Please be advised: This blog contains adult subjects and content. If you are underage, or adult consensual kink disturbs you, might I suggest something more wholesome and educational?

Or how about this?

Go on.... shoo!

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Once bitten, twice... bitten

What is it about spankers who like to bite their bottom's bottoms?

Apparently, this is a thing. At least with the men in my life. 

John has always liked biting me on the butt. He says it's irresistible. When he helps dry me off after a shower (not that I can't dry myself off, you understand, but it's more fun his way), he'll suddenly lean in and bite one of my cheeks. And then, because he's OCD, he has to do the other one. He calls these "bun bites." Clearly he has me confused with a Big Mac. (Or a McVeggie burger, in his case.)

Steve is also fond of biting on my butt during a spanking. He says the bright red cheeks are just too inviting. I wouldn't know, since I can't see them. But I was wondering how many bun-biters there are out there.

I'm normally not a fan of being bitten. Light nibbling, yes. Hard sucking that raises hickeys, yes. However, the sensation of teeth sinking in me hard enough to leave bite marks doesn't turn me on.

Except when I'm in that zone, when my bottom is aflame, when all the nerve endings are hypersensitive, when pain commingles with pleasure. Then, that slow, slow bite, increasing the pressure incrementally until it's almost unbearable, is delicious.

Here I am in anticipatory mode, with an almost pristine canvas:

And of course, the "I am @#$%ing DONE" mode:

However, in the above shot, you can't see Steve's dental artwork.

Of course, he chose the more tender spots closer to the center. Beast.

As usual, these pictures don't do the redness justice. But trust me, it was there.

I needed intensity yesterday, after last weekend. So much pent-up tension had to be released, and it was. And yes, afterward, I had a mini-session with my little purple rocket while he quietly watched. Damn near screamed the walls down, as it went on and on. 

I wish people wouldn't drink and use drugs as escape. There are much healthier and lovelier ways to escape from life's trials for a little while.

So, bottoms, a word of caution: Be careful about to whom you say "Bite me." They just might.

Monday, December 15, 2014

Christmas carol parody 2014

OK, so I changed my mind. The parody muse made an appearance after all, and I really needed a humorous distraction.

So this year's selection is based on "Do You Hear What I Hear?" Here is the real song, with the real lyrics, for reference:

And now, my version, which takes place at a spanking party.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Said the spanko to the little brat,
Do you see what I see?
Way across the room, little brat,
Do you see what I see?
Some tears, a rear, gathering some heat
With a tail as red as a beet,
With a tail as red as a beet

Said the little brat to the Toppy Boy,
Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing in our ears, Toppy Boy
Do you hear what I hear?
A groan, a moan, as the paddles fall
With a thud we hear down the hall,
With a thud we hear down the hall

Said the Toppy Boy to the Mighty Dom,
Do you know what I know?
In your living room, Mighty Dom,
Do you know what I know?
Your guests, your guests, wait to have their turn
Let us spank their bums till they burn,
Let us spank their bums till they burn

Said the Dom to bottoms everywhere,
Listen to what I say!
Panties down, bottoms everywhere!
Listen to what I say!
The cane, the cane, swishing through the air
It will sting, so sass if you dare,
It will sting, so sass if you daaaaaare!

Thank you, thank you very much. You may now resume your shopping and your other holiday aggravations. 

Sunday, December 14, 2014

OT: Sad times

Last week, I heard from my stepsister (my stepfather M's daughter). I have not seen her or talked with her in over 20 years -- we never got along all that well. She told me that M had fallen at his assisted-living facility and broken his hip, and he was in a rehab center. That he was probably near the end.

He's 96, and has been deteriorating steadily for the past couple of years. The news did not surprise me, but it's still sad.

I think M had a purpose in his life when my mother was still alive and suffering from dementia. He went to see her every day and was so completely devoted to her. After she died in 2012, he began to slowly decline.

His eyesight started failing, and he was no longer able to drive, which completely removed his independence. He couldn't do any of his hobbies anymore, like fishing and golfing. He couldn't even read, which he loved to do. Even the littlest pleasures were taken from him: he used to love soaking in a hot bath, but when he could no longer get himself out of the tub, the baths had to stop. Most of his friends had passed and his life narrowed into the hours between sleep spent sitting in his room watching TV.

He had to remind himself to eat, because he had no appetite. His once tall and robust body shrunk into bones, his flesh hanging from them.

Why do people have to go on this way? What kind of life is this? When I called him and asked how he was, his answer was always a sigh and "Well, I'm still here." But he never complained. He was miserable, but he still made his usual jokes and faces and tried to be brave. 

After I heard from his daughter, John and I went to the rehab center yesterday to see him. The drive was horrible; we were in traffic all the way, the setting sun glaring in my eyes, and when we finally got off the freeway, I discovered that the Mapquest directions had been incorrect and we got lost. My phone, which is older, kept screwing up when I tried the Navigation, giving me directions to go to "2445 2nd Street" when I asked for "24452 Xxxxxx Drive." John's phone finally got us there, but nothing prepared me for how bad M would look.

He lay in the bed, his feet sticking out the bottom, his hair wild around his head. We greeted him, and he just stared at us. His arms twitched and trembled. The nurse was feeding him his dinner, wiping his mouth when he slobbered the food. She asked me if I'd like to feed him. I said no. There's no way I could handle that.

We sat by his bed, and I tried not to look at his toenails, which I'll have nightmares about for the rest of my life, I think. He didn't interact with us for about 45 minutes, but then he started mumbling things, trying to talk to us, but we couldn't understand a lot of what he was trying to say. One thing we did comprehend was when he kept grabbing at the bars on the bed and muttering, "Wanna get out of here." He kept thrusting his legs to the side of the bed, like he was trying to swing them off. Poor thing. John moved his legs back and we both kept telling him, "No, you can't go home now. You have to rest, and get better, and then you can leave, OK?" But he won't be leaving. He's 96, for Christ's sake. He is stubborn, but his body is saying enough already.

The doctor wouldn't tell me anything, because I'm not blood family. So we hung out for an hour and a half, just being with him. Even got a tiny smile out of him toward the end. He still kept grabbing at the bars, so I gently disengaged his fingers and held his hand, which still had a pretty decent grip. Then I kissed the top of his head, said I loved him, and we left. I managed to get out of the hospital before I started to cry.

Fortunately, there was no traffic on the drive back. It was after eight, and we both needed to eat. I was glad John came with me. I don't think I could have stood it by myself. I'm so done with all this... first my dad, then my mother, and now my stepfather. John is still dealing with it, with his mother, whom he visits every single week without fail, but I no longer go with him. I still will have to deal with my stepmother's passing eventually, but I know she will not allow herself to linger for years with illness or dementia. She has already told me that she has plans and orders in place, if her health starts to deteriorate, to move her to Oregon or Washington, where euthanasia is allowed. "I will not be a burden to my loved ones," she said flatly and emphatically. I get it. I will feel the same way.

What a backward country we live in, one in which only five states out of fifty allow a person to legally die with dignity. Where we kindly put our pets out of their pain, but force our humans to go on and on and on, suffering with the indignities and illnesses of age, of existence without a shred of quality. And please, please don't tell me that it's God's will. It's OK if you believe that, but I do not, and I really don't want to hear it.

Anyway. Now we wait. I spoke to his daughter again tonight, and she promised to keep me posted. All of a sudden she's acting like I'm her best friend, which I don't trust at all. She's always been kind of crazy. But I will be civil.

Enough. All this crying is making my face hurt. Sorry for the unloading.

Friday, December 12, 2014

Gibberish and a bit of rehash

Last week, Pandora had posted a link to where we could lodge a complaint to the ATVOD about the new UK restrictions on what can and can't be filmed. I would link you to that blog, but unfortunately, it seems to be down right now. Anyway, I am hoping lots of people bombed them with complaints. I did, and earlier this week, I received this reply. I'm sure you'll agree with me that it's a bunch of buck-passing gibberish.

Thank you for sharing your concerns about the AVMS Regulations 2014 which amend the Communications Act 2013.

As a regulator, ATVOD’s role is to enforce rules set by Parliament. ATVOD has no power to repeal legislation, and concerns regarding legislation are best raised with the relevant Government department (the Department for Culture Media and Sport) or with your MP.

In the meantime, I should point out that the new regulations prohibit on a UK VOD service material which would be prohibited on a UK DVD, and require ATVOD to have regard to BBFC guidelines when considering whether that test has been met.  Some of the acts you describe feature in guidance issued by the Crown Prosecution Service in a list of material most commonly prosecuted under the Obscene Publications Act and were therefore likely to be unlawful to distribute on a UK VOD service even before the new regulations came into force. Again, the test set out in the Obscene Publications Act is a matter for Parliament rather than ATVOD, and its application is a matter for law enforcement agencies, including the Crown Prosecution Service.  As material which is in breach of the Obscene Publications Act (or any other criminal law) would be refused a classification by the BBFC, providing such material on a UK VOD service is now also a breach of the Communications Act. We have worked with providers of UK VOD services to ensure that they understand the new rules and how they are likely to be applied.

I can assure you that when applying those rules for UK VOD services, ATVOD takes an even handed approach. For example, potentially harmful acts of breath restriction are treated the same regardless of the gender or sexuality of participants. We apply the statutory tests in an objective manner and do not make moral judgements about the nature of any consensual sexual activity between adults.

Kind regards,

Xxxxx Xxxxx
Policy & Investigations Officer

No moral judgments? Puh-lease. So what does this mean, exactly? Who are we supposed to contact, then? Freaking Parliament? In case you were wondering, BBFC stands for British Board of Film Classification. Glad I looked that up. I thought it meant Big Bad Fucking Censorship.

I forwarded this to Pandora, who said she received something similar, and she was going to craft a no-nonsense reply. I hope she'll post her follow-up.

So much for the gibberish, now the rehash. Usually at this time of year, I like to craft a spanking parody of a Christmas carol. However, this year, due to various distractions, the creative muse has been elusive. Therefore, for those who haven't seen the previous parodies (or those who have, but would enjoy seeing them again), here are the links to the past three:

2013: Let It Snow

2012: Jingle Bell Rock

2011: O Christmas Tree

And since I haven't been keeping up with my usual holiday bitching, may I just say that if I see any of those damned Target commercials again, I just might throw a brick through my TV screen? To make it even worse, they show them in pairs: one will air, then a couple of other commercials, and then another Target ad airs. And always with some sort of riff on "It's a Marshmallow World." I think someone in their advertising department has a marshmallow brain. I've taken to grabbing the remote and hitting "Mute" whenever they come on.

Just 13 more days of this crap. Bah humbug.

Have a great weekend, y'all.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Much better, thank you

Steve was recovered enough to visit yesterday. I was feeling that need -- you know the one I mean. Craving attention, affection, good pain, a shakeup of my emotions. Feeling kind of blech lately... a combination of holiday blech, worries over John, the ongoing recovery, and it doesn't help that work is slow either. Too much time to think, which is not good for the Negative Nellies among us (raising hand).

So my body was practically thrumming to assume the position so near and dear yesterday. Finally, I can do it, if I rest my head on a big cushy pillow. It's a little uncomfortable on my face, but in a couple of minutes, I wasn't thinking about my face anyway.

That spanking was like nourishment yesterday -- my body and soul drank it in, absorbing, greedily wanting more, limbs twitching and spasming. It didn't take long before the tears came. The good kind, the kind that wash away all the tension and the nattering and the emotional clutter. 

But of course, we weren't done. There was still Round Two. We moved to the ottoman, but first, he wanted to take some pictures. I was impatient to get on with it, as you can see by my face here:

He used the heart-shaped paddle for a while, which was challenging, as I'm still not up to par with my tolerance. At one point, I forgot that we were on the floor, not on the bed, and I pounded my fist, hard. @#$%&!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Damn near broke my hand! Didn't get any sympathy from him, of course.

Steve takes some very bizarre pictures sometimes. I'm not sure what his motivation is. For example, what's this one about? Perhaps he was trying to show me I needn't have worried during those first three weeks when my hair was falling out like crazy. I certainly seem to have plenty left.

And then there was the moment when I accidentally rolled off the ottoman into a heap on the floor, and lay there laughing. He took several shots of that, which I deleted because I thought they looked goofy. However, this one is interesting in that you can't tell whether or not I'm wearing underwear. Can you?

Anyway, a good time was had by all. And afterward (Steve no doubt due to his lingering illness aftereffects, and me due to emotional release), we both fell sound asleep.

I ♥ this hand. I ♥ my top.