Implement Aversion

The other night, Poppy posted a poignant blog about losing an implement she loved. Not literally misplacing it, but having it taken from her, because a miserable excuse for a man ruined it for her with an abusive scene. She asked us if we've ever had our feelings change drastically about an implement because of a bad experience.

It got me thinking. Most of us have our "hard limits" when it comes to certain implements. But why? Because they scare us? Because they simply hurt too much? Or is it because we have a negative association with them?

I have to say, I've never had the misfortune of having some asshat ruin a beloved implement for me. But I did have someone turn a soft limit into a hard one.

You all know I prefer leather over wood, but all wooden implements are not created equal. Thicknesses, types of wood, etc. all make for a variety of sensations. But I've never liked those heavy, rectangular paddles, the "frat" style. They thud me down to the bone and they feel horrible to me, with or without holes in them. They don't even make a satisfying sound -- instead of a hearty smack, they land with a dull thunk. When I thought of those paddles, one word came to mind: brutal. And brutality was never something I enjoyed in my spankings. But still, I played with them now and then, at parties and so forth.

About four or five years ago, I met a man from the old SIN board. We did the usual coffee thing, talked, etc., and then he came back to my place to play. I liked his style and his scolding, but toward the end, he was way too touchy-feely and I had to tell him to stop. When we spoke afterward and he wanted to know if I'd like to get together again, I said yes, but he needed to keep the sexual touching out of it. He said he would.

The next time he came over, he had a bag with him, which he handed to me. "I got you a present," he said. The bag was from a local adult toy store. When I looked inside, my heart sank.

He'd bought one of those frat paddles -- it was huge and thick, exactly what I hate. The price tag was still on it, and it wasn't cheap. But wait, there's more. Also in the bag was a Pocket Rocket vibrator. WTF? I barely knew this guy -- what the hell was he doing buying me something that personal?

OK, kids. Here's where I 'fess up and say yes, even with years of experience, we can still screw up. I should have followed my instincts and told him sorry, but I've changed my mind. Take the gifts back, I don't want them, and I don't care to play after all. But I didn't. I felt bad because he'd spent all that money, and I figured the least I could do was to have another scene with him.

It was dreadful. No, he didn't try the wandering fingers thing again. Instead, he just beat the hell out of me with that @#$%ing paddle -- too fast, too hard, too everything. He did stop when I cried. But they weren't the good tears. They were tears of pain and frustration with myself and that sense of betrayal and violation we feel when someone hurts us.

The guy was utterly freaking clueless. After I calmed down a bit and we were talking, he asked, "So, did I give you what you needed?" Wha...?? Needless to say, I was a bit shocked by the question, and I replied, "Well... maybe a little too much."

I didn't say it in a snotty way. But he then reached over, grabbed my hair and snapped, "Are you being smart? Because I'll beat your ass all over again if you are."

(shudder)

Another one of my red flags -- when the spanking is over, it's over. You don't get to be harsh during aftercare. That's the time when you're supposed to be nice.

"No," I said meekly.

The cherry on the sundae was his suggesting that I use the Pocket Rocket he'd given me... in front of him. I declined. "Perhaps I should spank you until you do," he threatened. That did it. "NO," I said, very firmly. "Perhaps you shouldn't."

After he left, I felt sick. I hurt. I was marked. I looked at that effing plank of wood he'd left behind and I wanted it out of my sight. Without overthinking it, I took it down to the Dumpster and chucked it. I suppose I could have given it away... but I didn't want anyone else to suffer from it either. If I'd had a fireplace, I would have burned it.

Oh, and I tossed the Pocket Rocket too. I know, I know. Wasteful. I didn't care. It was all tainted with his ickiness.

After that, frat paddles became a hard limit. Not that it's a great loss, though, because I never really liked them.

I have every confidence that Poppy will move past her aversion, with time and patience and proper treatment from her current, most excellent top. What about others? Do you have a story behind your implement aversion? Do you want to get over it, or does it not matter?

Lights, camera...

...sore bottom! Guess who brought a video camera along with his toy bag tonight?

Since it had been two weeks (and I was in big trouble for my "helpful hints"), I decided to welcome him sweetly and got all dressed up -- black dress (one I can't wear in public, but it's great for play), garters, stockings, the whole bit. How timely, as it turned out I was going to be on camera. He'd asked me a couple of visits ago if I'd like to shoot one of our sessions sometime; I said sure and then forgot all about it.

You know, for an amateur, first-time thing, we got something fairly decent, I think. I should have turned off the stereo in the background; you can barely hear our dialogue as it is. But live and learn. We turned on every light in the room, and it seems the brightness was sufficient. And ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first: New Guy is a ham!! He was totally playing to the camera, ramping things up, making clever comebacks to my sassy comments.

Him: I think it's time to bring out the paddle.
Me: No-o-o-o-o....
Him: No? Who are you to tell me yes or no?
Me: Hey, I still have a voice!
Him: You may have a voice, but you don't have a choice.

Argggghhhhh.

The final 20 with the paddle reallllllly pushed my limits. Ow, ow, ow. Had to count them, too. He cut me a little break -- earlier in the scene, with 20 of the big strap, I had to count them and say "thank you" after each one. But for the finale, I just had to count, nothing else. Whatta guy, huh? (I didn't help my case any by saying "fuck you" instead of "thank you" at first. We had a few do-overs.)

He did the last four strokes in rapid succession, and #20 made me thrash around so hard, I rolled off the side of the ottoman and tumbled onto the floor. No, I did not do that on purpose. Came out looking pretty funny, though.

Nothing funny about this, though:

Yikes. Yes, it's as sore as it looks. But amazingly, despite this outrageous manhandling, I'm feeling quite relaxed and in my happy place. :-)

See, don't I look blissful?

Night night...

Erica has the last word on wood

Me again! You know, with the Shadow Lane party coming up in three weeks, I thought it was time for a friendly little PSA (Public Spanking Announcement, that is). :-)

These weekends are quite the extravaganza, and people attend for different reasons. Some enjoy socializing with their friends from around the country and beyond. Others are shameless spank hos (raising hand sheepishly) who love to play as much as possible, along with the aforementioned socializing. However, despite my reputation for being Little Miss Hard-Ass From Hell (as Razor Ryan once called me), I have learned from painful experience that pacing is absolutely essential. I need to last for three days. And while the spirit is willing, the flesh is sometimes rather uncooperative, especially if it's been pounded on with heavy artillery.

So, regarding those frat paddles and other heavy wooden slabs some of y'all call toys?

(Thanks to my buddy Zelle, who created this graphic just for me!)

That's right, folks. On these weekends, my bottom is a no-wood zone. OK, canes are an exception, as long as the wielder knows what he's doing. Or even some lighter, thinner wooden implements, like a lightweight hairbrush, that sting but don't feel like you're hitting me with a table leg. But leave those frat paddles et. al. in your toy bag.

Mind you, I'm not speaking for all spankees, just myself. However, you may want to take heed: Many of us bottoms endeavor to enter the weekend on a lighter note and then build up. These heavy implements tend to mark and bruise, and even if they don't, they impart a whole lot of pain. And it is usually considered very poor form to mark a bottom at the onset of a three (or four, or five, for some) day spanking weekend. Oh, you can do it, if you're absolutely determined to do so. But you might find that everyone but the most diehard masochists will treat you like you had garlic and onions with limburger cheese sauce for dinner: they will stay away. Many other tops don't like to spank a bottom that is already all bruised up, so these poor prematurely marked spankees will be deprived. Not nice.

I don't care how finely crafted the implement is. Some of you actually make these things yourselves -- I don't care. I don't care how long you sanded, polished and smoothed it. I don't care if you even cut the fucking tree down yourself. The answer is still NO.

Yeah, I know your hands hurt. Our butts hurt more. Boo hoo. If your hands give out, then go for some leather. Or, here's a concept... (gasp) Don't spank so @#$%ing hard, maybe? :-D  Just a thought. Could work. Or not.

So, what's our mantra for the Shadow Lane weekend? Pace ourselves! Happy hands, happy bottoms. Win-win.

Oh, and that last word I mentioned in the blog title? Here ya go; any questions?

Think you're pretty tough, huh?

Not so tough now! Say bye-BYE....