This girl is out of your league.”
“Why do you always sing fake lyrics?”
“They’re not fake… they’re alternative.”
“Fine. I take it your date didn’t go well then.”
*Sigh* “Okay. It sucked. There, you happy?”
“You’ll find someone… someday.”
“Over a rainbow, way up h—”
“Come on, I’ll treat you to a latte.”
“Do you mind if I sit?”
“Take a load off, Fanny. Take a load for free.”
“Thanks. I thought it was ‘Take a load off Annie?'”
“Nope. And my name’s not Annie.”
“You’re a funny girl. I like that.”
“Just don’t call me Barbara either.”
“I’m Jeb. What should I call you?”
“You can call her weird. You’re in my seat.”
“Sorry. It was nice to meet you — not Annie or Barbara. You’ve got a very nice voice. Take care.”
“Why did you do that? He seemed like a nice guy.”
“You’re so… weird!”
“You already said that. Hey! Mister Jeb!”
“Wanna dance with somebody?”
“In a coffee shop?”
“I guess it beats dancing with myself.”
“Or on the ceiling.”
*Laughter* “I’m in.”
“See you later, I’m outta of here.”
“Is your friend always so grouchy, not Annie or Barbara?”
“She hasn’t gotten laid in awhile. Makes her cranky.”
“Are you looking to get laid?”
“That’s awful forward of you.”
“Well, you feel like a woman. Besides, don’t you feel the spark?”
“Chemistry, it’s for real
Between us, chemistry
Come dance with me
Never gonna leave my bed.”
“That last line isn’t from Valerie.”
“But it should be.”
“That’s a bold declaration, Jeb.”
“It ain’t bragging, if you can do it… all night long, all night long.”
“Well, Jeb, lucky for you, I got a blank space, baby, and I’ll write your name.”
“Not Annie or Barbara, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”
As she notes in her preface, it was a difficult year for her on a personal level, and I know most of us can relate to the day-to-day struggle when life is not going to plan. She also mentions that choosing only 20 blogs does not mean that there are not hundreds and thousands of other worthy bloggers, but that it is simply a list of writers she selected. I am very honored and humbled by her mentioning my blog, as the other 19 include some of the most popular and influential sex bloggers on the planet. To be listed in their company means a lot to me; knowing that my writing brings joy and pleasure to others is truly what I strive for.
One of best ‘spoofs’ of ’80s music videos, was Addicted to Love, by Robert Palmer in 1985. In honor of this week’s Wicked Wednesday’s prompt of telephone, I thought I would write alternate lyrics — raunchy — lyrics about being addicted to tech. [Feel free to laugh at my attempts.]
Playing in bed, I’m all alone
Downstairs, you’re on the phone
Cock is hard, I wanna fuck
Too many blogs, I’m outta luck
Can’t turn off, can’t unwind
Going down, constant chimes
Just one more check, pretty please
I want your mouth, get on your knees,
Damn, you like to believe you’re in charge of your feed, bullshit
closer to the truth you’re making love to your phone
You think all my hard spanks are boring, you’re addicted to tech
Ignore the signs, they’re really clear
You’re texting me, but I’m right here
Your thumbs dance over the screen
Updates come in and it’s too late, wanted to ream
Your ass is safe
Coming for you I masturbate
Notice that you don’t care
When cum gets in your hair
Damn, you like to pretend you’re in charge of your feed, bullshit
Replaced by your phone I say enough is enough
Even your pussy is neglected, you’re addicted to tech
I was curious about this week’s Wicked Wednesday’s prompt of car keys, being in the automotive service department for 12 years. I dealt with car keys every day; lost, stolen, replacements, additions and trying to explain to customers why their expensive remote fob stopped working. “You mean there are batteries in this thing?”
From an erotic aspect, there is the backseat—everybody’s got a story or two about that—and the staple of urban legends, the key party for swingers. Interesting thing though, if you asked for the car keys before 1949, people would have handed you a door key. It was in that year when the Chrysler Corp became the first manufacturer to install an ignition switch/starter assembly. One of many details that can trip up a historical fiction writer.
“Grandpa! Grandpa!” came the eager chorus from a dozen young throats. “What are these?”
He leaned forward in his recliner and plucked the ring of keys from his grandchildren. “You mean all these keys that were stored away in a drawer to keep them safe from little snoops?”
“Sorry,” rang out from the boys and girls ranging in age from four to fourteen.
“Well,” he said, after laying the keys on his lap, “it is Christmas and I suppose I could tell you a story about these.”
The shrill shrieks finally attracted the attention of the parents—his children and in-laws—but he gave a benign wave as he lorded over the kids now sitting in a semi-circle around his fuzzy slippers.
“All these keys are from vehicles that Grandma and I used to own. Not all the vehicles though.”
“Because in the olden days, cars didn’t have keys to start, they had push buttons.”
“Just like today!”
“That’s right. Back when we had to dodge dinosaurs in the streets, we pushed buttons too.”
“Did you have screens to watch movies too?”
“Yep. It wasn’t called a screen though, it was a window you cranked open by hand and watched the scenery go by.”
“Sounds boring. Come on, let’s go back to the attic and find more stuff!”
After all the presents had been opened, dinner eaten, naps taken and all the hulking vehicles loaded with loot and sleepy grandchildren; he kissed and hugged his six children. Each one reiterated their offer to house him rather than continuing to live alone. He waved off their concerns and waved goodbye. He took the keys to bed. To his surprise, he didn’t feel the stabbing grief as he fondled each key in turn. Instead, he smiled with remembrance at how his wife had always insisted they make love in the backseat of each new vehicle as soon as possible. She also liked being spanked over the hood. ‘Just to make sure the engine keeps running’ was what she would say.
“Ah, Gisèle, such times we had. You’d have enjoyed this evening and insisted on dancing in front of the fireplace. I remember so well the first time I saw you at the USO dinner in liberated Paris. This song reminds me of you, of us, when we were young.”
When I read this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt, sugar, the first thing that popped into my mind was this 1969 song, “Sugar, Sugar” by The Archies.
A $1.00 kiss at the video cartoon Kissing Booth back then would cost $6.71 today. [A bargain if there’s tongue involved] Which got me searching for Archie spankings, and the comic strip below that was published in November 1973. For those of you unfamiliar with Archie Comics, the first issue was published in Dec. 1941 and is still being published today, 76 years later. Now, I don’t write fan fiction, but the premise of Archie having two “potential” girlfriends—Betty and Veronica—and never being able to decide between them, has a certain traction within the spanking genre in terms of a spank-off contest of jealous girls.
If it were me, I’d Dom them both, but that’s because I have delusions of polyamory grandeur. 🙄
“Girls! Enough! What did I say would happen to both of you, if you fought again over access to my studly and magnificent body?”
“You said you’d spank us. Boo-hoo. We’re so scared.”
“Don’t try to sugarcoat your actions. I’m not a one-girlfriend man, so it’s my way or the highway.”
“You just want to have your cake and eat it too.”
“Oh, and he eats me so well… too bad your pussy smells like a swamp!”
“He likes my ass better!”
“Does to! He fucked it so good last night even your inflated ego would’ve fit!”
“GIRLS! STOP SLAPPING EACH OTHER!”
“She started it!”
“Did to! It’s not fair! She’s your favorite just ‘cuse she’s an anal whore!”
“No way! You’re his favorite ‘cuse you like your throat fucked like a frat slut!”
“I’m the Dom in this household and both of you are my subs. Agreed?”
“And do both of you get equal time with me?”
“She got ten extra minutes last Wednesday.”
“You got twenty extra minutes last Sunday when you ‘claimed’ you had a cramp.”
“I did! The spreader bar caused a charlie horse in my thigh.”
“Was that before or after he whipped your butt for lying.”
“I never lie! I’m sugar and you’re spice. Remember?”
“What are you doing, Sir?”
“You… lay over the table here… and you, lay over there. Hold hands… no, like this. After I tie your ankles to the table legs, and cuff your wrists together, I’m going to belt both of you until you make sweet with each other.”
“Then your butts are going to be battered and welted if you don’t kiss and make up.”
“And if we do so?”
“I’ll churn your pussies into butter and spray my sweet white cream frosting all over your faces.”
“What do you think? Should we cave to his perverted fantasy?”
“I bet you cave first.”
“Never! I can take twice as many strokes as you. I bet you cry first!”
“Never! The loser has to be a slave for a week and do anything asked. Get ready to suck some ass, bitch.”
“Fuck you! And that’s exactly where my strap-on is going to be buried all next week. Up your skinny ass, skank.”
“Bring it on!”
“It’s a deal.”
“Harder, Sir! Make her scream!”
“What’s the matter, Sir? Too much sugar rotting your muscles? WHIP HER!”
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
“I still think he likes you better.”
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
“That’s okay. He still thinks we hate each other.”
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
“DAMN! He’s pissed off.”
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
“Better than pissed on.”
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Weather is what makes Earth inhabitable. Solar rays heat the tropics year-round. As the planet spins at 1,000 miles an hour at the equator, low pressure causes rising moist air to spread out and move north and south. Ocean currents are similar in that they transfer surface heat into the sub-tropical and temperate zones. Dense cold air sinks from the polar regions and is drawn in by pressure differentials to replace the sun churned heated air. Seasons changes through the axial tilt of the planet.
All this simply means that for most people, the places we live are where crops are grown and animals farmed. Cities became possible only when agriculture could replace hunting-gathering as a means of supporting an expanding population. Food and potable water determines the suitability of settlements: technology has made it possible to inhabit nearly every climate zone safely, if not in comfort.
Living in areas that used to be marginal—such as floodplains, ocean-sides etc—is often a choice not a necessity in the developed world. Not so for the poor, who are most often the victims of extreme weather. Lack of zoning and political oversight is often blamed, along with cheap insurance, for allowing people to build structures and live in places that are repeatedly damaged by storms. This is true; however, there is no place safe from extreme weather.
Should everyone evacuate from the coasts? From all islands? Everywhere there is a chance of a blizzard or sub-zero temps? Away from rivers and lakes that flood? What about deserts? We can’t control the weather. We can control how we plan for disasters such as Hurricane Irma.
As the aftermath has shown, Florida is largely habitable because of air conditioning and insect control. Without both, there would be a mass exodus back north into cooler climes. But I grew up in Wisconsin, summers there are even hotter than Florida. Why? Because hot air from the Gulf of Mexico flows all the way into Canada during the summer months. It’s not hot all the time like it is in the semi-tropics, but it gets really, really hot without any chance of rain.
The Midwest suffers from another problem though; tornadoes. Should people be forced to leave Texas, Oklahoma and the rest of ‘Tornado Alley’ because it costs too much to repair property year after year? Well, Europe has their share of extreme tornadoes. In fact, in England, one of the strongest tornadoes ever struck London on October 23rd, 1091. There were only about 18,000 people living in London at that time. Maybe the tens of millions of people who live there now, should all leave in case it happens again.
My point is, weather happens; extreme weather happens, and no matter how much or little you prepare, you can’t control the outcome. Yes, you need to have non-perishable food, gallons of water and maybe a generator, but no plan is perfect. We live in a just-in-time consumer society, and as Texas and Florida have shown, there is not enough fuel, batteries, water, plywood and other storm supplies in stores, when millions of people try to purchase in volumes that normally would last for months. Not to mention that evacuation routes can’t possibly handle everyone trying to leave at once.
When it comes to surviving a storm, luck matters as much as preparation. Where you live only changes what the threat may be. If not hurricanes, then wildfires. If not tornadoes, then flash floods. If not droughts, then avalanches. We have more information than ever before, but sometimes too much knowledge makes the right decision even harder.
I’ve read three very interesting books recently that created this essay. I’ve been focusing more on my writing these past twelve months, but it has yet to reach a level of consuming passion. I may never get there, but after finishing the trio of books, I feel much less of a failure.
I picked up a copy of Kevin Ashton’s How to Fly A Horse on a whim, but I’m glad I did. His premise is that the creative process is a myth, and that every single person is creative; but what makes a successful inventor, discoverer or artist, is simply hard work and doing it over and over again. Writer’s block, among many other concepts, doesn’t exist. Kevin is also the creator of the phrase Internet of Things. The title refers to the Wright Brothers.
Kevin: The creativity myth implies that few people can be creative, that any successful creator will experience dramatic flashes of insight, and that creating is more like magic than work. A rare few have what it takes, and for them it comes easy. Anybody else’s creative efforts are doomed.
He goes on to use examples both ancient and modern to bolster his thesis. Along the way, he shows through studies and clinical trials, that as the number of participants goes up, creativity goes down. In fact, Kevin claims that creative cooperation peaks in kindergarten. I, like many of you, will agree with this premise. Anybody who has suffered through production meetings, brainstorming sessions and forced teamwork can readily attest to the fact that one person creating alone is the most successful. He closes the book with this:
Kevin: The chain of creation is many links longs, and every link—each one person creating—is essential. All stories of creators tell the same truth: that creating is extraordinary but creators are human; that everything right with us can fix anything wrong with us; and that progress is not an inevitable consequence but an individual choice. Necessity is not the mother of invention. You are.
Two autobiographies picked up on this theme: Yanni in Words, and Tom Jones Over The Top And Back. I found striking similarities in both men’s accounts of their artistic struggle to creative success. One similarity was passion for music, Yanni writing and Tom singing, and another was the way that success drew sexual attention. The road is a soul crushing grind that never seems to end, but both of them used the creative and sexual fire to fuel their success.
Yanni: If you are the music, you can write the music. If you’re not the music, you’re outside, judging it. Judgment and creativity are opposites. Both are valid, but they can’t exist in the same place at the same time. To create, you have to become one with your creation and let it flow freely. You have to be in the zone. For me, I have to become one with the music. The instant I begin judging my creation, I find myself outside looking in, and the creative moment is gone.
Tom: But I was out, getting up in front of people and singing and, really for the first time, properly seeing the effect that my voice could have on a room full of people—noting how excited people and how that, in turn, excited me. I realized, with a new, even clearer urgency, how badly I wanted to do this and nothing else, as remote as the possibility of that still seemed. Let’s face it, the music business [in 1962] wasn’t exactly rushing to the valleys to sign up any Welsh pop group… The music business seemed to have plenty on its plate already. But you could dream, couldn’t you?
Both Yanni and Tom detail the long, arduous and sometimes dangerous trip to ‘overnight’ success from an upbringing of poverty. Both had loving and supportive parents, but the reality was, that their success was a steady roller-coaster of highs and lows and the only person who created the opportunities that brought them critical acclaim, was themselves. Both men had the unshakeable belief they were the best at their craft, and if only the right venue opened up, they would prove it to the world. This dogged ethic allowed them to fight and claw their way until the vision they saw as their due came to fruition.
The second connection I found in their words, was the early—and often—sexual relations with thousands of women. For Yanni, he states his first time was in a local bordello next door to his school in Kalamata, Greece. He was thirteen and a half.
Tom was sixteen when he impregnated his fifteen-year old girlfriend—wife at eight months, and stayed married until she passed in 2016. Tom never comes out and states he had sex with groupies—other publications have said so—but numerous anecdotes certainly imply that was the case. Yanni writes that one-night stands were his preferred method until he met Linda Evans. It is no surprise that the music industry, along with sports and film, have always been synonymous with sex and drugs. Most seem to cite the relentless pressure and grind of the creative process, along with the pursuit by willing females determined for a taste of the bright lights.
Tom: Bam! I’m on the pavement under a pile of screaming girls—taken down with a pace and efficiency that a pack of rugby forwards would have been proud to pull off. The people making the commotion outside the pub window were making that noise for me, and I didn’t know it.
Yanni: When I was on the road other girls would invariably show up, willing to share themselves for the night in very creative ways. If you’re young and away from home for two or three weeks at a time, it’s hard to resist walking into temptation. Mostly I didn’t.
Tom: It happens for the first time on one of those nights in the Copa [in NYC] in 1969. I’m drenched with sweat. Just occasionally someone on a table near the stage will reach out with a white linen napkin for me. I’ll dab at my brow with it and then hand it back. Not this one woman, though. She stands, flips her dress up, steps out of her panties and hands them up to me.
What I do with the panties is, I dab my brow with them. And then I say, ‘You want to watch you don’t catch cold.’
Yanni: I just wanted to have fun and I was honest about it. ‘I’m not looking for a relationship, and I hope you’re not. I don’t owe you anything and you don’t owe me anything. If we do this, it’s what is for tonight. If it continues tomorrow, okay, but if it doesn’t, don’t come to me and say I’ve used you.’
Tom: There was sex in the [Vegas] shows, and there was sex around the shows. The air seemed to crackle with it.
Same thing at those big seventies tour dates. Best clothes. Perfume in the air. People getting revved up. A willingness to cut loose and let go. A general horniness in the crowd. The atmosphere alive with the possibility of sex—in a way that was definitely going to play out to the advantage of the band, the crew and beyond.
As somebody once said, I was the Pied Piper of pussy.
Yanni: I liked to choose my companions rather than the other way around.
The seduction had already taken place while she watched me play. She knew I liked her because I approached her, and most of the time she’d come with me. If I got turned down it didn’t make any difference because there were so many other possibilities. But I was never a pest; you could get rid of me easily.
There were more girls than any of us could possibly be with, sometimes five times as many as there were guys.
It was rock ‘n’ roll.
Tom: So I’ve got the singer-on-a-stage thing going for me, and then television comes along and adds a whole other layer. Never underestimate the extent to which people want to have sex with people who are on television.
I was going over as some kind of love god, and I was going over so strongly that occasionally I was even persuaded of it myself. The road will set temptations in front of you that are hard to resist.
Yanni: In each town I had a girlfriend or two. Not real girlfriends, just girls I knew. Or someone I’d just met. I didn’t mind having sex with a woman I’d known less than an hour. I was young, they looked good. Nothing else to do. Let’s have some fun. There was no judgment, and I never felt guilty. You’re just driving down the highway and you’re lonely; you meet someone who eases the boredom a little bit for the night. And the next day you get up and do it again.
Tom: I think he [Wyclef Jean] was wondering, what’s it like to be out and about with Tom Jones? What goes on? So the next time [late 2001] we were both in London, I took him to the Metropolitan Hotel in Park Lane, home of the Met Bar and Nobu and a regular stop-off for me. The place was crowded, as it often is, and we sat out in the foyer having drinks—
Pretty soon, a girl came over, and she wanted to introduce herself and say hello.
‘It’s very nice to meet you,’ I said.
And then, without further ado, right there at the table, she whipped up her dress and showed me the piercing on her clitoris.
‘Well, thank you very much for that,’ I said. And then she went away.
That was it. My legend with Wyclef was sealed. ‘Man, you go out with Tom Jones, girls show you their pussy!’ He told everybody he knew, meaning that my reputation preceded me, whenever I went with him.
In closing, I wanted to include a few more quotes about creativity from them both. And also a music video of Sir Tom Jones, at age 77, crushing the song ‘You Can Leave Your Hat On’ The Voice UK 2017′. In the end, what Kevin and Yanni and Tom have showed, is that creativity is simply a vision of what you want your life to be. It’s all up to you to get to work and create.
Tom: And through all of this, Ethan’s [Johns] message has essentially been simple and the same: just sing. And it might seem strange that a singer needs to hear that, but it’s a fact. Everyone who has had success is asking themselves: what’s my next success? What do I do next? It eats at you like that, until it’s actually eating into your voice.
Yanni: When I was younger I got in my own way by asking myself questions like, How long does a piece need to be? What kind of music should I write? The answer is to write what you like. The piece is going to be as long as it keeps you interested. If it bores you, cut it.
Society does everything it can to fill you with a distrust of yourself and others. We grow up in an environment where we’re laughed at or criticized for thinking that what we create could profoundly affect people and maybe make a difference in their lives—or be worth doing for nobody but ourselves.
In missy’s recent post Being Nothing, she talks about being broken into nothingness.
So I suppose that I don’t actually want to be nothing. I just want to be none of the conscious me and I want to become something that is the other me – the unknown, the undeveloped, the restricted, the reserved and the held-back. I want to let go completely and go even further than I have gone with that before.
I do realise what it will take of course. It will take for me to be completely broken. I don’t think that for me this will come through pain, or for that fact through pleasure, although we have come close. I believe that for me the answer will lie in humiliation. I think that to break me, Sir will have to reduce me to even less than he has before.
For nora however, in her post about resolving conflict, she carries forward her theme that what she wants from her Daddy is to be broken of her bad habits.
Prior to D/s, we typically did not handle conflict well. My approach to conflict was to just “solve” everything myself. If I couldn’t solve it, then I would blame my husband for whatever it was, because surely it was his fault (please sense my sarcasm here). My husband’s approach to conflict, and to my style in approaching conflict, was to avoid it. He used humor a lot to try to lighten the situation, which drove me nuts and produced even more conflict between us. There were periods in our marriage where we fought, and engaged in conflict, a lot and we were both very dissatisfied with the results.
I am happy to report that in five months we’ve had one fight. That fight was one of those stupid fights, over something inconsequential. I was so wound up and was refusing to submit to my husband in the moment. Believe me, my bottom paid the price the next day. But, if my husband needs to soundly spank me in order for me to behave like a rational adult, then so be it. It works for us and we are so much happier.
Breaking a mirror equals seven years of bad luck, breaking bone is painful, breaking up—as the song above says—takes a little bit every time. Breaking a promise or vow leads to disappointment and regret. But breaking is not all bad. After all, to get an omelette you have to whip up some broken eggs.
There are lots of broken people in the world: I doubt anyone is free of pain, I’m certainly not. Some people need discipline in order to thrive. For those in D/s relationships, spanking sits front and center as the means to break through old hurts, to change patterns and behaviors that are harmful to self and others and break down the barriers we learn to erect as broken children.
“Cause every time I see your face
I break a little”
And every single night you stay
you take a little”
To someone in a stable, loving, respectful D/s relationship, those lyrics are empowering, not fragile glass that shatters at a glance. For a submissive they mean that every time they see their Dom’s face, a little piece of self-hatred breaks away. Every single night the Dom stays focused and determined to rise above the past shame and pain of broken souls, a little bit more self-doubt is taken away.
For women like missy and nora, breaking a little more each day has lead them to peace and happiness and joy.