Friday, October 12, 2012

Answered Prayers? Bound in the Light

This beautiful writing is by Dauntless Vitality of A Dauntless Journey. It's especially meaningful to me in light of many recent conversations, public and private, about doubt. Disillusionment, disenchantment, disconnectedness. People doubting their place in the thing they do, doubting their trust in their partnership, whatever form that may take.

This lryic, affirming piece is written in the voice of a Great Dom who has no doubts.

Bound in the Light
You came to me 
I took you there
To all the places you denied but needed to go
The walls…The numbness
The hollow feelings…The need to hide
The fear…All gone
Breathe deep…Life fills you
You no longer just exist
You now live to feel
To feel the excitement
To feel the arousal of the senses
To feel what’s it’s like to be cared for
Feelings within your heart and mind
Feelings you didn’t know were possible
Just to feel at all is new
And feeling like you belong and have found yourself
Your true self
The one you have been made to feel was wrong
You now see it fills you with peace
It feels safe…Secure…Protected
It feels like home
And here you lie
Completely open and available
Allowing access to all you are
Begging to be molded…shaped…formed
And shown who you already are
Not changed or made what you are not
Brought to the forefront of all you already are
A new fear…anxiety…nervousness
Now envelopes you
Not of what lies before you
What may happen to you
What may be subjected upon you
But of not having that
Of not being guided in who you are
Of not being able to see all this can bring
All this can offer
All that you are
It’s the fear of going back
Back to what was before
Back to being less
Being as you were before
You have found your strength...Your fortitude
You have been shown you have far more
Than you ever knew was possible
So you fight with all your might
You refuse…Struggle…Plead to stay bound
To stay bound in the light
The light that now shines
The light that shows you all you are
Encompasses your very being
It is freedom…Hope…Promise
The lack of binds…Of going back
Of being free to be who you were before
That is not living…That is death…That is denial
The fear of not feeling...Of not being
Is far greater than the safety of being nothing


Thursday, October 4, 2012


Who are you and why are
you texting my boyfriend?

This isn’t good. What was the last thing I told you yesterday?
DFTDT. Don’t Forget To Delete This.

Who are you and why are
you texting my boyfriend?

How did you get his phone? God, he’s an idiot.


Sorry, who are you?

I’m the girlfriend of the man you
texted 20,000 times yesterday

Yeah, that was fun.


I’m not understanding this.
You’re on someone else’s

I’m on my boyfriend’s phone
that has all the texts from your
number yesterday bitch. You
know what phone I’m on

I should convince her I’m a guy.
Let Himself deal with that.

Alright, no need for the
language. You mean your
boyfriend’s a volunteer?

A volunteer? For what?

For the group. SFS

What group? What does that
mean? And why is this all written
in initials? There’s hardly any
words here

It’s written that way so you can’t read it,
thank god, which he didn’t want to
bother with but I’m sure he’ll
remember to thank me.

SFS is our group, Sexting For
Seniors. I guess your friend is
a volunteer, bless his heart

Oh, you do know an acronym.

Our group is called Sexting
For Seniors

I can reverse phone book this
number you know

Yes but it won’t matter. The
SMSMS takes care of that

The what?

The text Masking System.
My grandson invented it. It masks
my number with an actual North
American phone number, which
you can text back to but if you call,
which we kn

ow not to do, you’ll
get the actual people at that
number who if you look up and
threaten in any way you’ll
probably get arrested

You’re so full of shit

And yet you sit there reading it.

Maybe we can talk later,
dear, when you feel better

No, we’re talking now. So you’re
a senior citizen with a sex group

Sext. Yes. I started the group
here locally, in Reykjavik, right
here in the Home, actually

You started a sex group in a
nursing home. In Iceland

Wow, I didn’t think you’d get Iceland.

Sext. Yes. Studies have shown
that seniors’ mental and physical
health benefit greatly from talking

And my boyfriend volunteered
for this

Apparently so. I do recognize
the number

I bet you do. What do these letters

Well, it’s hard to say out of

What does BHTBB mean?

Bare Hand To Bare Butt. Think, think.

Again, out of context but I
would say By His Truth Be Borne

That sounds religious

Not specifically, but the older
you get the more comforting
that stuff is


Damn. My Tongue In Every Hole You Have...

Are you there?

Yes dear, they’re just handing
out the meds. Don’t want to miss


That would be May This In
Eternity Hold You High

Again with the religious
stuff? What’s sexy about that?

Personally I find the concept of an
eternally erect dick intriguing.

You’re putting the religious
connotation. I’d call it a more poetic
way of speaking from a different

Which generation? Just how the
hell old are you supposed to be?

I’m seventy-five

Oh right. My boyfriend would never
sext a woman that old. That’s
disgusting. How can you do that?
I would never be with
a man that much younger.

What makes you think you could attract one?

As they say, different strokes

So how many other volunteers
are in this group?

Well, we’re not international
yet but there’s a good three or
four come in pretty steadily

Three or four? For how many other
horny old broads?

Oh, that’s just me right now. But
my roommate Gracie is joining, she
promised. And GK she owes me, the
hours I’ve put in on WWF with that
woman, she can’t

spell her own name

So you handle three or four guys
by yourself with your poetic
initials, which my boyfriend
understands. All day long


I’m coming for you. I’m gonna find
you bitch. I know this area code. I
Know you’re not 75 but it doesn’t
matter how old you are. I’m coming
for you. I’m gonna stomp your ass and
break your fingers.

Alright look lady, I’m a 12 year
old boy and it’s a felony to threaten
a minor over any type of social
media. So this counts. I’m telling my
Mom. I’m showing her right now

I’m coming for you

Hey, it’s me


Can you take my dog? I have to
be out of town for a while

Sure, how long?

Like, maybe a year?

Friday, September 28, 2012


She needs him too much. Too much. It has to stop.
Why? She rages. Why after all this time of denial can she not be her need. The need defines her. She sought him out of need, she suffers his too frequent absences out of need. Is one day too long, two days, three days an eternity? Between encounters, and they are becoming fewer, the high wears off sooner, the dullness settles again from the air, and she is back to waiting. Stupidly, like a blind and wounded animal, lifting her face to the sense of his return.
She is not a stupid woman. She is not inconsequential. The conflict sickens her. She has no appetite for food, exhausted from trying to cloak her appetite for him. She feels herself faded and fading, yet her physical allure intensifies. She has that translucence that is the mark of good character strafed by grief. She draws attention from men and feels only vague contempt, then terrible guilt at their hurt feelings. But she is helpless to return their interest. She doesn’t understand their words. Only feels a trail of hurt that drifts behind her.
There was that time that was so different. Usually he undresses her slowly, teasing, kissing and caressing, talking casually. She is shy, it’s her nature, she blushes and turns away and this delights him, he turns her this way, that way, gazing at her, watching her redden, feeling her rising, excited distress. But that time he pulled her to him roughly and yanked down her shorts and underwear. He stood her between his legs and smacked her hard and fast. It particularly disturbs and arouses her to be spanked standing up. With no preparation to his silent brusqueness she is shocked and almost frightened, clinging to his shoulder under the pounding of the blows. The smell of her surrounds them as she wettens.
He mutters something and drags her by the arm, tripping over her clothing, to the bathroom, forcing her down over the vanity.
"Look in the mirror," he says as he draws his belt out. "Look at yourself."
She shakes her head, squeezing her eyes closed tightly. It’s him that likes to look, she doesn’t want that image.
The belt cracks across her cheeks. No words, no warm up, hard and fast, again and again.
"Look," he says. "Look in the mirror at us."

She opens her eyes and gasps at his face in the mirror. His eyes glitter, his lips are drawn and wet. The cords in his neck stand out as he throws his weight behind the blows. He watches her mons bump the edge of the vanity. His rhythm is unvaried, as always, but his usual meticulous coverage is off, he hits the same places over and over, he’s watching the mirror.
She finally cries out. He stops and lies against her, panting, then stands and lifts her around the waist and carries her, legs bumping, to the big bed. He tosses her on her back, watching the pain shock spread through her as her asscheeks slam contact to the softest comforter that feels like sandpaper when she drags herself towards him. He can’t get his pants down before her legs are wrapped around his waist. Her body arched like a steel cable she pulls him into her. They clutch hands tightly, the time will be soon.
They can climax together. They’ve done it since their second time. She feels the hum of his blood change, he feels her clench high and to the left. They spill together, spasm together, whirlpools inside the granite of their union, the fierceness of their concentration.
This memory overcomes her. She straps herself, swinging wildly, catching her hip, her lower back, her shoulder blade. She falls onto the bed and straps her belly and her breasts, she spreads her legs and strikes in vain. The only one she feels from this stupid, inconsequential, too soft woman’s belt, is when it hits in her in the face. She’s never felt that before. She masturbates ferociously, knowing she’ll cripple herself for orgasm, not caring.
Finally she fumbles for the favored dildo and presses it between her beaten lips. Her cunt suck at it desperately, trying to make it come insider her.
She cries against her closed eyelids, cradling her burning clit. She doesn’t know any way to change this. She is this need. It’s all she wants to be.

Friday, September 21, 2012

Blue Heaven

For my birthday I bought myself art.

A soft sculpture.

Like all great art, it fires the imagination.

And stirs the soul.

The genius of this piece is in the knotting, that cascades down the strands.With its perfect weight, each swing is different, each strike is different, as the knots form and reform their patterns in kaleidoscopic blue.

The Custom Blue Flogger, by Conina, is available here.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

A Tribute

Hand Spanker to the World
Tool User, Stacker of Sting,
Player of Roles and the Nation’s Bottom Handler
Stormy, husky, brawling,
Spanker of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have been your painted woman under the gas lamps luring the farm boy.

They tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On my cheeks and legs I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.

And having answered so I turn once more to those who would sneer and say to them:

Come and show me another Spanker with lifted head singing
so proud alive and coarse and strong and cunning.

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Building, breaking, rebuilding.

Bragging and laughing that under his palm is the pulse.

Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
Youth, half naked, sweating, proud to be Hand
Spanker, Tool User, Stacker of Sting, Player of Roles
and Bottom Handler to the Nation.

Parody of "Chicago" by Carl Sandburg, 1916


Thursday, September 6, 2012


I have diverse interests. I'll label this: F/F/f, spanking, anal, aftershave.


"I’ve found us a third," M says.
How sweet is this woman? How thoughtful? She’s found us another Bottom to play with? She reads my mind?
"Another Top," she says. "Her style is very different from ours so we’ve been talking about it, deciding what we wanted to do."
What you wanted to do to me?

Aloud I say, "okay?"

M is very thorough. Thinks things through. Safe word in place, boundaries clearly established, some restrictions apply. All I have to do is go along.

I say, "okay?"

We meet in the storeroom of the office building the woman manages. She knows where the custodial staff will be, no one will interrupt us. It’s not a bad space. Darkish. Smells like fresh paper.

She is darkish and smells like aftershave. She does. Perfumes smell different on different people. Or it’s aftershave.

She says, "you will call me Mommy."

Oh here we go. So not, no. I could get into that, I could call someone Mommy. But not you. You’re possibly the most unMommy-like creature I’ve ever seen. Handsome woman, I don’t mean that, but you’re not Mommy and you’re pushy and you’re standing too close. Tell you what, I’ll call you Ma. That’s the Chinese word for pompous overbearing bulldyke.

Aloud I say, "okay."

Ma lands one on my right butt cheek that hurls me into M, elbowing her left tit severely. Which I hope to hell hurts.

Ma’s right hand is a solid block of wood. Or titanium. The muscles of her arm have been removed and replaced with steel cables, powered by hydraulics in her shoulder. Ma’s a beast.

I right myself and glare meaningfully at M.

Do you even know this woman? "Her style is different than ours?" Her solar system is different than ours. She’s some kind of Spankbot. What did you get me into?

Aloud I say nothing, just grunt as I am slammed over Ma’s lap. What’s she sitting on? I didn’t see a chair.

Ma has one speed, Stun. There are no spaces between her fingers. They don’t cup, they don’t wrap. She must have thumbs, she got my clothing down with record efficiency, but in no other way is this appendage a hand.

It’s a baseball bat, it’s a club, it’s –

It’s over? She stands me up, facing away from her, facing M. My butt aches with that far off tolling bell feeling. As the pain rolls in, that bell is going to get louder and louder and it tolls for thee.

M steps forward and holds my arms above the elbows. Something smooth and slender and hard touches my anus. Twirls lightly at my anus. I hear Ma uncork a vat of lubricant. She pushes some into me and says conversationally, "Now you’re going to fuck this."

I say to M, "I don’t want to, don’t tell me to do this."

Now on top of everything else I have to deal with demonic possession? Something else is in here with me and it just said that out of my mouth because it wasn’t me that said it. I don’t beg. Ever. Once I locked myself in the bathroom but that was not begging. And in front of a stranger with a glass dildo? I need help. Get me an exorcist.

M pushes me down slowly, lowering me onto the thing. Being spanked standing up destroys me. Something in the maximum impact jiggle, I don’t know. Anal standing up, in this half crouch, is dizzying. There is something too perverse in a situation that makes you feel like you’re going to throw up and orgasm at the same time. It’s a paradigm shift even I can’t straddle.

"Do it yourself," M says softly, "do it to yourself." She puts my hands on her shoulders. My legs are long gone. I’m supported by her shoulders and a glass rod up my ass. How can something that slimed with cold lube burn?

I can’t cry. If this makes me cry I have to kill myself. It’s in the Code somewhere, I’ve read it.

M taking my victimhood. Making me complicit. Do it to yourself. Copulate in front of us.
She stands very close to me and my calves are pushed back into Ma’s legs from the knees down. Their woman heat sears me front and back. My heat rages through me, igniting that deep muscle burn in my bottom. I raise and lower myself, making unfamiliar noises in my throat.

Stay in the moment. Find the submission, find the surrender, find the reward.

M takes her hand from my waist and fingers me. She sets me free to come. I rock against the glass dick, my fingers digging into her shoulders. Brightness falls from the air. The inner scream. The little death.

Ma snorts and disappears. Off to clean her glass gun. M towels me down from a case of personal cleansing wipes she has thought to bring. She finds my clothes but we can’t go yet. I can’t walk. We sit on the floor forehead to forehead counting the heartbeats.

I've written about M before, here.

Thursday, August 30, 2012

A Story of Us at a Spanking Party, Part 2

Iwanttodothis. Iwanttodothis. How far away is that freaking bed? Mr. B pulls me in front of him. Mrs. B glances briefly at my thigh and returns her gaze to you. I close my eyes.

"Open your eyes," you say from across the room. How do you know I closed my eyes? Fuck you. I open my eyes and stare at the wall.

Mr. B takes a butt cheek in each hand and mashes it. He squeezes and kneads and and pumps. Mrs. B packs a bit more in the trunk than I do, perhaps he likes the chance to get a whole cheek in his hand. Are you watching? How long do we let this go on? He moves down and squeezes my thighs for a bit, then pats his lap. Mrs. B gets up and goes to you, I guess. She doesn’t say anything.

Mr. B pulls me across him and makes several thousand minute adjustments to my position and my panties. His thighs are bony but his pouch is couchy to lie on. What’s happening? What’s Mrs. B doing? He’s got me tipped awkwardly and I can’t let go to get my hair out of my face. Why wouldn’t they put us some way we could see each other? Watch each other?

Mr. B starts a soft rant about unacceptable behavior. I think well, I walked into your hotel room and let you watch me be undressed and got over your lap. What about that did you find unacceptable? Clearly I have to fill in those blanks for myself. He just talks. He talks forever with a random swat here and there. I’m bored. I hate videos where these guys go on and on just to hear themselves talk. I’m uncomfortable the way he’s holding me but I don’t know if I say that if he’ll make me more uncomfortable. I really don’t know enough about this stuff. Are you watching? How long do we do this? I hear your belt come off and the sound of your zipper. What’s she been doing?

I hear you grunt softly and Mrs. B starts talking. Murmuring, on and on. Mr. B pulls my panties down and finally picks up the pace some. Can you see me? Is she looking at me? The rant is now "bad bad bad bad bad bad bad" with "girl" thrown in here and there but he’s got some rhythm going. I can hear Mrs. B’s voice and a metronomic light thudding but no sound from you.

Mr. B suddenly roars into "BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD" accompanied by slamming spanks upwards into my cheeks. I suck air and start chanting "OW OW OW OW OW" along with him. His arm is clamped on me, his knobby elbow driven between my ribs, but he’s almost knocking me off his lap. I gasp and twist away, it’s making me dizzy and it hurts way deep. I jerk hard away from him and he stops, rubbing me too rigorously but he’s stopped spanking. My ears ring.

He stands me up and turns me around. You’re standing in front of Mrs. B with no pants or shoes on. Your face isn’t red and you’re not breathing hard. You’re not hard anywhere. What happened?

They lead us toward each other until we’re toe to toe. "You can hold onto each other," Mr. B says absentmindedly, looking through implements. He holds up something on a handle that looks like a piece of metal between leather flaps, for Mrs. B’s approval. I look in your eyes. You shrug and put your arms around me.

"You can take the rest of those clothes off," Mr. B says. I shake my head but you push my arms up and lift off my shirt and take off my bra. I can’t reach high enough to do you, I push your shirt up and you shrug out of it.

I put my palms on your butt cheeks to see if they’re hot. You grab my hands away but too late.

"She’s covering him!" Mrs. B shrills. You say later that she said it in a normal tone of voice but she didn’t. She shrill gloated it. Mr. B comes around behind me and Mrs. B stands behind you.

"Now my dear," Mr. B says, "you know that’s not allowed. Put your palms up for Mrs. B to punish."

I put my face in your chest. You tighten your arms around me. "You don’t have to," you breathe into my hair, "say the word." My breath is ragged mewling muffled against you. I turn my left hand up and open it behind your back. She hits it with something that sounds like a cap pistol going off and buckles my knees. You hold me up. I clutch my left fist to my chest between us.

"Other hand," Mr. B singsongs. "Stretch your arm out, get it away from his back."

I stretch my arm, mashing my breasts against you. I open my hand and she cuts half of it off. I scream, waiting for the half with my fingers to hit the floor. Waiting for the blood spout. What did she hit me with? That was nothing that was lying on that table. You pull that arm back between us, kissing my still attached fingers, trying to calm my sobbing. You hold me tighter, rubbing my back and kissing my eyelids.

"Put your arms around," Mr. B says. "You need to be braced."

I wrap my arms around you. My hands are numb.

We stand belly to belly. Mr. and Mrs. B begin rocking from foot to foot behind us, slapping their hands with their implements that we can’t see. Then Mrs. B moves to her left and takes aim at you. There’s a tremendous thwack followed immediately by a whistling shot to me that slams us against each other. They alternate like this, quickly, weaving an encircling of pain around us, the blows ricocheting through us one to the other.

They change implements, at one time tossing the exchange over our heads. Straps, leather paddles, tawse, crop, metal thing with leather flaps. No wood I think, but maybe. Wasn't there gleaming wood somewhere? I can’t keep up. I’m sorry, I’m making it almost impossible for you to hold us up, I keep getting on my right tip toe with my left knee digging into your thigh. I keep trying to put my leg down but it goes back up with each blow. You’re stuck with your legs braced apart and holding most of my weight. When you jerk towards me with the hits it looks like you’re fucking me I’m sure. What was I worried about? They’re watching us fuck anyway.

They pick up speed. They’ve practiced this. They’re in perfect harmony alternating strokes. No matter what he uses he catches me between the cheeks like clockwork, every fourth stroke. I graciously accommodate him by continuing to lift my left leg, separating my cheeks.

I don’t know if she’s as fierce as he is, but your guttural "unh unh unh" makes me think so. We’re slick with sweat and trembling. The delicate ambergris air that greeted us is now thick with this miasma of us. All of us. Sweat, arousal, perfume, Mr. B’s cologne, her lavender talc. I find your lips with mine but I’m afraid to stay that way, afraid I’ll bite down or worse. We can’t be going home from this explaining missing teeth.

I haven’t had much experience but I know this is not the distanced politesse of professionals. There’s a gleeful, lusty savagery at play that only comes from true love of the sport.

Your cock is burning rock between us. You’re going to jizz all over both of us. I don’t want them to see that. I should have known you wouldn’t care but I don’t like it and my mind searches wildly for a solution between the raging hail of strikes.

I feel your rhythm change, no longer dictated by their beat. There’s no time left. My legs feel like wet noodles but I jump. I jump and wrap my legs around your waist, praying your cock stays between us and doesn't shoot out under me and spray Mr. B's good lawn shirt. I feel your shock as you catch me but that's nothing compared to the shock when I yell "BATHROOM!"

That wasn't the safeword but it sure halts things. The whole room waits, the candles cock their flames in "huh?"

"Bathroom," I whimper, "I need the bathroom."

Mr. B says, "It's there," and you sprint to the door which I kick closed behind us.

"Fuckme fuckme fuck –"

You slam my tortured bottom onto the vanity and jackhammer into me exploding on contact.

"YEAH!!!!!" you yell.

It echoes off the tile.

"Baby that was so good wasn't it? I never felt you come like that. I don't know if I ever came like that. Let me suck your neck. I never suck your neck."

"Yes, yes," I gasp. "Please be quiet. They're right out there. They can hear."

"I thought that was your fantasy."

"My fantasy is someone hearing me get spanked, not fucked."

"Yeah, sit there and tell me there's a big difference there for you. Let me suck your elbow a minute. Wasn't that good?"

"Yes," I say. "Yes it was so good. Please don't suck anything else now. Please go get my clothes. I don't know what we're supposed to do now. Are we supposed to thank them?"

"Don't worry. I got it covered. I'll get your clothes." You grab a towel and wipe yourself off and shove another one between my legs. You go out and I hear more murmured voices and you come back, carefully closing the door.

"I couldn't get your panties, baby. I think Mr. B put them in his pocket."

"Oh god," I moan. "We have to take these towels with us. They’re covered with cum and mascara."

"Hell no, Mr. B likes souvenirs, leave him the panties and the towels."

As you turn to pee I see that Mrs. B claims her territory. You’re deep and pulsing red from tops of cheeks well down your thighs. I clench. I never imagined seeing you this way. I want to kiss and lick your cheeks. I want my tongue inside you, feel that heat so deep. I slide off the vanity and twist to see myself in the mirror. Mr. B has hit one spot so many times I’ll probably need a skin graft. But it’s all there. A sanguine canvas of darkening bruises, stripes and berries.

I bend over, my fevered forehead searching for a spot of cool on the vanity surface that doesn’t exist anymore because my flaming butt has sucked it all up.

I say, "look what he did to me. On the right."

You touch your tongue to the spot. "It’s not broken, we’ll get some ice. God, look at you. Look at you. I’m hard again, are you wet? Yeah –"

"No," I say. "I can’t. I need the room, I need the bed."

"Okay, Come on. Let's get you dressed. Get back up here, put your legs through. Get your shoes – do we have to do up all these buckles? Stand up and pull these up. Do you think of wearing clothes you can get on and off?"

"Do you think about how my ass looks in these pants?" I yank the wrinkled linen, which has turned to burlap laced with shards of razor blade, up around my swollen cheeks and pussy.

"That’s true," you say, "they look good. Just wait one second before you put your bra on. I can't not suck you baby, it's unnatural. No, I know, let’s go. We’ll get you bed and ice."

"I want enough ice to sit in."

"We’ll get that, and bed and rest and food and fuck. We gotta keep your strength up. I have a surprise for you later."