Greenridge I

*all characters are at least eighteen years of age

“That doesn’t happen here. Not anymore, anyway.”

Cynthia Dawson smoothed out imaginary wrinkles on her skirt before taking a sip of her min lemonade. Overpriced lemonade, she noted, wincing internally, but she had to get something. She knew the drill at this point. Sarah Baker, yet another wide eyed freshman (otherwise known as “Rubies” amongst upperclassmen) sat across from her at the school café, where Cynthia put on her most convincing act: the unbothered yet in-the-know Senior Scout. Technically she was still a junior in terms of classes, but the term “senior scout” was widespread before juniors were officially allowed to assist with initiation. 

Greenridge University was one of the top private colleges in the area. Graduates went on to be biochemists, Pulitzer winning authors, doctors…but all that status came with a price. Spanking was the university’s worst kept secret. If you looked hard enough, you could see the signs. Leftover mascara tracks, squirming during class lectures, overhearing “it’s okay I’ll stand” during lunch, answered with knowing smirks and sympathetic murmurs. 

But the Rubies didn’t know this. Even the most jaded ones found ways to ask during Orientation Week. Is it true? I’m not scared. Not like it would be my first time. Sarah wanted to know if it was true: that if you were even just a minute late to class, you had to stand in the corner until the end of class, and afterwards the professor might paddle you. 

Cynthia heard it all. And she knew the rules. As far as the Rubies were concerned, corporal punishment was just an outdated tradition. Hazing in the sororities could mean a swat or two, but nothing serious. And even that was frowned upon, she said with a well-practiced serious face. 

“And let’s keep that between us. The administration has been keeping a close eye on the sororities, it’s like they’re ready to make an example out of us.”

She needed more, something to play into the girl’s ego. 

“I know I can trust you. I can tell you’re more mature.” 

Three years ago, a similar line worked on her. 


“Freshman have a strict curfew of midnight, are you not aware of that, Ms. Dawson?”

It was 2 am and Mrs. Sterling was sitting in the common room of her dorm. Her tone wasn’t unkind, almost knowing. 

Cynthia knew that she had a 12 am curfew, but Renee, her senior scout, told her they weren’t really enforced, especially where Ms. Sterling was concerned. 

She remembered the low whistle Renee let out when she showed her class schedule and dorm assignments, telling her who was a stickler for the rules, who let you get out of class early…

“Mrs. Sterling?” Renee playfully slapped her arm. “Some girls have all the luck.”

“Why, what’s she like?” Cynthia wanted to pretend to be cool, but Renee was so easy going, she felt like she didn’t have to fake it. They were strolling through the garden, slow enough for her to sneak pictures for back home without being too obvious. 

Greenridge was famous for its garden. The manicured lawns and neat rows of flowers required more upkeep. At least once a month, it would be closed off for a private event, the hosts looking to impress prospective clients, couples (often graduates of Greenridge) wanting to show off. And Greenridge was happy to have them, as long as they were willing to pay the hefty rental fees. 

Cynthia gawked at the biggest azaleas she’d ever seen, missing Renee’s brief eye roll.

 “Oh she’s a kitten! She’s like 27 and gorgeous! Left her job as a secretary to come here as a dorm mother. Literally most nights she’s either in bed watching reality tv by 11 – she’s like a tv blogger or something – and she gets so wrapped up in her little shows that she doesn’t even care what you’re doing.”


“Seriously girl. Just don’t like, smoke or drink in your room, or come in obviously drunk. But if you’re coming home an hour or two past curfew, no one will bat an eye.”

Cynthia had a curfew of 10pm growing up and that was on weekends. Going out on a school night, save some special occasion, was unheard of. Midnight seemed like a luxury to her, not that she would admit this. She watched Renee scroll through Instagram, her perfectly manicured fingers tap tapping until she found what she was looking for: catmama0707’s page. 

“Who’s this?” Cynthia held Renee’s phone as if it was made of glass, slowly scrolling. A pretty woman in her late 20s who loved knitting, Real Housewives memes, and cats? Could’ve been any girl she went to school with in about ten years, she thought, shuddering. 

“That’s Ms. Sterling! She’s really into the whole granny chic trend, if you can’t tell.” Renee said, taking her phone back. “She’s like the most DGAF of anyone on this campus, even the students.” She sat on an empty bench, taking a tube of lipgloss out of her bag and applying a fresh coat. 

 “She literally took this job because of the free housing after her boyfriend dumped her, not to mention the other million perks. Jessica – I mean, Ms. Sterling – is like…a glorified babysitter. Anyway.” Renee paused, making sure she had Cynthia’s full attention. “You don’t have to worry. You might be a freshman, but you’re so much more mature than the other girls. I can tell.”


Cynthia expected hazing. She was naive, sure, but not so naive to think that it wouldn’t happen. That’s why she snorted when Ms. Sterling said it: 

“I know you might think that because you’re on your own, away from your parents, that there aren’t rules to follow anymore. That’s not the case, little girl. For the next four years, we expect you to be on the straight and narrow just like you would at home. And if you choose not to follow the rules, you can expect consequences.” 

“Is something funny?” 

She didn’t think she laughed, but maybe her face broke out into a smile. That happened when she was nervous, and often she didn’t even realize it. 

“N-no…it’s just that, well I thought-“

“You thought you could stroll in here two hours past curfew and nothing would happen? Did you read your handbook?”

Cover to cover, at least once a day, everyday for a month leading up to move in day, Cynthia thought. Ms. Sterling narrowed her eyes. 

“Well yeah! But I thought…I just…it got late.”

“Well. Ms. Sterling finally stood up. She was shorter than Cynthia , but Cynthia felt about two inches tall. “If you think that you will be exempt from consequences just because you’re new, you are sorely mistaken.” She picked up an ebony hairbrush from the table. “I’ll make this as quick as possible because it’s late and everyone else is sleeping, but we have a lot more to discuss. Be in my office at 9 am sharp.”

Cynthia froze in place. She didn’t quite know what was happening. It couldn’t be. She wouldn’t. 

“Over my knee. Now.”

“But you can’t!”

Ms. Sterling raised an eyebrow. She was already annoyed at having to stay up. She knew at least one of the girls was going to break the curfew rule. That one was the easiest, she thought.  But she didn’t expect it to be a) during orientation week and b) two whole hours. She was tired, but she intended to get her point across. 

“If I have to come get you…”

Cynthia walked over to Ms. Sterling – waddled was more like it. She’d borrowed a pair of Renee’s heels, and it turns out 6 hours and a minute right up to her first ever spanking was the comfort limit.

“You can take those off.” 

Cynthia breathed a sigh of relief, balancing herself against the sofa frame as she carefully removed the heels. They were more expensive than anything she’d ever owned – no, even looked at. Maybe Renee confused Ms. Dawson with another dorm mother? Renee seemed like she smoked a lot, sometimes that can happen – but she wouldn’t trick her on purpose. Right? She said that whole ‘corporal punishment’ thing was bogus.

 “Just a dumb rumor parents tell their kids so they don’t crazy the first year.” Renee said, rolling her eyes.

And maybe Ms. Sterling wasn’t all that bad. After all, she sensed Cynthia’s discomfort…

“I don’t have all evening, Ms. Dawson.” Jessica Sterling interrupted the girl’s thoughts. She couldn’t care less if Cynthia’s feet hurt or not – but she’d been kicked too many times before, usually by girls that had never been spanked. If I had a dollar for every flying Loubiton, she mused. 

Cynthia stretched herself over Ms. Sterling’s lap, unsure what to do. Ms. Sterling paused for a moment, then yanked the dress up over Cynthia’s bottom. The dress (a strapless metallic number, courtesy of Renee) wasn’t particularly long to begin with, but Cynthia blushed nevertheless. She felt more vulnerable, knowing that there wasn’t anything underneath.   

She didn’t have much time for embarrassment, as Ms. Sterling quickly got to work with the hairbrush. Cynthia had never been spanked before, save a few playful swats from boyfriends, but she knew people that were. A tiny voice in the back of her mind wondered if this was a test. But she couldn’t access the stubborn streak in her, the thing that forced her to be brave, the one that meant she could survive anything. A stray tear fell down her cheek before the first swat even came.  


“Just go commando”, Renee said eight hours earlier, watching Cynthia fuss over panty lines. 

After their stroll in the garden, Renee invited Cynthia back to her dorm. They watched reruns of their favorite sitcoms, pausing between episodes to make small talk – mostly initiated by Renee. Cynthia answered every question with ease, still not feeling a hundred percent comfortable, but much more relaxed.

 When Alice, Renee’s roommate, came in and told them about a party, Cynthia thought that was her cue to leave, but Renee and Alice insisted she stay. Cynthia was honored by the invite, but nothing she owned would fit the unwritten dress code – sleek minidresses and minuscule tops with designer jeans. She was relieved when Renee offered to let her borrow something, as if she knew Cynthia hadn’t prepared for such things.  


Ms. Sterling didn’t care who was familiar with spanking. She just knew that this young lady had broken curfew by two whole hours. Something she expected from a senior, or maybe a junior that had gotten a little too comfortable. Not a freshman, and certainly not the first week. She got to work on Cynthia’s sit spots, taking care to lift each cheek so that the under curve of her round bottom got just as much attention as the rest. 

Cynthia was in tears after the first ten, and after twenty she was sobbing. Ms. Sterling took brief pauses to lecture and survey her work, but Cynthia was in too much pain to focus. She’d lost count of how many swats – initially she tried to guess some kind of pattern, or lucky number that would make it stop – around 60 she gave up. 

It took a few minutes for Cynthia to calm herself down. Ms. Sterling was patient. Her comforting noises coupled with gentle back rubs confused Cynthia, but she didn’t complain. At some point she’d grabbed a pillow to muffle herself. Despite her distress, she still managed to be self conscious. She felt it even more now, glancing at the tag. Even the common room was decorated impeccably – from the oversized pink velvet couch and antique rugs, to the wall art and the flat screen TV. Cynthia remembered the first time she walked through this room, wondering if she would ever fit in. 

It wasn’t just about money. Everyone at Greenridge seemed so sure of themselves, like they didn’t have to agonize over saying the right thing, or how to fit in, they just were. She longed for that feeling, the sense that she belonged. 

As she lay over Ms. Sterling’s lap, she realized she finally felt at home. 

“Thank you”, Cynthia whispered.

“You’re welcome, sweet girl.“


Filling in the Blanks

For a dear friend that recently passed.

Sometimes I think I wish I knew just how bad it got, or that it would be. Before the last time I thought he was doing well. He still looked like himself. 

I would’ve came around more. Two and a half hours by train isn’t bad. I miss his humor, his curiosity, his calming presence. 

I imagine that he would’ve told me not to dwell on it; that regret isn’t worth my time. That’s a big part of what grief is – filling in the blanks when we can’t get the answers. 

Yesterday I attended a celebration of life. Getting there was…chaotic to say the least, but I made it thanks to some good friends. Another blank for me to fill in – I think he would’ve appreciated this story. 

I met so many people. Whether they were his family or close friends, their stories had the same message – that he was an incredible person. One of the most remarkable things about the scene is the opportunities we get to meet people we never would’ve met otherwise. I think about this especially now as I remember him. He was an amazing friend to so many.  

In the wee hours of the night, I was speaking to a friend about my anxiety and other stressors and she pointed out that I hadn’t really taken time to grieve. I don’t know how to, and in retrospect, I haven’t really had the time – so much has happened in such a short time that I couldn’t catch my breath. I realize now, as I’m writing this in my phone, fingers digging into my skin (a trick I learned to combat crying in public) that I forgot how to do this too, to breathe easier. Another thing to figure out. 

He was always looking for solutions. A way to make things better, to make sure everything, and everyone was okay. He was relentless in his quest for joy and that’s something I hope – I plan, to carry with me everyday. 

Daylight savings ended, so the sun was still out when I came home. I took time to enjoy the sunset. I came home to the smell of fresh flowers – he found good in so many things, I’m so many people. I’d like to hold on to that feeling for him. 

P.S. If you know him, and you know me, you’ll know the reason behind the picture. 


Illustrations of Shame

CW:sexual assault

*Note: I started writing this over a month ago, hence the time changes. It’s fine. It’s going to be a hit, but you need to relax.


I know people that won’t even say the word. I’ve (mostly) made peace with it but there are times when I’m afraid there will be a dictionary in front of me, when I’ll be forced to recite definitions. Or someone will just say it and look at me with a blank stare, waiting for me to combust.

Don’t worry. I know that this is ridiculous and irrational but isn’t that part of having a fetish?

I grew up with a lot of shame. Not enough to stop me from exploring online or even to be brazen enough to ask for it every now and then. But afterwards. I remember telling myself that this was the last time, that I would just blow through this phase. Spoiler alert: I did not.

One aspect of being a spanko that is so common and I can’t help but wonder why: looking up the word in the dictionary. What did we think was going to happen? Were we just manifesting before it became a wellness trend?

One of my theories is that this our solution to not having access to stories or porn. Even the way that I would read the dictionary entry was like how I would read spanking stories on the family computer: I would open multiple tabs, ready to switch over to MySpace or a livestream of grass growing to avoid suspicion. With the dictionary, I found myself ready to slip over to a completely different letter. Z – that’s much less…zuspicious. E? Q, even. Just get me out of the letter S. Never heard of her.

Everyone talks about whether or not you used the dictionary but not enough people talk about shame? Did you have it?

If you don’t, tell me – what is it like to be God’s favorite? If you do, tell me how bad yours was? How long did your quitting phase (I’m never going to think/read/masturbate about this thing ever again) last?

I think I’ve regressed. Not significantly. I’ve done a decent job at compartmentalizing. I’m also incredibly grateful to be part of the generation I am now – say what you will about social media, but it’s made it possible that if you don’t have a quirk, or a weird thing that you’re into, somethings wrong. Kinks are the norm, but not too normal. Just normal enough now that vanilla* people with large followings can talk about what kinks they’ve developed as a result of their upbringing, and no one bats an eye. “Daddy” has entered the lexicon – there’s a popular podcast titled “Call Her Daddy” (how many times have I said this in reference to myself?)

I think this is an overall good thing;  kink is an important factor in the broad conversation of sex positivity. 

The pandemic changed how we all interacted with each other, and kink was no exception to this. I found myself reading erotica more often. I was used to reading my friends’ stories, but I found myself down the rabbit hole of things I don’t want to admit I find hot. Suddenly I was deleting my browsing history, something no one else would have access to. Then came the fear about how it would feel to experience play again.

A few months ago, I was able to start seeing friends locally, and while there was some initial shyness, I was able to get into the swing of things again.

I found myself jerked back in early July, when I slipped on the stairs in my building and fractured my ankle. About a month after surgery and an incredibly stressful hospital visit, I’m slowly healing, and feeling terribly conflicted.

I’m so fortunate to have assistance as needed, but I’m annoyed that just as I felt things were blooming again, I missed so many social opportunities again. I’m looking forward to a party the weekend of Labor Day, but I’m nervous – it feels like every insecurity I’ve ever had has found a way to rear its ugly head. 

(Unwanted) loss of autonomy has a way of fucking things up. I don’t want to be treated any differently, but it feels unreasonable to say this when I don’t feel the same way I used to. And even saying this sounds silly, but one tiny slip managed to impact my life in a way I didn’t think was possible. 

I spoke about this with a friend of mine, who gently suggested that I may have to talk to people about what is and isn’t okay in terms of play (my nightmare). Although this didn’t stop me from asking a physical therapist if it was still okay to be spanked. Looking back, I’m appalled. Not so much my nerve but the way that I asked.  

 I’m always thinking about vulnerability in reference to my spanking fetish, because it’s at the center of what does it for me. Allowing yourself to be taken care of/taking care of someone else, in a manner that requires pain. Initially, I thought that this would be hard because I’d be forced to exercise vulnerability in a way that isn’t sexy, or fun – just necessary if I still want to do this thing we do. And it turns out, I do.

My friends have shown me compassion and love that sometimes I can’t even fully express gratitude for. Even in some small ways that they probably aren’t even aware of. I’ll never be rid of my fetish, no matter how many times I delete my browsing history. But community is what keeps me going. And…when we play safely, negotiation is always a part of the game. Consent is never advertised as sexy, but when you know what makes your play partner tick, and just how to use their bodies – that’s exciting.

It feels morally superior to admit that things could be worse, and to acknowledge the privilege that I do have.

Despite navigating rules that wouldn’t have been present elsewhere, or ones that wouldn’t have come with accountability, I realize that my spanking fetish has granted me a specific type of freedom. Even when I’m being punished. I’m attracted to the understanding we all have, that if you push hard enough in a certain direction, or even just veer off course for a moment, that someone will spank you. Or that you have the responsibility to spank someone else. There’s negotiation, discussion of limits, but ultimately everyone has the same goal. 

After eight or so years, I grew accustomed to navigating these spaces with a certain lightness. In the physical sense – hello, 2 am mischief fueled excursions to the parking lot of a hotel.

I can take slight joy in knowing that when I do tell people how to handle me, that I can take an active role in getting my needs met, that there is still a level of submission in this. But I don’t want gentleness, I’ve realized – and in the time that I’m playing, I have to ask someone to take care of me, while simultaneously waiting to be hurt. 

It seems like a paradox, but then I realize, this is what I’ve been doing all along. 

Sometimes it feels like im preparing to share a secret. I remember, on the days when my kink was heaviest on my mind, there was this fear that everyone knew. Like if they looked at me long enough, they’d see everything I fantasized. 

But then what? 

*vanilla to me, as far as I know 


I wrote this before my trip – the delay in publishing was due to a combination of nerves, stress and also the possibility that I might back out last minute. I didn’t. With the help of one of my best friends, I made my way through the airport and eventually to the hotel. Armed with a knee scooter and crutches, I found myself taking frequent breaks. These breaks gave way to questions -some of which were expected (courtesy of partygoers/friends I don’t regularly keep up with) and some were not (random vanilla people who decided to spend their Labor Day weekend at that hotel). I learned that some people have a level of comfort with strangers that I will never, ever have.

But! In spite of the questions, and the occasional frustration at my lack of mobility, I had a wonderful time. The pace of this event felt slower – there were less familiar faces. I spent a great chunk of time either in the suite I shared with friends, or my neighbors. And while this was partially due to literally not being able to get around easily, I found that even in this large space, I needed familiarity.

I found comfort in knowing that in spite of what it took to get me throughout the party, no one found it weird. People waited with me in the hallways, two of my friends helped pushed me in an office chair, another friend took my knee scooter to a gas station to inflate a flat tire. I don’t know if they realize how much these moments meant to me. After a year and a half of uncertainty, I had reassurance – you belong here, this makes sense.

It’s been more than eight years since I joined the scene, but I still need to reminded. And there’s no shame in that.

I forgot what it was like to immerse myself in my fetish this way, in a way that feels like only we can. Spanko culture is not without its faults – in the past month and a half, multiple brave women have shared stories of harm they experienced in the scene. While some of the stories have been hard to stomach, I think we’re long overdue for a reckoning. There’s so much that has to change, and we cannot make these changes until we acknowledge what people have experienced, and in turn, acknowledge the factors that allowed their abusers to frequent the scene without consequences.


There’s a lot of “what comes next” going around. It’s a valid question, especially as events are kind of hit or miss now – the majority of the pressure has been on party organizers. My fellow Cheeksters (can I call them that? Is that just the worst?) and I spent time editing our policies, and I know other parties are doing the same. While a lot of the incidents mentioned happened at private events, I think that organizers tend to set the tone: when you hold an event, you’re saying, these people here are okay. This is a safe place to be. And when you allow guests that have violated consent, you say, this doesn’t matter.

I was assaulted before I even knew what a ‘scene’ was. It took me years to realize that was what happened to me. I remember a time when I didn’t want to admit that I could have a negative experience in relation to my sexuality, before I even fully explored my spanking fetish. I was, or I wanted to be confident, and brave, and in control. I felt embarrassed, even when I told my friends. I couldn’t help but think this was my fault. I wanted to change the narrative, to paint it as a colorful anecdote. But I was too ashamed, and I locked it away.

I’ve spent the past few weeks forcing myself to ignore the triggers that pop up – it didn’t feel like the right time to tune out. I realize now that this wasn’t healthy, but I also wasn’t in a constant state of discomfort. I realize now that trauma tends to build up, even underneath a good shield. Sometimes when you’re ready to acknowledge it, you’ve already been consumed.

But I know better now – I’m taking things day by day, allowing myself to take breaks as long as I need. I’ll turn off my phone, delete apps. I’ll reach out to people when I need to. It’s tempting to shut people out, but I know that things won’t get better that way.

Loneliness seems mandatory when you heal. It comes in waves, in spite of knowing you aren’t the first person to experience something. However, it doesn’t have to be that way. You don’t have to shut everyone out and give way to fear, to shame. 

In an ideal world, no one would have experienced what they did. But we don’t get better by wishing for redos and centering regret. 

I’ve felt encouragement just by seeing people support each other, in acknowledging the bravery it takes to come forward. And even though every interaction isn’t perfect, we gain strength in having the hard conversations. 

One of the things that that kept me going was answering the question of is this (this scene, the community) worthwhile, and if so, what makes it worth it. I felt disappointment as new stories came to light – was this something I wanted to be a part of? It was especially hard realizing that some of these were open secrets – that meant acknowledging the work that went into covering them up. People who needed protection the most couldn’t get it, or they didn’t feel comfortable seeking it. I haven’t been shy about criticizing the scene. I’ve said it before: loving something means wanting it to be it to be better. 

However there’s a question of whether or not it can get there. I think it can. But we have to do the work, even when it’s frustrating or uncomfortable. And we have to give ourselves room to process – we can’t function minus emotion but we can’t rely solely upon it either. I’m working on that balance. We need to center empathy as we ask ourselves what steps we can take to improve. People deserve and need community, and it will exist even if we’re not doing our best. It still boggles my mind that there were other people that relied solely the ‘S’ columns of Encyclopedia Britannica, that thumbed through dictionaries. And regardless of what that looks like for the next generation (a Google search, perhaps?) they’ll be just as surprised, and just as thankful when they find more people like them.  


Paddle and Circumstance

Do you believe in fate?

I’m only asking because I keep thinking if I had done something different, we wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be here. Bent over the desk, waiting for the paddle. Gripping the desk so hard I’m scared the wood might splinter in my hands. 

You, on the other hand, seem unfazed. You answer at the right time – saying yes ma’am and no sir when appropriate, but you’ve locked eyes with me and made silly faces. Rolled your eyes. Glanced at your wrist, pretending to check your watch. 

I know better. After this you will ask me to attend to your bruises. I will – tracing them with my index finger as I have before. Making soothing sounds as you hiss once the lotion touches your inflamed skin. You will curl up in my arms, seeking comfort – but this time I’ll need you just as much. 

I can’t say no to you. You’d never take advantage of this – not on purpose at least. The paddle crashes down a fifth time, a sixth, a seventh. She probably thinks I’m being brave, but really a cry is stuck in my throat. On the eighth swat a stray tear escapes and falls centimeters away from you. I’m ashamed, but when she aims for the crease between my bottom and thighs, shame is the last thing on my mind. 

It’s your turn. I haven’t been granted permission to move just yet, so I’m just waiting. She asked you a question, but you didn’t answer the right way.  

“I beg your pardon?”

Your eyes meet mine and I plead with you, I beg you to stop. I’m always impressed, you don’t have to try any harder. But even when you roll your eyes and snort, I see it. One swat. Then another. Then another. She’s not even taking breaks. I open my mouth to protest, but I feel a hand on my shoulder. 

Don’t“, he says gently. 

Your hand grips mine, and I don’t know who reached out first, where you start, or where I begin. I remember the day we met – I told you it felt like I was always waiting my turn for something big to happen. Since then, you’ve taken me on so many adventures. 

There was that night we went to the border and watched the sun rise. The private beach you took me to. Then there’s the usual fanfare. Parties in abandoned warehouses, strangers’ homes. I always felt safe. Like even if something bad were to happen, we would only feel it for a moment. 

You’ve finally given up your bravado.

Stop! Please! I’m so sorry, I’m sorry!

She remains unfazed. She says that you think you are now, but she says that you’ve been here so many times and you don’t seem to learn. That she’s done taking your word for it, and that she will finish when she thinks you’ve truly had enough. 

My bottom feels so swollen, and as ridiculous as I felt wearing a thong earlier (I was hoping you might see it), I’m currently thankful that nothing is touching my bottom. 

You’re sobbing now, and I want to take care of you. I want to jump up and put myself in your place. We’ve done worse things, much naughtier than skipping school, I want to say. It’s one measly little class and we didn’t miss anything. It was all my idea. The words build up and retreat just as quickly. 

What if you’d sent that text five minutes later? What if she caught traffic on her way to the school? What if she had a bad day and decided not to show up on campus and surprise you. What if I hadn’t seen him that morning, then he wouldn’t be expecting me. What if, what if. 

Her pacing starts to slow, but the intensity does not. This isn’t the first time you’ve been paddled, but it’s the first time you’ve let go with an audience. I bet you don’t think so, but you’ve never looked stronger to me, more powerful. 

So when I open my mouth again to protest, to tell her to stop, I swallow my guilt instead. I wait. We’re exactly where we deserve to be. 

Going Forward.

I am intentionally writing this here because I need my thoughts to exist in a place other than the kink social media black hole that is Fetlife. If you have any questions about who the person is I am referencing, please do not hesitate to ask.

I’m not part of the old guard. 

A lot of shit gets attributed to the “old guard”. Frankly, if I was a member of the old guard who’d been doing the work for ages I’d be a little embarrassed. 

I’ve been in the scene about nine? Ten years? And I understand that things have changed. That once upon a time two men playing together was frowned upon. That two women, even something that in a lot of circles is a male crowd pleaser, was taboo. No one was asking what your pronouns were. That parties were once a lot whiter, and a lot older, that before a lot of people didn’t speak up. They just disappeared. 

I’ve said before – in both public and private, that the scene is merely a microcosm of our society. Our weird rituals and tendencies aside, we have a lot of the same problems the rest of the world does. They don’t go away because we share a fetish. People might break your heart. They might be careless. Maybe they’re mean, maybe they’re selfish. 

Maybe they’re misogynistic and racist with zero consequences. 

Visible progress comes and goes the same way – we’re not at the same place we were twenty years ago, sure. But when you look at where we are now, are you satisfied? I’m not. 

This is pretty much for those wondering “how did we get here”. For those reminiscing about the good ole days – it’s easy. Someone reached their breaking point. Glad I could clear that up for you.

This is for the people who were directly hurt. You didn’t deserve this. It’s not your fault. 

My intent isn’t to lay out every microagression that’s ever been hurled at me since joining the scene. If you’re reading recent fetlife posts, you know who is being referenced: A prominent party organizer from the midwest who throws both his own national parties and assists in the planning of others. I don’t have a personal story to share. He was always friendly to me. We even played a few times. I have been in his home. Which is why I feel particularly sick. I wonder did everyone know? 

I didn’t think he was perfect. There was a time when I thought he was much more pure – I’d seen and heard about his fund raising efforts, how he was always organizing. I don’t really remember where it started – but eventually I woke up, or people around me did. It was disappointing but I heard that he could be shallow, misogynistic.  Not in depth the way that other people have shared, more in the “locker room talk” sort of way. That sometimes his ego got the best of him. That he could be a bit of a dick. And I didn’t like it – but I brushed it away. I spoke about this to someone recently, how I treated the parties like a brand. Take Amazon for example. You know the owner kind of sucks, but it’s super convenient. The convenience in this case was seeing my friends who all lived in different parts of the country. I wasn’t there to spend time with him, and I didn’t have to do anything other than be cordial, pay my party fee, and have a good time. 

I wonder if the idea that some people were a little misogynistic seemed like a given, considering that we are in a community binded by physical acts. 

Fast forward to the past couple of months. Stories of mistreatment from multiple former partners. Fat shaming, belittling, manipulation. Finding out that he used a racial slur about a supposed friend. That he called his cleaning lady a nigger, that he used these terms regularly. Said black people were less intelligent. Talked about playing with plus size women as ‘pity play’ – something to get out of the way early on in the party. Knew that a friend had violated the consent of multiple women. Gave this person a slap on the wrist, then went on to elect this person as a staff member at his parties. That he gets a little drunk and says a few racist things.

I’ve been in this person’s house. I worry that the mistreatment of women may be explained away now that he is married, that he is not that person anymore, that he has grown. That he has “learned so much.”

No one is perfect. But why do we have to wait for people to be taught. I can accept the obligatory statuses from white people realizing what microagressions they commit on a regular basis without realizing? What is the explanation for saying black people are intellectually inferior? What is the explanation for the slurs, including the creative ones he made up to use in mixed company? What is the explanation for listening to victims share their trauma, only for their abusers to be invited back again and again.

I’ve said before that people deserve parties, they deserve community where they can be their best selves and engage with like minded individuals. And they do. They also deserve safety, both emotional and physical. They deserve to attend an event without the fear that they won’t see a person who abused them attending with them, or worse, organizing. They deserve to go to a party and not think “I wonder if I’m one of the people this host called a nigger”. He claims he didn’t say this, but as he has directly admitted to using another racial slur, and repeated other things out of context, I have my doubts. If seeing this written out makes you feel uncomfortable, good.

Because this is also for the people who knew what was happening and didn’t speak up. You can’t undo the damage, but your actions going forward will make a difference. Don’t let yourself be a safe haven for racism, for misogyny, for abuse. Enough accepting the bare minimum. We have a long way to go. 

The Night Light Spanking Stories

There’s just something about the holidays – even when you’re not super celebratory, you need a little something to pass the time, right? Especially in times like these, when we’re a little bit more starved for companionship and play. My dear (and prettiest) friend Gracie who runs The Night Light called on a bunch of peeps to share holiday themed spanking stories. They’re all wonderful – we’re lucky to call this group of wildly talented spankos friends. There’s some great bits including some hairbrush related trickery and mall nostalgia. And there’s one by yours truly about someone who stretched the holiday decoration budget a bit too far. I imagine this one to be in the same universe as this story, but from the top’s POV.

I could go on and on about all the gems there, including an embarrassing f/f nail biter about a woman who gets too competitive about a white elephant type game but you’re gonna have to read them all yourself.

A Little Romance, A Little Discipline

As someone who loves both romance and comedic situations, it’s insane to think there was a time I felt shame for liking romantic comedies. I could go on a whole rant about how entertainment directed towards women is always seen as less then, but if you’re reading this then you are a smart cookie and you already know that. 

Or you’re wondering if and how I’m going to connect this to spanking. Don’t worry, it’s coming. 

Romantic comedies involve jumping to conclusions and acting irrationally. Raise your hand if you’ve gotten spanked (or spanked someone) for this reason. I sometimes think about what life would be like if kink, particularly spanking, was just an accepted part of society for consenting adults. And I don’t mean in like a 50 Shades, still secret kinda way, I mean like what would you do if you watched a movie where the bright eyed protagonist was late for the third time that week because she was helping everyone but herself and her boss, (who she’s in love with but could never have eyes for her because she wears baggy sweaters and dances in the rain), reprimands her and decides she needs a spanking? 

So she’s embarrassed but later she tells her girlfriends at the bar and it just adds to the will they/won’t they plot. Would you watch this movie?

Yeah, me neither.*

Fortunately, we’re not there as a society. I’m okay with compartmentalizing; it’s character building. But I can, however reimagine some of my favorite movies with spankings 

Bridget Jones’ Diary 

I’m gonna be honest and just say I have a thing for Colin Firth. It’s the accent (British), the height (6’1), and the vibes (Daddy). That aside, Mark Darcy owed Bridget multiple spankings. Particularly in the sequel when she accused him of cheating with no concrete evidence and when she burst in during an important work meeting! Hugh Grant was in this too, but his character needed a spanking. 

While You Were Sleeping 

Bill Pullman just has a vibe about him in this one. Sandra Bullock’s Lucy saves a man from the subway tracks, he ends up in a coma, and in classic comedic hijinx, his family thinks she’s his fiancé and she goes along with it. Turns out she falls for Coma Dude’s brother instead. Wild! There’s something about Pullman in this movie that just makes me think of the “I want what’s best for you”vibes that we all like from tops. Also he’s apparently a really talented carpenter (there’s a weird subplot about him being able to make a chair, which means he can make paddles.)


It feels a little inappropriate to say that Cher should’ve been spanked, even in the context of a fictional character. But she’s not going to read this. Anyway! Between kissing her daughter’s kind of boyfriend and just all around flighty behavior, she could’ve used a spanking. Not like anything too serious, it’d probably be more on the flirtatious end. I don’t see her submitting. But it would’ve worked. Honestly maybe she was spanking her boyfriend too. They had good switch energy.

When Harry Met Sally

Just based off that scene of her faking an orgasm in the middle of a restaurant. Out of control.

Schitt’s Creek

So a dear friend of mine put me on to this show – which, if you haven’t watched before, watch it ASAP. Almost all of the character’s here behave egregiously, including the matriarch of the family. But I think the discipline is most needed for the daughter, Alexis, who has had a number of dangerous and wild adventures when her family was still well off, and the son, David. The weird thing about this show though is that David seems to get it – and once you get to season 4 you’ll see what I mean. 

New Girl

Instead of putting money in the douche jar, Schmidt should have been bending over some swats, preferably from his girlfriend Cece, or maybe his roommate and bff Nick. He would’ve been firm but fair. I can just tell. 

*yes I would. 

When We Get Home

You’re going to spank me when we get home. I know this because you have that same look on your face when someone cuts you off in traffic. You never curse in the car. You don’t yell or lose your temper the way that I do. I don’t even think expletives are in your vocabulary, although I’m not quite sure. I’d like to find out but now probably isn’t the best time to ask. 

When we get inside, you will gesture towards the corner. Before your mouth opens to say the words, I will protest. It isn’t fair. It was a mistake, it could happen to anyone, I’m too old. This hasn’t worked in the past, but it won’t stop me from trying. We both know this, I think. Sometimes you hesitate after giving me a direction. It’s like you know I need to let it out, and you need to reel me back in.

When you reel me back in, you undress me yourself. I can’t decide if it’s worse than me doing it while you watch. Jeans, leggings, shorts, a skirt, my panties – whatever it is I have on the bottom is pushed hastily out of the way, punctuated with a few warning swats before I’m sent to the corner. One time I mouthed off while wearing a romper. You didn’t understand how they worked, and I had to stifle a giggle. It was less amusing when I stood in the corner in just a bra and panties, shivering – not from the cold but from the loss of control. Tonight I am wearing a form fitting dress, which you will bunch up around my hips. 

You’re going to spank me when we get home, but you still allow me to explain myself. The waiter comes over to refill our glasses and I take a tentative sip of wine, mentally planning my argument. Yes, this was the third time I was late this week, but I have a valid excuse. Your eyes narrow. Reason! Not excuse. That sounds better. The book I’m reading is so good – no, really it is – and, well you remember one of my goals is to read more this year right? No I wasn’t reading instead of getting ready for work. Don’t be silly. I was just up kind of late. Yes, after ‘bedtime’ but I thought you were kidding about that. Will you just let me finish? 

You look the same way you do when I tell you wild stories from years ago. On our second date, I told you about the time I hitchhiked because I parked in the wrong place and my car got towed. I don’t think I’d ever seen my parents so mad. They still don’t know about the hitchhiking. I was in college then, I was an adult. I mean, yeah they had to pay the tow fees but – that’s not the point. Anyway when I told you about the hitchhiking you looked amused, worried, and annoyed at the same time. If you were mine…you said but you trailed off. I wondered what you meant, but I was trying so hard to be nonchalant. I understand now. I’ve seen that look many other times. Last week, I admitted that up until two months ago I routinely stole from our neighbor’s garden. (Peaches, her four year old German Shepard, always stops in front of our door and she never cleans up after him. I felt like we were even.) We’d both been drinking a lot that night, which is why I felt comfortable telling you.  I knew you wouldn’t do anything then. But I also knew what that initial look meant, even in your whiskey induced haze. It’s the same one you have now as I’m trying to explain myself. 

You’re charmed by my antics, but determined to punish me. 

Anyway. The book was so good and it covers a lot of relevant topics. Social justice, environmentalism, all that good stuff. And I was so engrossed in it that I stayed up a little late. And I kinda overslept this morning. My boss wasn’t even in today, and she doesn’t really care as long as I stay later. I mean, I know that staying late meant we almost missed our reservation but that’s the keyword there, isn’t it? Almost.

When we get home, after some time in the corner, you’re going to call my name and I will stand in front of you. I might look away every now and then, my eyes might glaze over. It’s not that I’m not listening, it’s just that I already know what I did wrong and I prefer to let sleeping dogs lie. Sometimes I get a little too disinterested, and you have to lift my chin with one finger, and look directly into my eyes. Every now and then I add a yes or a no when appropriate. One time I said “no” but you didn’t even ask me anything. It was just a long time since I last spoke and I thought maybe it was my turn. 

This won’t be one of those times. I’ve broken too many rules at once, more than I initially realized, and I’m nervous. 

After you finish lecturing me, you will tell me to bend over your knee. I hesitate, I always do, sometimes for too long. Under normal circumstances, you’re gentle when handling me, but here you are only capable of being harsh. I wonder if you ever get tired, and what it is you do to make your hands so heavy. You’ll rub my bottom just a bit, but not enough to make me too comfortable. One time I moaned really loud and you weren’t impressed with me. That was the first time I got the hairbrush. I didn’t even know why it was in the living room, I guess I left it there that morning. I suppose if I didn’t you would have sent me for that or another formidable opponent. The heavy wooden spoon, perhaps? 

When you finish with your hand, you will tell me to bend over the arm of the couch. I will hear metal jingling, and I will whimper and I bury my head into a pillow. You will take off your belt, and you will whip my bottom. I will cry, whine, and sob. I will apologize for things that I haven’t even done yet. I will kick my feet. I will get out of position. This grants me a short reprieve, but only for you to readjust me. You grab my hips and shift my body so that my bottom is sticking out further, and I’m at a better angle for you to swing. You growl in my ear that I had better not reach back or get out of place again; we are just getting started. This seems impossible because every inch of my backside is on fire. I’ve clearly been here for ages. 

Since this is a more serious offense, you will allow me time to compose myself. You thread your belt back through the loops. You rub my back, telling me how sorry you are that you have to do this. Have, not had –  so there’s more. You might send me to our room to wait, which means to sit on the bed, with the hairbrush at the ready. At some point we figured spankings, especially these ones, tend to wear us both out. Once the tears have dried and all is forgiven, we’ll be ready for bed. Well…you’ll be ready. A sore bottom wears me out in more ways than one, but I always wake up after an hour or two. Usually you’re fast asleep so I might sneak on my phone. If I’m feeling really brave, I’ll go downstairs and watch TV. At this hour, the only shows on are guilty pleasures, which feels appropriate for the occasion. You’re a heavy sleeper and I haven’t gotten caught yet. It’s not that I want to misbehave. I know these rules are for my own good, I do. I’m just sorta used to doing whatever I want. 

This time is different. This time after the belt, you tell me to stay right where I am. This time you return with a bathbrush, telling me that you’ve let some things slide for too long, that the sneaking around late at night is going to stop for good. Carelessness and disobedience will no longer be tolerated. You remind me that I got away with murder before we met. You didn’t want to be too controlling at first, you knew this was an adjustment for me. So you tried to let some things slide, but I’m not at my best when you gift me leniency. Of course I try to talk my way out of it, but before I know it I’m back over your knee and you’re blistering my bottom with the bathbrush. I kick and yell, annoyed at the surprise. I’m not ready to give in. But you target my thighs for two minutes straight, increasing the tempo when I kick so hard that I almost hit your face. I didn’t mean to!

Eventually, all the fight leaves my body, and I lay limp over your lap, sobbing, as the swats begin to slow down. You tell me you are putting an end to my childish antics, that I should expect a spanking every night for a week. That the next time I mouth off I will complete my corner time with a bar of soap in my mouth. I wonder how I will survive the next few days. I didn’t realize I was speaking aloud, but you say you’re going to be just fine, Gloria Gaynor. Normally I would be amused by this, but now I’m just annoyed that you’re using my love for 70s music against me. And you say I’m childish!

But you sit me up in your lap, stroking my hair and reassuring me. You tell me how much you love me, and that’s the only reason why you do this. You tell me what a brave girl I am. How you just want the best for me, and perhaps if someone did this years ago you wouldn’t have to now. At least, you say with a slight chuckle, not quite as much. So tomorrow night, and the next few nights after that, when we get home, you will bare my bottom and spank me hard. And I will deserve it. 

Weekend Interruptus

“Before you butcher the words to another song can we at least get in the car?” Amber laughed in the bathroom as she meticulously applied gold pigment to her inner eyelid.

Carrie sat on the kitchen counter, kicking her feet. She didn’t know the lyrics but that didn’t stop her from improvising in tune with the melody. It was date night, and this one was a special one. For starters, it was the kickoff to the weekend – the first in three months when neither woman had work or social obligations. Secondly, it was Carrie’s turn to choose the activity. The two women were on their way to a concert – or they would be as soon as Amber finished her makeup. Despite Amber being the one ‘in charge’, an hour for her to get ready compared to Carrie’s twenty minute routine was an adjustment for them both. She stifled a smile when she heard Amber’s heels click on the kitchen tile.

“Butcher?! I’ll have you know I’m very talented.”

“Of course you are, sweetheart. ”  Amber kissed her girlfriend’s forced pout. “Just let me get my purse and we can be on our way.”

Carrie opened her mouth, debating whether to argue further or harmonize another line. She stopped as the phone rang, hopping off the counter to answer it before – 

“Let it go to voicemail babe. We’re probably the last people on earth with a house phone, let’s take advantage of the answering machine.” Amber called out from the hall closet. 

Hi it’s Jenna from Frontmate Pharmacy for Carrie. Just calling to remind you to pick up your prescription! Tomorrow is the last day for pickup. See you soon.

Carrie reached for the receiver, only to feel a cool hand on her shoulder as another one swiped the phone from her hands. 

“We’ll discuss this in the morning. After we make a trip to the pharmacy.”  


“Seriously. I said two thousand times I would go first thing!” Carrie wasn’t sure if she was more irritated by not being able to control the radio, Amber’s indifference at her embarrassment, her impending spanking, or being denied caffeine. All four put her in a sour mood. 

“I’d believe that if you picked it up when you first said you were. You decided to be immature, so guess what?” Amber didn’t wait for a reply. “We’re handling this my way.”

Carrie rolled her eyes and kicked her foot against the front seat, not caring if Amber noticed. The kick was hard enough to express displeasure, but gentle enough so that the hairbrush on her lap didn’t slide to the floor. She wasn’t doing herself any favors, but tantrums allowed her a tiny semblance of control. She felt very much like a surly teenager as she sat in the backseat of Amber’s van, leggings pooled around her ankles and a wooden hairbrush on her bare thighs. For a moment, she considered throwing the offensive implement out the window. She shuddered, imagining the consequences. 

Carrie’s tantrum didn’t go unnoticed, but Amber kept quiet as she pulled into the parking lot. This was the third month in a row she neglected to pick up a prescription in a timely fashion, in spite of Amber’s gentle prodding and multiple phone calls. 

“It’s not like I’m going to die without it!” Carrie whispered urgently the previous night as they waited in line to enter the arena. “You are so dramatic sometimes!” Amber fought the urge to laugh, as her girlfriend, (who once attempted to get out of a spanking by offering to go mining for diamonds after borrowing Amber’s earrings without permission and losing one ) attempted her seventh defense of the night. Amber often considered keeping a written list of Carrie’s different excuses/get out of jail free attempts. Occasionally she would reference them during her lectures, but more often than not, she was just amused by her resilience. There were three excuses before they left the kitchen, two in the driveway, and two more in the car before Amber threatened to cancel their plans and punish her that night. 

Carrie’s Excuses: Kitchen.

  1. Roxy, their five year old Maine coon, ‘meowed really sad that morning’ and she was eager to get home because she thought Roxy had separation anxiety.
  2. The pharmacist sounded really cheerful on the answering machine so clearly it wasn’t that big of a deal.
  3. She was hungry and wanted to go home and enjoy her beautiful girlfriend’s delicious home cooking.

Carrie’s Excuses: Driveway.

  1. She never technically said she picked it up already, she said “it’s as good as done” when Amber reminded her that morning.
  2. They only called once, it wasn’t like that time they called every day for a week (Carrie forgot the time ‘they called every day for a week’ was the last time she got off with a warning – generous considering they resorted to leaving messages on Amber’s phone – her alternate contact number.)

Carrie’s Excuses: Car.

  1. It was a long day and she was ready to just get home already (after several offers of sexual favors and chore swapping she tried to inch more towards a realistic plea)
  2. Amber “forgets stuff literally all the damn time so what is the big deal” – Carrie said this one under her breath, before being warned that if she kept this up, she wouldn’t sit for a month.

Much to Amber’s relief, Carrie settled down and let herself relax the rest of the night. They were both eager to blow off some steam. Before bed she made a plan. She would get up early, go to the pharmacy, and maybe Amber would forget about the whole thing. She would be so well behaved the remainder of the weekend, it would surprise them both. But the next morning, Carrie woke up after Amber did, feeling boulders at the pit of her stomach. When she learned of Amber’s plans to drive her to the pharmacy instead of just letting her pick up the damn prescription herself, all future attempts at obedience started to fade. Amber insisted on taking the van, the bulky one from her old catering business, saying they needed to make a few stops along the way. Carrie closed her eyes for a brief mental pep talk, telling herself she could handle it. “It” being: The impending punishment (Amber informed her she was getting spanked as soon as they got home), the errands Carrie was being forced to join her for, Amber’s immediate “no” when asked if they would at least stop for coffee between errands, the way that Amber picked out Carrie’s outfit and swatted her hands away as she dressed her that morning, (“since you lack self control, I’ll be taking over for a while“)… 

She put her foot down when Amber buckled her in the back seat. 

“Okay you made your point. This is ridiculous! What if someone sees?”

“There’s nothing to see. Maybe they’ll think it’s a ride share. Maybe they’ll think you’re a naughty girl that needs to be chauffeured around to make sure she takes care of her responsibilities.”


“Either way, I’d be more worried about your bottom than what someone might see. Lift your hips, please.”


“Lift your hips.”


“We don’t have all morning. Either I can spank you right here in the backseat and you can ride to the store with your pants down and a sore bottom, or”

“Okay, okay!” Mortified, Carrie closed her eyes and lifted her hips as Amber yanked her leggings down to around her ankles. She felt the cool handle of the hairbrush pressed into her palm. 

“Hold this for me, please.” Before Carrie could protest any further, Amber kissed her forehead and went to the driver’s seat. They had a long day ahead of them. 


“Can you at least turn on the radio? Something?” Even with her panties around her ankles, a hair brush in her lap, and newly sore thighs (not sore enough, Amber thought to herself), Carrie still had quite the attitude. She hated listening to podcasts and the past thirty five minutes felt like torture enough. They just finished their second errand of the morning, a trip to the hardware store. Amber held back the urge to roll her eyes when the shop manager gave her a long winded explanation of which drills were the most popular, deciding that a little more waiting would do her girl some good. Apart from the occasional loud sigh, Carrie did her best not to draw attention to herself – especially since Amber insisted on holding her hand the entire time. She wished she’d just stayed in the car, but after leaving the pharmacy, Amber was even less open to suggestions.

When they pulled up to the pharmacy, Amber decided a time out would do her some good and she left a scowling Carrie in the backseat. The visit took less than ten minutes total, but that didn’t stop Carrie from protesting the minute she saw Amber making her way towards the car. 

“Okay babe. Point made.” Carrie, the youngest child of three, perfected the art of making her voice as loud as possible without technically yelling years ago. 

“I beg your pardon?” Amber lifted an eyebrow as she turned her key in the door.

“You’re right. I should’ve just picked it up in the first place. Can we go home now?”

Amber wanted nothing more than to go home. After telling her that it was all over, that she was proud of her. Carrie would murmur a sound of acknowledgment. Amber would curl up on the sofa with a glass of wine and watch a movie. Carrie snuggled up against her, heat radiating from her backside. She loved that feeling – they both did. But she knew how these things went, and it was going to be a long day, even longer if she ignored this. So she tossed the prescription bag on the front seat, closed the door, and slipped into the back.

Carrie stifled a shriek as she felt herself being lifted from her seat and over Amber’s lap.

“I’ve about had it with your attitude, young lady!” Amber wasted no time, applying rapid swats with the hairbrush to Carrie’s sit spots. She knew better than to mistake the initial shock and the silence that came from it for complete obedience. Nevertheless she enjoyed the respite from persistent complaints, concentrating on the satisfying noises of wood against bare skin.

“Ow, ow, I’m sorry! Please! Someone might see!” Carrie allowed herself thirty seconds to wonder how she found herself in this position. No matter how many times she got spanked, she never got used to it, and she especially wasn’t expecting Amber to spank her here! She thought that she was just bluffing, but maybe she took it too far this time…

The parking lot was otherwise empty, and Amber only needed two minutes to get her point across. She shifted her attention to the fullest part of Carrie’s bottom, pausing now and then to admire her handiwork – (and, if she was being honest with herself, her girlfriend’s bottom). Definitely not the way she would’ve chosen to spend their morning together, but Carrie decided for both of them. 

“Now. Am I going to have to do this at every stop, or are you going to behave the rest of the way?” 

“No ma’am! I mean – yes ma’am!” Carrie felt a stray teardrop slide down her cheek. Amber suspected she was more embarrassed than actually sorry, but she figured that was enough to hold her over until they got home. 


“Stick your nose in that corner, missy.” Amber punctuated her direction with a sharp swat. 

Carrie’s bottom felt twice its size. They made it through the rest of the trip without any incidents – mostly because, as Amber guessed – the potential embarrassment was too much for her to bear. (The residual soreness was an additional deterrent.) She found herself thankful for their busy street, as she was allowed to pull up her pants once they left the car. A nosy neighbor or wandering stranger would view their exit as unremarkable. That is, unless, they took notice of the ebony hairbrush in Carrie’s hand, with its worn back and perfect bristles. She gripped the handle so hard that it left a faint mark in her palm. Despite her soft whimpers and pleading eyes, Amber didn’t take back the brush until they were in the living room. She pulled down her leggings and panties without being told. 

Amber watched as Carrie slid her panties over her round bottom, trying and inevitably failing to avoid touching the sore spots. She purposely chose a snug fitting pair for her – appropriate for a girl who’d gotten too big for her britches. Between the hardware store, dry cleaners, and the pet supply, she needed a break – and she figured they both deserved some coffee, although Carrie’s would have to wait. She made her way into the kitchen and set a timer for ten minutes – just long enough for my naughty girl to wait, she thought – then busied herself putting on water to boil and scooping coffee beans into the grinder. The kettle went off earlier than the timer, giving her time to enjoy a few sips before she took care of business. 

“Alright. Come here, little girl.” Carrie shuffled over to the sofa. She made a half hearted attempted to preserve her modesty once she was closer, but Amber gripped her wrists and pulled her panties down further. 

“Step out of those completely, you won’t be needing them. And hands on your head.” Carrie squeezed her eyes shut as she complied. Amber didn’t say so, but she found this newfound shyness quite becoming on her. Being nude – or partially nude under ‘normal’ circumstances wouldn’t have fazed Carrie, even in the early stages of a relationship. But even after three years of dating, (three years of being spanked) she couldn’t get used to this. Amber had a distinct talent of making her feel small. Standing there with her hands on her head erased any semblance of control she had left. 

“Now. It is one thing to forget – but I reminded you multiple times. Thursday evening was the deadline. And you said to me ‘it’s as good as done!’ ” 

“I didn’t, I…I was going to do it. Soon! I technically still had time!” Carrie let out a small yelp as Amber snaked an arm around her waist and tipped her over her lap. I really did mean to go that afternoon, she argued in her head. But there were too many distractions. She didn’t have any appointments that day, so she was only in the office until lunchtime. She drove past the pharmacy, but the full parking lot guaranteed a long wait. Amber was still at work, which meant she could go home, take a long bubble bath, order food that Amber hated and hide the evidence, watch a trashy show, and take a nap before the concert…she zoned out, thinking of what a pleasant afternoon it was until a sharp smack got her attention. 

“I’m sorry, am I boring you?” Amber delivered ten consecutive swats to Carrie’s thighs.

“No! No! I’m sorry” Carrie whined. She shifted forward out of habit, but she only succeeded in making presenting a better target. 

Amber decided the lecture portion was over for the time being. She put the heavy wooden hairbrush to work, spanking the tops of her thighs, the fullest part of her bottom, and the delicate under curve of her cheeks. Once Carrie began to kick, Amber adjusted her right leg so that her legs were trapped. This furthered Carrie’s distress, and she began to cry in earnest – she was embarrassed, she was sore, but most of all, she felt guilty. 

“Deadlines are not suggestions, little girl. If you genuinely need more time, you can ask. But being dishonest isn’t fair to either of us. Not to mention, you had the entire afternoon to get it done.” Amber paused momentarily, giving both of them time to catch their breath. 

“I- I really am sorry,” Carrie sobbed. “I just didn’t want to wait and I really was going to go later.” Amber rubbed soothing circles on her lower back. Both women were thankful for the reprieve, despite knowing they weren’t quite done. After a minute, Amber started spanking her again, this time with slower, more deliberate swats. “You and I have had such a busy month. This weekend was supposed to be a break for both of us. All you did was take away precious time from us both.” 

Carrie was trying to stay in place, but the harder swats and the words behind them were unbearable. She squirmed and cried, clawing into the carpet, but the spanking seemed to continue for ages, until she stopped resisting, letting herself sink further into Amber’s lap. 

“Now.” Amber placed the brush on the end table. “We’re almost done here.” She paused, expecting an interjection, but she didn’t get one. “I want you to go get me the belt.”

Carrie righted herself carefully, wincing as she stood. She was expecting corner time, at most five minutes or so. Then they would have some coffee, cuddle, watch a movie, take a nap, and make up, and obviously she wouldn’t be allowed to cum but that wasn’t too big of a deal. Not another spanking!

“But Amberrrrr!” She stretched out the last letter of her name the way only she could (sometimes) get away with. “Why?”

Amber sighed. Mid way through the spanking, she started to reconsider since Carrie was being so compliant, but she knew better. “Your attitude the past two days – and now, for that matter, has been atrocious. I intend to fix that.”

Amber’s tone didn’t leave room for argument, so Carrie slumped her shoulders and went to grab the belt from the hall closet. The brown leather was soft and well worn. Amber bought it one day when the two were out thrifting and Carrie was being a little too sassy for her liking. She often wondered if the belt’s previous owner knew what it was being used for, perhaps that’s how it ended up in the donation bin! Careful not to get lost in her thoughts, she hurried back into the living room, holding the belt as if she thought it might bite her.

“Hand me that and bend over.” Carrie searched Amber’s face for a hint of sympathy. Unable to find one, she thrust herself over the arm of the sofa.

“What’s going to happen to you?” Amber brushed the heavy piece of leather across Carrie’s smooth thighs.



“Ugh. I’m going to get spanked, ma’am.”

“Mmhm. Do you deserve it?”

Did she deserve it? She wanted to say no, but she felt tears welling up in her eyes that indicated otherwise. “Yes ma’am.”

“I agree.” Amber started with light swings, finding her target before she began swinging in earnest. Carrie cried helpless protests into the pillow and did her best not to kick, especially since each one was met with a swat to her thigh. She could almost picture the welts rising on her backside, and she longed to go back in time, before she let her attitude get the best of her, before she couldn’t just take fifteen minutes out of her day. Amber delivered about forty swats in total before she let the belt fall to the ground. She helped Carrie to her feet, pulling her into her lap as she sat down on the sofa.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Carrie buried her head in her girlfriend’s shoulder, trying to settle her tears. Her bottom was throbbing after the hairbrush, and the sting of the belt only reignited the pain.

“Shh. It’s all forgiven, sweetheart.” Amber rubbed her back and smoothed her hair. The two women sat in silence for a few minutes, until Carrie remembered a pressing need. But Amber was, as always, two steps ahead of her.

“Why don’t you pick out a movie and I’ll get us some coffee?”

Carrie was happy to oblige.

Post Quarantine Wishlist


I spent so much of this time last year falling in love. This time I’m so conscious of its absence, like the phantom feeling you get when you’re not wearing a ring.

I am grateful to have many people in my life to love just as I am grateful for that falling feeling, I miss it, the way that it absorbs you. It’s almost, almost disappointing when you get what you want because it’s like – whats next? 

During the summer of 2020 there were a lot of (justified) public criticisms towards celebrities. Mostly direct towards their tone deaf responses to a global pandemic and social injustice. Oddly enough, this summer felt like the first time I paid proper attention to celebrities. I learned names and allowed myself multiple crushes on people who I would likely never meet. Because I was horny and tired of being indoors. 

But you know what? It’s nice. The unattainability.  And I don’t mean because of staving off potential heartbreak, this isn’t one of those essays. It’s because they will ever know the filthy things I think about. 

It’s hard not to feel my heart swell when I walk down beautiful paths, surrounded by changing colors. Everything seems so hopeful. Honestly 10/10 would recommend falling for someone around this time of year. It’s very picturesque. I want to hold hands and sing – not anything too sappy, I’m a modern girl -so my perfect partner would have to rap with me.  

But the scenery not as thrilling as having a cock buried deep in me while I scream orgasm or having my head buried in between a beautiful girl’s legs. And oh my god don’t even get me started on spanking. 

I actually feel scared to think too hard about this, what if I’m at a movie premiere and find myself face to face with {redacted}? And they can somehow read my mind?? I’m sure they probably get used to seeing complete strangers play out entire sex scenes but this…me draped over their lap, my bottom swollen and sore, sobbing so hard that my tears ricochet from their shoes to the floor? 

Well that’s just not right. 

Anyway. It looks like there’s hope of a vaccine soon, and I look forward to having all the sex I can handle in 2021. And…maybe a little hand holding – what can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic.

Create your website with WordPress.com
Get started