Month: December 2018

Skinny Dipping

Happy New Year Readers

 First a report on Red Panty Month. Bacall got paddle pops every day, except one. I got pops 2 to 4 times a week. I tried to tally the number of days she was Miss Iron Bottom – 12, the days the spanking was a prelude to sex – 4, the days she was sensitive – 6. The rest of the days she just enjoyed a warm bottom for a while.
If it is winter weather where you are, perhaps this will help.

The Perfect Gift

There are all sorts of spankings. All sorts of reasons for them and some given for no reason at all. This is a fun spanking. A gal wanted to give her girlfriend a present of her being spanked. Ever heard of that?  And her friend is a spanko and she is not.

This clip is 17 minutes. That should be long enough to satisfy anyone.

Notice how she smiles throughout.

The Perfect Gift

Diaphanous

Diaphanous material is characterized by such fineness of texture as to permit seeing through.

 I sent a reader this picture of Bacall wearing her Paddle Me Now And Paddle Me Hard slip. No idea who the guy is.


 He replied with this picture. As long as she would be willing to be spanked, I would go a round with her, sans the leather collar.
Here’s a recent one of some royal, Violet something or other.


 Another gal out and about showing off

Seems that once I started this post, I see all sorts of sheer fabric. 


A Holiday Tradition

Bacall started Red Panties And Paddles Days 20+ years ago. At first, it was the 12 days before Christmas. Then we learned the actual 12 Days were after Christmas, so we did both. Now it’s the whole month. Every day this month she has gotten her red panties paddled, usually with our red Fli Back paddle – the one she put my stocking our first Christmas. I have not escaped, she has put the wood to me a few times. Most days, it’s only 6-8 pops, but twice she received the extended play version to her delight.

At the Fireplace


 For example, the other morning I asked how she wanted her paddling. Her request was simple, to be paddled in the foyer bent over the back of a chair so she could look into the living room at the decorations she put up the day before. I gave her a long and hard paddling while she twitched her fanny around and sang made up words to the Chick A Boom tune. Her bottom got hot and so did she. 

 Do you have any holiday spanking traditions?

Girls Just Want To Have Fun

Since yesterday’s Movie clip post was a dud, here’s a makeup post.

Can you imagine guys doing anything like this? No, you can’t.

One glass of wine and one camera

Not limited to the young either

The years’ girls spend in their rooms dressing up as princesses, striking alluring poses, rubbing one out, etc. are not wasted in adulthood. In a flash, they can pose with friends.

Bacall’s Most Memorable Spanking

I asked Bacall to write about her most memorable spanking for Hermonie’s blog. She did not complete it in time to post it there, so here it is.

My memorable spanking took place at the Valley of Fire State Park in Nevada. We had a very private site. No one could see us as we there were high rock walls all around us, except for the narrow opening to get the RV in.

We started off playing outside, where the paddle pops echoed off the rock walls. 

Inside the RV, I enjoy getting on my knees on the sofa and looking out the window at the spectacular scenery and seeing red rocks which is my favorite scenery. When these things take place I get very excited.  I don’t remember which of the several paddles that we had with us were used, but I was Miss Tough Fanny that day.  I can still see/feel this today.

America Is Addicted to Outrage

Looking back to a man that was never in a rage.

America Is Addicted to Outrage. Is There a Cure?

A healthy society reserves anger for special occasions. Today taking offense has become a reflex.

By

Lance Morrow
Nov. 30, 2018 6:33 p.m. ET
Outrage has become the signature emotion of American public life.
People are so used to it—the noise, the flying spittle—that they were pleasantly surprised when Rep.-elect Dan Crenshaw of Texas declined to be incensed. He is the former Navy SEAL who lost an eye in Afghanistan and was mocked—more stupidly than viciously—for his eyepatch by a performer on “Saturday Night Live.” The insult called for outrage, in the usual tit-for-tat. But instead Mr. Crenshaw took it in good humor. He went on “SNL” to accept the performer’s apology. Not everything needs to be treated as an outrage, he said—a grown-up in a moment of grace.
People have been mad as hell for much of the 21st century, starting roughly with the stalemated Bush-Gore election in 2000, followed quickly by 9/11. Fundamentals have been changing fundamentally: marriage, sexual identity, racial politics, geopolitics. Outrage flourishes also because of the rise of social media—the endless electronic brawl—and because it plays so well on our screens. Cable news draws pictures in crayon, in bold primary colors that turn politics into cartoons. On the left, “stay woke” means “stay outraged.” Trumpians want to “lock her up” or “build a wall.” Outrage is reductive, easy to understand. It is an idiom of childhood—a throwback even to the terrible twos.
The various tribes have broken off negotiations with all differing points of view. They excuse themselves from self-doubt and abandon the idea of anything so weak as compromise or, God forbid, ambivalence: No other perspective could possibly be valid. Americans have lost tolerance for the 51%-to-49% judgment call, even though that’s about the margin of their disagreement on almost everything. People give themselves over to the pleasures of self-righteousness and self-importance that come with being wronged when you know you’re in the right. Among the civic emotions, outrage is a beast of the prime; to harness outrage is to discover fire.
 healthy society reserves its outrage for special occasions: Pearl Harbor, say, or the church bombing in Birmingham, Ala., that killed four girls. But in the 21st century, special occasions—mass shootings and other random eruptions of the id—occur regularly. They have turned outrage into a ragged, all-purpose national reflex, with side effects of disgust and despair.
Outrage often emerges when an anecdote about a particular drama becomes generalized into a hashtag, as when that masterpiece of unshaven phallocratic beastliness Harvey Weinstein was dragged before the public gaze, and, in an instant, the #MeToo movement arose, drawing forth the squalid secrets of other famous men. After many a summer dies the swine. But the greatest casualty of outrage may be judgment itself. It’s dangerous when indignation abstracts itself, as when charges of sexual misconduct become generalized in phrases like “toxic masculinity,” which may condemn all men regardless of facts. They are guilty one way or another. If you cannot convict a man of rape, then you may get him for “mansplaining.”
Pretty soon absolutely everything becomes an outrage. Anything that isn’t an outrage is Jeb Bush. Complex interactions of outrage from both parties’ bases conjured up the presidency of Donald Trump, who is the mighty Wurlitzer of the art form.
Outrage seems strenuous enough, but in truth it is a lazy habit—spontaneous, fatuous and naive. Organizing a lynch mob is easier—with a surer, immediate and dramatic reward—than conducting a fair trial, which requires the brains and patience of an adult. (The inner terror of Trumpians is that Robert Mueller is a grown-up with brains and patience.) Outrage presents itself as an assertion of conscience, but in practice it mostly bypasses conscience and judgment, and goes straight to self-righteous rage, by way of self-pity.
Outrage may be justified, of course, and redress long overdue. Just as a dose of morphine may be appropriate to help a patient in extreme pain, so with outrage. But like morphine, outrage is widely abused—and addictive. It may wind up becoming frivolous or fraudulent, as in all those “triggers” and “microaggressions.”
Is outrage now an American entitlement, and a permanent state of mind? Black Americans are more entitled to outrage than most, their grievances embedded in history. Are Asian-Americans entitled to be outraged? Some are making that case in their lawsuit over Harvard’s admissions practices—an argument that, in turn, collides with the counterclaims of African-American outrage. Are gay people entitled to be outraged? Are women entitled to be outraged? Who isn’t entitled to be outraged? (White men?)
There is something sinister and corrupt—Maoist—in the habit of assigning people to categories. That was the besetting sin of the 20th century; it was the way of genocide. As people are again consigned to shallow, mutually exclusive categories in this century, it is as if we learned nothing.
A society that goes on in this way will exhaust itself. Sometimes, the outrage is a Newtonian response to the truly outrageous; outrage may have its vision of social justice. But, like so much else today, it has gotten to be a racket. The coin of anger is debased. Indignation has become a meme—not an authentic political or moral reaction to facts in a serious world, but rather a reflex, a kind of irresponsible playacting, or worse, a mania. When everyone is outraged, then real grievances lose their meaning, and the endless indulgence of outrage becomes, objectively, immoral.
Mr. Morrow, a senior fellow at the Ethics and Public Policy Center, is a former essayist for Time.