This Non Woke blog, continuously published Aug 15, 2007, celebrates the erotic side of spanking as long practiced by one married couple. We don't spank for any reason other than to supercharge sex. Bogey and Bacall. There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. Shakespeare
Yoga Pants are all the rage this year. I have not gotten any good shots yet, but hope springs eternal. Meanwhile here are some highly spankable bottoms in yoga shorts.
We are still roaming “out west”. We do not always have Internet access, so that’s the reason for not responding to comments.
About 87 years ago at a spanking party I encountered a woman wrote messages on masking tape and fixed them to her panties for the spankers to see. I can not recall a single message, I only saw two, but they were humorous. I think women are more fun than men in things like this. Anywho, here are some panties with printed messages on them. Bacall says they are informational. I suppose you can make your own with transfer material.
Collect the whole set
Regular readers, maybe a bakers dozen souls, know we prefer wood paddles. This is a versatile paddle. It’s small enough to carry in a pocket while hiking with your fav bottom or cruise around at parties, but serious enough to get warm up most any bottom. The drawing is interesting. But, why is a gal holding a whip depicted on a paddle?
This looks it would be a fun game to play, especially if all the players were switches.
If these women were younger, it could be college dorm hi-jinks. But, they are bit older, so I really wonder what they could be up to. Don’t you?
We are traveling in our motor home from one fantastic place to another. Today we are in the Valley of Fire State Park which is about 50 miles from Las Vegas. Our first time here. This place has some fantastically colored and oddly eroded rocks. A wonderland of geology. Even in March, the weather is delightfully warm.
We arrived just before noon. We found a parking place that is U-shaped. High rock walls on three sides. Prefect privacy. For some reason, I thought of our decorative boat paddle which hangs on the wall. I took it down and we tried it out in our private canyon. The sound reverberated off the rock. I decided that it could be confused with driving tent stakes in the ground or splitting fire wood. Besides there was no one else around. So we took turns warming each other up with it. And it did exactly that and not just to our back sides. We hatched a plan to ratchet up our play the next morning. So with stinging bottoms we took a short scenic drive and were back for lunch. While Bacall was fixing sandwiches, I asked her to come out and give me some more pops. Well, she wanted more also. So we had lunch on stinging bottoms. Still we were thinking of delaying play until the next day – going for the teasing and anticipation factors.
The Fish Paddle
We wanted to rest for a short time before we took off to explore the park. That’s when our plan feel apart. When she took off her pants, I told her I wanted to paddle her. She was on board with that and I got her favorite holey paddle and started slow and easy for a few dozen licks, gradually upping the intensity. She started wiggling her naughty bottom around and I knew she was feeling quite randy. I used my left hand to fondle her and continued paddling with my right. I finally decided screw tomorrow we are going to do it right now. Our trusty vibrator was close by, so I slipped it on my left hand and continued to paddle her. Well, wouldn’t you know she came twice – rather loudly. Loud enough for anyone walking by to know what was up. Good for her.
When she came down off the ceiling, she wanted a piece of male tail. And I wanted her to have mine. I gave her our meanest stingy paddle. She said she was not going to hold back and I told her to go for it. After a few licks, I knew she meant business and was wiggling around. She told me to stay in position as she was far from though. I don’t know how many licks she gave me, but she sure had me on fire. Both back and front.
She slipped the vibrator on her hand and I erupted in short order. And then you know what she did? She put it back on herself and won the Triple Crown.
All in all, it was like we were 30 years younger. I think we will stay here for awhile, maybe the red rocks are rejuvenative?
No words necessary. And Yes, his bottom is also marked.
A Paula Meadows drawing I would guess. My, would it be fun to play with her.
One from the vault by me
A trip down memory lane to some most gratifying
memories. Memories from the days when there was no concern about
sudden deflation – when the in-and-out portion of a session could last. It also brings to mind the juxtaposition of pain and pleasure. While I appreciate that some can morph pain into pleasure, I
relish in the power exchange where the woman submits her mind and body
to me for my pleasure. She offers her ass to me, and I relish when she
recoils from the stroke, puts her nails through the bedspread, but
stays in position for the next stroke of the paddle. I enjoy teasing
her. Her enjoinder, “Rub my pussy”, “Sure right after you take another lick”. I enjoy
rubbing her, getting her close to orgasm and pulling my tongue or
fingers away “No you are not going to come yet”. I enjoy repeating
that as she grabs my cock and begs “Fuck me now”. I mount her and rub
my cock back and forth over her pussy, pulling back when she thrusts
her hips to avoid penetration. The more I tease, the harder I get.
It gets so engorged with blood, it turns purple and the skin is
stretched as smooth as a balloon about to burst. Finally, letting the
head go in and slowly moving it in and out. Sometimes purposely
pulling it out and enjoying her gasp and grab for it. Tease, again and
again. When she again begs to be fucked, and has her back arched just
right, suddenly ramming it all the way in, hearing her moan, holding
her so she can not move, pressing down firmly on her, then slowly
moving my hips in a circle while maintaining pressure on her, knowing
the pressure is right on her clit and also preventing her from
thrusting. When I feel the torture is complete, finish her off with
long fast strokes. Ah, those were the days.
Blogger writes:
What this means for your blog:
Commercial porn will continue to be prohibited.
If you have pornographic or sexually explicit content on your blog, you must turn on the adult content setting so a warning will show.
Well, as far as I know, I do not have any porn on the Blog. I recall posting one picture which I would call highly erotic and the man had a hard-on. I have never posted pictures of women with their vaginal lips spread. That’s freaking gross to us. Our Blog is about spanking not about genitalia.
I have had a WordPress blog since 2012. I have not taken the trouble to learn how to use it. I am slowly working on prepping it for a possible move.
Not far from the location where A Bad Day At Black Rock was filmed, where there is nothing but horizon and privacy, two old switches got their paddles, put on spanking panties, walked to a suitable granite rock and toasted each others bottoms.
It’s so naughty to be outside in panties, bending over, having your panties taken down and being well paddled where you could be seen by hikers.
Hermoine blogged about a collection of spanking vignettes by Abel. Most concern headmasters and girls touching their toes while receiving six of the best. This one is slightly different.
How long do dreams last? I only ask, because mine t’other night seemed to go on forever, with a lengthy sequence of events – yet, I guess, it could only have lasted for moments.
There was a girl, see: a sixth-former. A bright girl (aren’t they always?). She was aiming for the best grades at A Level, for a place at a top university.
The school had allocated her a tutor, therefore, to help her to succeed. He was young by the standards of my fantasy schoolmasters – in his late twenties at most, a high-flyer, respected by his colleagues, much loved by the girls.
They’d meet three or so times a week for tutorials, but before long he’d given her permission to visit his study whenever she needed peace and quiet to concentrate on her work. She’d curl up with a book on his sofa, as he prepared his lessons and did his marking. And, needless to say, there was mutual – but unspoken – attraction between the two. There’d be the odd hug, perhaps – but nothing that could break the law in terms of impropriety between a master and his pupil.
It would be after the Christmas break that things would start to go off course for her. An assignment for his tutorials, completed in a hurry. “Not to your usual standards,” he’d say. “In fact, not at all acceptable.” And she’d find herself, to her shock, being ordered across his knee, her school skirt lifted for a hard hand spanking. It would hurt, naturally, but her sobs were more as a result of having let herself down; having let him down. And then they’d hug, until she was calm.
Not long after that, he’d be the teacher who rounded the back of the science block, taking a short cut, and caught her and her best friend smoking. Neither would
own up to having bought the dreaded cigarettes – but when he checked their blazer pockets, she’d be the one in possession of the half-empty pack. He’d march them to their housemaster’s office, explain the situation – and leave them to their fate. (Four strokes of the cane each for smoking, it would transpire; she’d get another two for having procured the cigarettes).
And then, the following week, at the end of one of his classes… He’d ask the girls to hand in their homework; she’d look flustered. “I didn’t think it was due until tomorrow.” “Then you’d better go and wait outside my study,” he’d reply.
“It’s almost as if you’re on a willful campaign of self-destruction,” he’d comment a few minutes later when they were alone. “And that’s not going to continue.” He’d reach for the plimsoll from its home on the bookshelves; he’d make her lift her skirt and bend over the arm of the sofa; this time, he’d take down her knickers to punish her on the bare – over the still-visible stripes from her housemaster’s cane.
They’d not speak of the punishments again: she’d work hard, with his support and encouragement, and her exams in the summer would go seem to have gone well. And then term was over – the final assembly marking the end of her school career.
As was traditional, though, the departing girls would stay on for one final evening, enjoying a sumptuous ball. Not pupils, now they’d talk to their former masters as grown-ups, as equals. And they’d eat, and drink, and dance, and talk. And he and she would find themselves back in his study – with no legal constraints to stop him holding her tight, to keep them from kissing, to prevent him from bending her over the arm of his sofa once more, lifting her skirt, removing her knickers…
Our Bottoms Burn 
