i can’t stop thinking about being spanked, just the thought makes me so tingly and shivery. i might start acting up just so someone takes me over their knee…
Rebel girl getting the rebellion spanked right out of her.
Pants at her ankles, butt bare and waking up the whole house with her cries - it's a harsh wake-up call for a brat who thinks she can do whatever she wants. Those days are over, there's a new law of the land. The only uncertainty that remains is just how many nights of sleeping on her tummy will it take for her to get with the program.
“this is all for your pleasure but your pleasure is for me” is such a good dynamic. they can’t stop giving you more, more, more - can’t pull their fingers out of you, can’t stop hitting that one spot that makes you shiver. them fucking you selfishly, taking everything they want from you - and what they want is your pleasure.
Not at all secret horny side blog so I don't subject my unwilling followers on my main to my nonsense.
Over 40. Butch. Stone top. Soft dom. Partnered, Poly and Bisexual but not here to talk to or about men. Hard kinks will be tagged but if I forget please feel free to remind me. Any pronouns are fine I sincerely don't care. But do not call me Mommy.
Minors DNI everybody else is fine if you act right.
AGE IN BIO/PINNED OR I WILL BLOCK YOU. Yes that includes you. You might think it is obvious that you are an adult but i don't know you so it is not obvious to me.
I almost never reblog anybody's pics besides my own. If you're unhappy because I'm not reblogging yours, look around I promise it's not personal. And if you don't like that, feel free to block me.
I'm here to write and to flirt and to have fun but I am not looking for anything beyond friendship. Having said that, I am absolutely looking for friendship.
Asks are encouraged, nsfw included. DMs are for mutuals/platonic conversation only please.
All of my posts/pictures/audios are okay to reblog, but please mind the DNIs on things I reblog from other people.
Last night I had a dream that shocked and excited me.
I do not know how I got there. My experience began in the middle of things, as all dreams do, flashing into existence, so I was suddenly aware of myself.
I was sitting at the rear of a classroom, watching the backs of the heads of my classmates nod as they scribbled diligently on their pages. I did not recognise them, I could not tell if they were ghosts from my past, or hazy inventions of my mind.
I looked downwards, surveying myself. I was dressed in a school uniform. A crisp white shirt, a stripy tie, a charcoal skirt. It appeared familiar, yet felt unusual, like I was being gently hugged by a compassionate force. I glanced down at my chest, expecting to see the faint lines of my bra, but the contours of my body were perfectly smooth.
I squirmed on my seat, the fabric against my slit was unusually, pleasantly tight. I rocked my hips, subtly, trying not to draw attention to myself. The effect was as if a warm palm had gripped me between my legs.
Memories returned. Pieces began to fall into place. Instead of wearing a bra and panties beneath my uniform, I had put on my tightest white ballet leotard. Now, as I moved, my covert garment hugged and massaged me with the alacrity of an expert lover.
I knew this was not an accident, some careless mistake in dressing. I had wanted to misbehave, I wanted to be daring.
I had chosen to wear my leotard so I could stimulate myself in class, so I could masturbate without using my fingers as my eyes flitted between the thick wooden ruler on teacher’s desk, and the whippy cane that dangled from a hook on the wall. I wanted to feel my clit being tugged whilst imagining being made to touch my toes, as I got my naughty bottom whacked.
I had pulled the material that would have modestly covered my buttocks upwards, so my bottom was effectively bare beneath my skirt, and the gusset was tight enough to part my slit. It was the strangest sensation, like I was somehow sitting naked, disgracefully exposed, even though I was still outwardly quite respectably dressed.
I felt like I’d been tied up, bound in a comforting cocoon of soft tight rope. I could feel a warm line between my legs where the fabric was rubbing, and another across my chest, against my tender nipples. My clit felt so hard, pressed against the tight stretchy band that was now so intimately cradling me.
I realised I could come so easily, right here, right now, just by rocking on my seat. All orgasms begin in the mind, I knew I didn’t even need to touch.
My filthy imagination conspired to push me closer. Somehow, you were teaching my class. Or someone who looked just like you. I pretended to write, airily waving my pen over my page, but by now I was daydreaming, of the big bulge in your smart trousers, and bending over for what I deserved.
But as I approached the brink, I became aware of a new and unexpected jeopardy. The sensation of needing to pee. When was the last time? I couldn’t remember. Probably never. Dressed like this, peeing would be a major inconvenience, I’d have to take everything off.
Take everything off.
Take. Everything. Off.
The words began to echo through my mind as a chattering hubbub, growing louder until eventually overwhelming, into a desperation that was all I could think about.
I felt my flushing face burning fiercely, and a clammy dampness in my crotch. I was unsure whether I was close to coming, or peeing, or both. I felt simultaneously euphoric, and as silly as a little girl. My need to pee had crept up on me, hiding behind my escalating arousal.
I felt my arm shoot up. And then I heard my voice begging you.
Please may I go to the toilet, Sir?
It felt so thrilling, yet also humiliating to have to plead, to place my dignity in your merciful hands.
You strode towards me, until you loomed high above me. Did my empty page give me away? Planting the seed of suspicion, that actually I’d been daydreaming about you. Did you think the real reason I wanted to go was to plunge my fingers deep inside myself?
You beckoned me to stand, and I rose on wobbly legs, my classmates turning to face me, their blurry anonymous faces smirking.
You led me by the wrist into the corridor. Every footstep forward was an exquisite torment, my tight leotard alternately tugging and chaffing.
When we reached the toilet, you ushered me forward, and to my horror, followed me inside, locking the door behind us. You stood in the corner, respectfully looking away from me, waiting for me to slip my panties to my knees and complete my ablutions, knowing my skirt would still protect my modesty.
But I had been such a naughty girl, Sir. I had no panties to lower.
Sensing my hesitation, you turned to face me. I lifted the hem of my skirt, almost apologetically, wordlessly revealing my filthy secret. And the dark seeping shadow staining my snow white gusset.
You spoke so quietly, but it shook me like the Voice of God.
Take Everything Off.
I obeyed without hesitation, as if this was always meant to happen. I undressed in full view of you, not as a sexy striptease, but in a compliant shedding of my clothes.
I tried to retain my composure, neatly hanging my skirt and shirt in the small room’s only coat hook. When I was down to just my leotard, I stood bashfully in front of you.
My colourless leotard was almost indistinguishable from my pale skin, as if I was standing in front of you, already naked. You could see the outline of my breasts, and my nipples, now as hard as little buttons. The taut fabric clung to the contours of my mound, hairless and perfectly smooth, and the groove of my cleft that disappeared teasingly between my thighs.
But I knew you wanted me truly naked. My fingers plucked the fabric from my shoulders, easing it over my arms. I slowly peeled myself, prompting a cascade of goosebumps to pour from my scalp and trickle down my body. You watched me reveal the stiffness of my nipples, and the tense muscles of my torso.
I tugged the material over my hips, slowing as I exposed the true bareness of my mound. My stiff clit throbbing lewdly as the fabric released it from its tight embrace, and I slowly extracted the garment from between the lips of my swollen slit. I began to bend over as I lowered the leotard down my thighs, revealing the creamy mess I left inside the gusset. Everything once suggested, now made explicit.
I leaned forward as I continued my descent, like a naughty schoolgirl presenting her bare bottom for the cane, which I know I absolutely am. Until the leotard was a little white puddle around my feet.
I stood slowly, and respectfully, and felt your gaze rove across me like the warmth of sunbeams.
And then, you cupped me.
I startled awake.
I found my own hand was clamped between my legs, sizzlingly hot, and sticky with my own juices. I felt the tremors of my thumping heartbeat, radiating outwards from my chest. My skin was clammy, drenched with my sweat.
To my deepest regret, my vivid dream dissipated abruptly, leaving a bitter gap in my mind that felt like a hunger.
I laid in the darkness, in my cosy all-enveloping fug, restlessly immobile, willing myself to fall asleep again, desperate to rejoin my dream and learn how my story really ends. I tried imagining what might come next, in the hope of segueing back into my precious dreamworld.
I laid motionless until I felt my bladder ache.
Reluctantly, I rose, shuffling to the toilet and sitting down naked, just as you were about to make me do. I kept the light off, trying to preserve at least a semblance of my sleepiness, hoping the essence of my dream might somehow yet be saved, fearing a blaze of light would dispel it forever. I sat in the dark grey gloom and began to pee. It felt so good, but I yearned for more.
I wished you were here with me, watching me. About to tell me to bend over so you could wipe me thoroughly. So I could feel your fingers clamp a tissue against my slit, before dragging it backwards, all the way up between my bottom cheeks. Before you grasped me by the wrist and led me back to our bed.
I knew I could use the dildo, the precious one I keep on the nightstand, the one that stands in for your penis when you can’t be here with me.
But given the choice, I longed to return to my dream, where a good hard spanking almost certainly awaited me.
Perhaps you’d spank me there in the lavatory. Taking my place on the toilet seat and putting me across your lap. Spanking me naked as I tried to suppress my yelps.
Or maybe you’d let me get dressed again, and lead me back to the waiting class. But I suspected you’d confiscate my leotard so I’d have to go back to class wearing nothing beneath my uniform.
Then when the school bell finally rang, I wouldn't need to be told to stay behind. I know there’s a ruler and a sore bum waiting for me. And maybe something yummy too.
So, that’s what I dreamt last night.
I know the door to that dreamworld has closed for now, I may never be able to revisit it. But I wanted to share it with you, whilst the details glowed hot in my memory. I wanted my naughty dream to live on, floating freely inside both our heads.
They’d begun in ancient Assyria, bright-eyed and fizzing with eagerness, gazing upward with wonder at the monumental winged bulls at the entrance to the British Museum. They are called Lamassu, their teacher explained, sixteen tons of alabaster, hewn almost three thousand years ago, and exquisitely sculpted into fantastical creatures.
These strange beasts had been buried for millennia, as a succession of mighty empires had risen, fought and crumbled on the sands above them. Now a new empire had uncovered and claimed the statues, and its unimaginable modern magic had transported the immense monuments over land and sea to the imperial metropolis of London.
The girls continued meandering through history, passing the spooky sarcophagi and cryptic carvings of ancient Egypt. Onwards to stare at cases of the slightly more comprehensible domestic pottery of ancient Greece. Until finally the grey-skirted stream of girls had ebbed into Roman times, feet scuffing, heels dragging. Behind teacher’s back, yawns were being stifled, and there were outbreaks of sniggering and nudging when artefacts with willies were sighted.
Yet through the dozy fug of her torpor, something nearby caught Jenny’s eye. She stopped and squinted into the brightly lit case as her classmates milled around her. Inside was what looked like a thin leather strap, discoloured black and desiccated by age. Had the object been intact it would have been as long as her forearm, but instead it lay broken in 4 unequal lengths.
Curiosity piqued, her eyes scanned the caption card beside it.
FEBRUA
Leather (likely goat hide) ~140 BC.
Found: Tiburi (now Tivoli), central Italy, 1855.
“Believed to be a flogging whip, intended for the purification and fertility rites of the festival of Lupercalia. Celebrated annually, beginning on the Ides (the 13th) and climaxing on the 15th of February, these purgative rituals held such significance in the Roman calendar that the month of Februarius was named after them. Although Lupercalia was a fertility rite, scholars believe its proximity to the contemporary St Valentine’s Day (the 14th) is purely coincidental.”
Jenny quivered. Recently, she’d become a reluctant expert on the subject of flogging. Only yesterday she’d neglected to do her Latin homework, and been kept behind after school to finish it. School rules were absolutely clear. Any pupil who missed an assignment would complete her work sitting on a sore spanked bottom…
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