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The implements left behind

Posted at 16:41 on 5 Jan 2010 by Pandora / Blake

I have a confession to make: I still haven't unpacked my suitcase from the shoot with Jimmy and Zoe. Since then there has been New Year with D, work, and several days spent hibernating in bed and cuddling a heat-seeking kitten, rather than venturing out into the cold of my flat to do housework. The suitcase is still, in fact, behind me as I write this, bulging with unfolded school uniform, stockings, shoes and implements.

The implements are all my nicest ones, because I wanted Jimmy's introduction to video to be reasonably gentle. My Mason & Pearson hairbrush, my soft two-tailed tawse, my black leather paddle, my ruler and my two canes - all of these are still packed.

I realised the downside of this when Tom started spanking me last night, and the only implements left in my toybox were the nasty ones. The ones I thought would be too harsh to use on Jimmy's first shoot. The wooden clothes brush, the little round bath brush, and the heavy brown leather tawse.

It had started gently enough. I leaned in for a kiss; the kiss turned into a longer kiss, and then his hands were slipping underneath my warm winter pyjamas and tugging the bottoms down. I was entirely willing to roll onto my front, bare cheeks exposed and the rest of me still snuggled in duvet and bedclothes. I hugged the pillows with both arms and made appreciative sounds as he started to spank me.

One slow, loving, teasing spanking later, I was pushing my hips back for more. He helped me kneel up properly, back arched and bottom offered submissively, and started to step up the pace. Tom's hands can really pack a wallop, and at each harder smack I would yelp and twisting away before quickly returning to position. I didn't want him to stop, but I couldn't manage to stay still, either. I found myself being held tight against his hip, one arm around my waist. I loved the feeling of being kept in position, helpless as he dealt me a slow series of hard, stinging, fleshy smacks.

Then I was on my hands and knees in the middle of the bed, breathless and turned on, but knowing that I wouldn't be able to keep my bottom nicely arched for him if he continued at that force. Tom reached behind him and brought the bath brush out of the toybox. It looks small, but it's fiercely stingy and quickly becomes unbearable if used fast. I may have whimpered involuntarily.

"Get in position, love," he said kindly.

"May I have some pillows?" I asked nervously.

"You may."

Being able to rest my tummy on pillows made it easier to stay put, and the first few strokes weren't too bad. By the end of the spanking, though, the stinging brush was getting really difficult to take. I was crying out and grabbing at the sheets, and Tom's target was moving around more than it should have been. But he wasn't finished yet.

"Stay there," he told me. "I'm going to give you six with this." I sneaked a peek and was horrified to see that he was holding the heavy brown tawse. It's made of a stiff, thick leather, and leaves wide stripes that burn and throb, all along their length, for many breaths after the first unbearable blaze of sting.

Serves me right, I suppose, for not having more palatable implements to hand in the bedroom.

His voice and hands were soothing, though, as he reassured me that I was only getting six, and I wouldn't have to count them or thank him, just make sure I returned to position after each stroke. I nodded. I didn't think of disobeying. I didn't want to disobey. I felt safely cradled by his firm authority; comforted by the love in our power exchange. But I knew this was going to hurt.

It did. It really, really hurt. I tried to stay quiet and still for the first few, absorbing the pain with my breath, feeling the energy shudder through my body. But the last three made me yell and jump up. I didn't need reminding to get back into position each time, but my whole body was shaking as I lifted my bottom for the next explosion of pain. Each time my obedience was rewarded with a rough, tingling rub almost as painful as another smack, but which I welcomed nonetheless.

There was an even better reward waiting for me when it was over, though. A counterpoint to the heavy, thuddy tawse in the form of a certain cat toy. This hadn't made it into the shoot suitcase as it doesn't really have the right look for domestic or school discipline - a happy accident. He proceeded to set my tenderised bottom alight with tiny, stinging strokes that quickly had me moaning in pleasure. Afterwards he said he hadn't been sure how I was reacting to it, so let me state for the record that it was pure, erotic deliciousness.

I would never have chosen that bath brush or that tawse for a consensual, loving spanking scene - but D/s isn't always about my choices, and he was gentle where it counted. When I'm able to let go and submit to it, I love to be pushed, to submit to his choices even through my fear. It makes the fun stuff that happens next so much more satisfying.

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Tags: bath brush, cat toy switch, dominance and submission, hand spanking, kink, tawse, Thomas Cameron


Fear and forgetfulness

Posted at 21:10 on 5 Jan 2009 by Pandora / Blake

I was originally planning to tell you about the whipping Tom gave me on New Year's Day, in the spirit of starting the year as you mean to continue. But we've played again since then and, to my dismay, the scenes are already blurring together in my memory.

Two scenes in one week is less common for us than you might imagine. 2008 was a difficult year in many ways, and health problems, work, house moves have all got in the way of kinky activities. Not that our relationship has suffered - we've always been very good at looking after each other, and the last few months have seen a lot of cooking and relaxing together, gentle spankings and snuggling. And all that is lovely. But we've both missed the other stuff. Since we first hooked up six years ago our relationship has been defined by the breathtaking intensity we can achieve together, the severity we both crave.

Tom is an extremely careful and responsible dominant. He would much rather wait than risk a scene when he's exhausted and his judgement might be impaired. So we've been waiting, and for the most part he's been much more patient than I have.

Now that, gradually, we're rediscovering our energy; now that we're finding a space we can play in, re-awarkening the spark that was always there, it's a source of joy to us both. And it's scary, at least for me.

Not at the time, not really. He knows me very well. When we started on the first morning of the new year, he began by kissing me down the length of my body, a kiss that built slowly to a deeply satisfying orgasm that left me smiling and languorous. I had sleepily started to return the favour when he told me to set up the pillows in the middle of the bed, and in my soft, contented state it didn't even occur to me to be frightened.

He was gentle with me, at first. He started with a thin bamboo switch, playing it rapidly over my bottom and thighs in a way that only tingled at first, the sensation building so lightly that it didn't panic me. I stayed relaxed, only moaning more deeply as the flickering switch started to cut more deeply.

I can't remember exactly what was next. At one point he cropped me, a slow series of hard strokes that covered every heated inch of my bottom. At another he definitely paddled me, and I think it was because I'd started to shrink away from the sharper pain, my will rising like bile and coming between us. He was kind, and the paddle achieved the effect he was after - I stopped fighting back, accepting the pain and letting it wash over me.

Sorry for the poor quality, but I do like the perfect crop mark in this, just at the top of my left thigh.

The final implement that day was the martinet, with the thick square-tipped leather thongs that are terrifyingly heavy if used with full force. The ends whip around and strike the soft sides of the flank as if bullets were sewn into them. He started with it after the crop, but I twitched away from the sensation, unable to relax into it. The scattered peppering of the tips bit into me seemingly at random, and all the warmth the crop had wakened in me seemed to flee. I shied away, plaintive and frightened. And he was merciful, and followed my lead when I suggested the paddle. The even, solid sensation of the wood after the stinging, difficult martinet was strangely soothing.

But he returned to the martinet afterwards, with 24 heavy strokes. I remember not liking those, either, but it was easier to submit to them gracefully after he'd granted my request for the paddle.

The other scene, too, started with a switching - the plastic cat toy, although at first I thought it was one of our thin canes. That evening it was the heavy leather strap that made me flinch away, made him tone down his strokes to ones I could manage. I was disappointed, afterwards, that he hadn't continued at the heavier pace, but we both knew that I would have rebelled and it would have been miserable. He caned me, afterwards, and it was delicious, but I was tormented by the knowledge that he'd gone easy on me - and, worse, that if he hadn't I wouldn't have been able to cope.

We ended up talking about it a few days later, about the depth of my submission to him these days, how my growing adult independence and the difficulties of last year - among other things - have affected how much I'm able to give him. I think spanking modelling is a part of it, too.

When we're playing, nowadays, I'm less interested in what he wants and much more focussed on my own needs. If I crave a particular sensation, my body is stubborn and he can't easily persuade me to enjoy something I'm not in the mood for. And that isn't how it should be. What he wants should be enough; it should be arousing by the simple fact of it being him that wants it. Of course I trust him not to go beyond my limits. I'm talking here about my mercuriality, my moodiness, my desire to stay in control of what's happening. I'm working on changing it. The conversation we had about this was positive, if difficult. I'm still learning how to submit as an adult as deeply as I did when I was a teenager, but without the unhealthy elements of obsession and dependence which coloured our relationship then.

And re-learning how to give a scene to him, after years of building up my professional self-knowledge and control, is hard. When I'm filming I have a responsibility to my top to stay in control of myself, to be aware of my limits. When I'm subbing, I explicitly surrender that responsibility. Or at least, I should.

I want to learn to let go again. I miss the euphoria and intimacy of total surrender. I miss being able to fly. But it's a big emotional leap, and we're both nervous about whether I'll be able to make it.

Playing long, erotic scenes that re-awaken my senses definitely helps. Remembering how hot pain can be definitely helps. But Tom's gentleness is predicated partly on my reluctance to let him push me. The fact that, in both of the scenes this week, I was never truly frightened is not necessarily a good thing. I need to be frightened again; I need to trust him to take me places I hadn't necessarily planned for, and carry me through them. Hot as they are, the scenes tailored to my enjoyment will never really be enough.

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Tags: cat toy switch, dominance and submission, kink, martinet, meta-analysis, paddle, Photos, riding crop, switch, Thomas Cameron

1 comment


Posted at 07:07 on 11 Jul 2008 by Pandora / Blake

I had to wait nearly two weeks this year to receive my birthday spanking. Unusually for me, I didn't mind waiting. It wasn't a punishment, and I trusted that whatever Mr C. had in mind for me, I'd enjoy it. But neither of us anticipated quite how much I'd enjoy it ...

I was wired and restless when he arrived at my place last night. A lot's been happening lately, my sleep patterns are all screwed up and I've been full of that fretful energy - you know, the kind of background tension that feels like either something important is about to happen, or like you've just missed something? That. We'd planned to spend some time playing that evening, and although I felt like my nerves were jangling and my attention was out of focus, I hoped the spanking would relax me and ground me again. I just wasn't sure I'd find it easy to get in the mood.

We're pretty great at calming each other down, though, and after tea and cuddles we settled down to watch a movie. It was already fairly late by this point, and I asked him if he was still planning to spank me later. He said he certainly was, and I said "Good, I think I need it. I can't seem to settle down, my nerves are all over the place."

He gave me a long look, and then his voice and eyes altered ever-so-slightly in that way they do when he's being my Dom rather than my boyfriend. "Yes," he said quietly, "I think I know what you need. I think you need to be paddled."

I squirmed under his appraising gaze, cheeks flushing. I knew what he meant - I needed the affirming sensuality I associate with his wooden paddle. I needed to enjoy the spanking I was being given, to wholly, gladly consent to what was happening. I smiled secretly and twined my fingers through his, excited by his dominance and feeling very loved.

I'd planned to show him Stardust, but I couldn't find the disk, so instead we watched Sweeney Todd. Tom hadn't seen the film before, and put up admirably with my excitable running commentary. By the end of the film I was totally overstimulated, and my inner pervert had well and truly woken up. I felt playful and bratty, and after lusting over the abusive fictional relationships in the film I was craving a scene with a darker flavour, a non-consensual edge.

"Do you still want to paddle me?" I asked after he kissed me, wiggling in his lap.


"Because ... I thought that maybe you might want to crop me."

"Did you now." He grinned at me. He was enjoying my flirting but his manner made it very clear that he'd do whatever he damn well pleased.

We started with a spanking, of course: I was lustful and eager, positioning myself without guidance over his lap. He followed my lead, and the spanking that followed crackled with sexual energy. I lifted my bottom to meet each loving smack, and my gasps were more of pleasure than pain. Every so often his fingers strayed, exploring the tender crease between my cheeks, dipping lower to caress my aching wetness. I shivered and hollowed my back, pushing my hips upwards to encourage him to continue. He stopped far before I wanted him to, however, and helped me into a kneeling position as he turned his attentions to my breasts, caning them lightly while I bit my lip and adored every moment. Once he'd tormented my nipples to his satisfaction, he told me to arrange pillows in the middle of the bed.

As I lowered myself over them I was craving more pain. Whatever he did, I wanted to feel it; I wanted it to sting and burn enough to sate my hunger for sensation. Tender caresses and light smacks weren't going to satisfy me tonight. I needed it raw, I needed it to push me.

He was feeling generous: since this spanking was in honour of my birthday, and since I've been a good girl recently, he decided to grant me my request. The only trouble was that I don't own a riding crop. When I'd suggested it, I thought he might have brought his own with him, but he hadn't. So he opted for my newest implement, one we'd used for the first time a week ago, during our first play session after my trip away.

I bought this a couple of months ago for my cat. Who, of course, has studiously ignored it, leaving it languishing untouched in my bedroom after my fifth attempt to entice her with it failed. Little did I suspect it would find a new lease of life as a spanking toy, but as soon as Mr C laid eyes on it last week, he was determined to test its efficacy. He pulled me into an unusually intimate position, straddling his left thigh with both of mine, while his left hand held me down by the waist. By holding the "toy" end to stop it dangling and silence the little bell, he used the plastic handle as a thin, whippy switch. My vulnerability and helplessness, legs parted and the switch flicking against my tender inner thighs, was intensely erotic. Before too long he was just as turned on as I was, and the toy was abandoned as our embraces became more intimate.

This time, he picked up on that same mood, instructing me to lie over the pillows with my legs spread as wide as I could. He knelt beside me, a hand resting in the small of my back, as much for the intimacy of the contact as to hold me down. I was soon panting and writhing under the sharp, stinging little strokes. A couple of times the tip caught me between my buttocks, and I responded eagerly, moaning and pushing my hips back. After that he paid especial attention to this sensitive area, igniting it with cruel little flicks on the inner curve of each cheek.

I felt wanton, shameless. I lifted my arse to meet each stinging stroke, moaning in ecstasy. I was so wet I thought I might turn into a puddle any moment. The whipping had started light, but as it increased in intensity I wasn't even aware of feeling pain, only a blazing physical pleasure that seemed to shoot straight to my dripping cunt. Slowly, methodically, he began to whip me harder, and when this only increased my arousal he started to murmur encouragement to me, Come on, good girl, that's it. That's my good girl. The rhythm intensified, the strokes grew sharper, my cries wilder - until suddenly, inexplicably, I was coming, writhing under the slicing switch that continued to stripe my bottom and thighs with little red weals. It wasn't until my orgasm had faded that I started for the first time to feel the sensations as pain. He cradled me in the afterglow. I was whimpering, incoherent. My cunt ached for him, and yet somehow, impossibly, I'd achieved release without being touched once. My whole body was lit up, every inch of me tingled with sensitivity. I've never come from being spanked before. How's that for a birthday present?

I still had my birthday spanking to come: 24 hard strokes of the wooden paddle, one for each year of my age. Not many birthdays offer so traditional a number. He waited for me to settle down before bending me back over the pillows. I was flying by now: I felt like nothing he could do would penetrate the warm glow that had settled over me. I moaned appreciatively through the first 16 strokes, enjoying every second of it. But I was still craving that edge: I wanted to feel it, to be pushed, not just float in a haze of sensual pleasure. At the 17th crack of the paddle I got my wish, and I abandoned myself joyfully to the pain, sobbing and wriggling under the punishing blows that followed. Yes, yes, yes. This was exactly what I'd wanted. I needed it to hurt; I needed, by the end, to be frightened of each next stroke, to not want it any more. Except, of course, that I absolutely did.

The rest of the night is a happy haze of pleasure: pure, unadulterated pleasure. He introduced me to my delightful gift, which entirely lives up to its name. I actually lost count of the orgasms he brought me to with its smooth, warm, organic hardness. Eventually he stopped pleasuring me for long enough for me to take his own hardness eagerly into my mouth, and return the favour. I fell asleep happy and sated, glowing with love. Learning to come from being whipped was definitely the most unexpected present of all :)

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Tags: cat toy switch, dominance and submission, hand spanking, kink, otk spanking, paddle, riding crop


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