A Splash of Colour (for the New Year)

I dance

I sing

I tell stories, naughty or not

I write poems, naughty or not, rhymed or not

I lied on the beach, letting sun criss-cross my body with tan lines,

A few pale triangles, all that's left of old me

Care to add more colour?

Maybe pink, maybe red, your choice

Thin lines to criss-cross the pale triangles

Later I will give proper thanks

For creating a splash of colour on my monochromatic body

For morphing my body into art

For letting it sing together with yours

For having it dance under your restless hands

For making it yours

I write poems, naughty or not

I tell stories, naughty or not, real or not

Inspired by the following quote:

“Go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.”

— Kurt Vonnegut

Happy New Year, my lovelies!!

K is for Kneeling

Dear diary,

I'm in a weird place right now. After spending another night at my place, Nick and I got busted while having breakfast in a tiny café in a quiet part of town that I like, in the wee hours of the morning. I was surprised they were even open so early. No one wakes up early on this island, let alone for the sole purpose of feeding the tourists. Nick leisurely nibbled at a fluffy frittata and tried to feed some of it to me. I dozed off on his shoulder, we didn't get much sleep, as you can imagine. And yet, he was found and whisked away because, of course, he had places to be, at all times. 

It's been two days since then, and not a peep. Admittedly, he doesn't know my cell phone number, and I don't have his. Very nineteenth century of us. To send a pigeon, maybe? This affair, if you can even call it that, had no chance to last even two nights, has no place in this world, and yet, I wanted the impossible, for it to last a bit longer. Forget about all the fucking, that morning in the café I felt safe and at peace. The only other place and time I ever felt that safe was when I was kneeling. 

And the last time I knelt in front of a man was Uncle Ar. Why time and time again, I think of that single day when that man showed me his compassion and understanding? That all this, frowned upon by most of the civilized world, brutal play, for some of us, could become a salvation. How at the end of it, I knelt at Uncle Ar’s feet, naked, in a pain-filled state but unscarred. The pain that was brought upon me at my own willful request, by a willful surrender, freed me and brought me to a cathartic nirvana and peace.

I knelt at his feet quietly, grateful, thankful. My head resting on his lap, his hand stroking my hair. He fulfilled his side of the contract, I fulfilled mine. There was nothing more to it. And nonetheless, I had never had my needs met as fully as on that day. No amount of sex can replace that. I will always crave it. I will always look at every man in every vanilla relationship and wonder, will he ever be able to understand that part of me. 

No, I do not live under the rock. I do know about FetLife and Tumblr. Hell, I googled the local clubs. These would be the easy ways to find someone to whom I won't need to explain a thing. Hey, I like A, B, C. You like C, D, E. Let's try C together and see what comes out of it. Call me old-fashioned but I wanted to get to know the person first and not choose one by his kink resume. I know I'm oversimplifying things, but it wasn't for me. My only connection to this world was Aldous, the one I so desperately wanted to forget and more importantly, forgive.

Often, after a self-session with a hairbrush, I would strip down completely and kneel in front of the mirror in an attempt to recreate that day. While shying away from the scene, I was still attracted to the glamourous leather and shiny metals. I bought a few things on the internet: leather handcuffs, a thin leather collar that I could wear during the day, it was no different from any choker necklace. And a tasteful metal chain with a leash to attach to the collar. I would tie my hair in a high ponytail, paint my lips red and eyelashes black, put the collar on, clip the leash, lock my wrists in the handcuffs, kneel, and stare at myself in the mirror. 

One day I shall will him out of thin air. The one that would want me to kneel.

Tanning the tan lines (with JM)

Lovely Jean Marie of Butt Stuff posted about tan lines here. Since I'm a huge sucker for tan lines myself, I replied with a snippet, JM picked it up and took it further, and on we went. Then JM got busy and I just finished the story with a twist. 

Aaand, the Saturday Spankings are around the corner, so I linky linked it, see the link at the bottom.

Sore is more:

He dragged his tongue across her cheek along the sharp tan line that divided it perfectly in half, wondering if it would taste differently, and yes, it did indeed. The paler, almost alabaster triangle, was smoother and more tender to the touch than the few shades darker part on the other side of the border, roughed up by unforgiving Mediterranean sun.

Jean Marie:

He takes his cue from that unforgiving sun. He would “rough-up” the tender, alabaster skin for her. He begins to spank her, but not like you would a naughty child. This was a very adult disciplining, hard slaps across both ass cheeks, making her cry out, making her beg and plead. She sees that this makes no difference, so just hides her face in the crook of her elbow, and offers her ass up to his hiding, this tanning where she wasn’t tan.

When he finally stops, they both cannot help but rub the abused flesh, magnetized by the radiating warmth, mesmerized by the rosy color. He rubs lotion into the skin as if it was sunburned. It was Sirburned, and she got down on her knees to thank him. She worshiped his erect dick as he had her erotic derriere.

Sore is more:

“A proper young lady –” he scoffs and withdraws with a growl.

“Shut up,” she cries out at a sudden loss, sensing some further scolding, and then blushes at her own outburst, and he let it slide for a quick moment.

“– shall never call the gentleman’s cock a dick”, he finishes in his lilted accent as he puts it securely away, behind the buttoned fly of his low-rise jeans. Deliberately slow, inch by inch, he pulls the belt through the loops, with the holy sound that makes her squirm and rejoice all at once into a full body shudder; a triumphant grin stretching her lips morphs into a hesitant frown when she sees him folding the belt in half. An eyebrow raised in a silent question and an outstretched hand, he waits for her to rise on her feet and put her hand in his, and that’s the only confirmation he needs.

The swift shift in the mood is so palpable, his eyes, kind and playful just a few minutes ago, now flooded with disappointment and hurt. 

"I'm so sorry," she lets out in a whisper.

"I'm sure we'll get there, but for what, pray tell?" He squeezes her hand to still the shakes.

"For saying 'shut up'." 

"Huh, that. Let's deal with the profanity first." He leads her towards the bed. "Why so grim now?"

"It's the punishment."

"No, darling, it's a preview of the punishment, if you will keep using such language." Calm and somber, he nudges her shoulder. "On your back and legs up."

No, not the diaper position, she bites her lower lip to not mention the specifically forbidden d-word to him and falls on her back, pulling her knees up with her hands to give him full access to her already swollen bottom. 

The wrong shade of pink hides the tan lines he was so fascinated with when it all started tonight. He drags her to the edge of the bed and places his left hand just under her knees, on top of hers to keep them from flying off.

"Just six," he rubs his forehead with the back of his hand that holds the belt. "Look at me, I want to see your face."

"Six of the best?" she offers with a meek smile.

"Just six." Deep breath out. It seems like all her jitters and anxiousness passed on to him. No matter how much they discussed and agreed that she needs it, when it all came to this single moment that he needs to step up, preview or not, not in a playful way as many times before that, but this time for real, all his certainty evaporates, and he's on the verge of bailing out. 

He doesn't look down, he doesn't aim. Six strokes rain down on her dreadfully fast, too fast to let her apprehend or absorb the pain, tanning the tan lines all over again into the sacred scarlet. The unwanted chore that fell upon him, the whole ordeal takes merely seconds, and then it's suddenly over. 

He falls on the bed next to her and pulls her closer and away from the edge. He's drained like he ran a marathon, forehead pressed against her shoulder, her gentle fingers threading through his hair, cooing the words of comfort into his ear. "It's over, it's all good, it's over."

When his free hand wonders along her curves again, he rises on his elbow and latches to the other set of tan lines, surrounding her small nipples. His fingers travel the familiar route to sharply sink inside her, followed by her welcoming moans, taking her closer, closer, closer, and over in a record time. Whatever happened, whatever it is between the two of them, whatever you would call it, doesn't matter now. They have their whole lives to figure it out.

Dear Bonnie

Dear Bonnie,

what a sad day to de-lurk... what they all said and much more. My journey is quite different. I wish I would discover your blog 15 years ago and not this summer.

Full disclosure, I'm vanilla, although as I learned now, so many little quirks count as kinks. For that matter, what really constitutes a spanking? A smack or two do not count, right? What about three or five? Where to draw the line, or better not to? So, I was writing a novel, quite steamy but vanilla, and one summer day, I wrote a scene that involved a spanking that went horribly wrong (they didn't know about Bonnie's writings), wrote it without any research, purely on emotions. And then, to justify what happened and why, plunged into research. BTW, I was right, I described bratting and topping from the bottom without knowing what it is.

MBS was the second spanko blog I found, right after an extreme CDD one. Thankfully, MBS is linked on virtually every blog throughout the blogosphere, and boy, did I stay in this impossible vast, skillfully crafted, generously shared Body of Knowledge. The tutorials alone, I read at least twice each and most, many times over: the elusive why (my favourite), how to talk to your partner, first spanking, fantasy vs reality, bratting, anticipation, letting go (a gem), implements, rituals, more rituals. When in doubt, read Bonnie's tutorial.

I'm still vanilla, leaving vicariously through my characters, following their ebbs and flows, letting them make mistakes, but knowing one thing for sure, I want them to become more like Bonnie and Randy, be themselves, find the way that works for them, because every couple is different, and forget the labels.

There is no sadder day for a lurker and purveyor of fine blogs to find a blog (or forum) written by a brilliant author, smart, intelligent, bold, and sincere, only to discover that the blog is discontinued (not to say dead). A word of advice for those who like me just read, do comment, drop a few words, ask for an advice before it's too late.

Bonnie, I have a parting gift for you, a song/poem called A Bottom Song Since I didn't know how to send it to you, I registered a blog today and posted it there, for Bonnie who redefined the word Bottom.

Becca 

A Bottom Song

For Bonnie who redefined the word Bottom

Sassy bottom
Testing bottom
Itchy bottom  
Scorned

Teasing bottom 
Mocking bottom 
Craving bottom 
Warned

Bratty bottom
Topping bottom
Needy bottom 
Tried

Wronged bottom
Scolded bottom
Railing bottom 
Fight

Worried bottom 
Dancing bottom 
Squirmy bottom
Knelt

Naked bottom  
Stinging bottom 
Warming bottom
Dealt

Wiggling bottom 
Blocking bottom
Kicking bottom
Struggled

Holding bottom
Smarting bottom
Reddened bottom
Doubled

Crying bottom
Begging bottom 
Sobbing bottom 
Pleads

Sorry bottom 
Softened bottom
Quiet bottom
Peace

Light bottom 
Safe bottom
Loved bottom
Floats

Hugged bottom 
Rubbed bottom
Soothed bottom
Close