It was not that I was ignorant of its existence...no, to be the honest, it was rather the opposite. In times when things like this were still relevant, seeing the fleeting streak of panic over the face of the classroom bully finally being called out by a highly irritated and sour faced teacher to “walk the walk”, normally created bubbles of snickering giggles and small sighs of relief from the girls. He would receive sympathetic looks from the boys, and might even receive a slap of encouragement from the souls brave enough to face the possible wrath of said teacher as he swaggered past.   We all knew the ritual; on his return, the teacher might have this small smirk, the girls would avoid looking at him and the boys will be whispering excitedly as they question him whilst he ever so gingerly tries to sit down.
Looking back, I cannot recall that I ever once seen the feared “rottang”, for somewhere along the line it was decisively reserved for the ultimate out of hand behaviour caused by hormone driven young men only. What I do remember is how the girls’ voices would lower when the word “rottang” was uttered, the mixture of dread and mystery further lending the feared implement a status of rather to be avoided, at all costs. Being surrounded by your peers, you also could not offer your own opinion or as in my case, a wish...I really wanted to know what the damn thing looked like! However, it was hidden in the deep recesses of the Principal’s office, the only man who had the authority to yield the power of it and I was not about to ask.
My grandfather had problems with his legs and he had a wonderful collection of walking sticks. They were stacked in a large upright copper pot, neatly tucked away in the corner near the door. It was my job to take out the thick yellowwood walking stick for him when we were going for a walk. In between all these wonderful carved and exotic walking sticks was a pale, thin specimen. I finally plucked up the courage (he was short of temper, especially when it appeared that you might question his wisdom and judgement) to establish what this poor sample was doing in the pot.  It was clearly not of good quality, let alone thick enough to support him. My question did stop him in his tracks and a rather peculiar silence did fall over the room as it appeared that every grown up was holding their breath. He gave me a quick look and then replied rather brusquely that he uses it to kill snakes with. Although I found out years later that my uncle had rather different memories about that particular “walking stick”, the killing snakes bit was not a lie. He genuinely used the “rottang” against snakes.
Years have gone past since those days, and my wistful wish to see a “rottang” has been fulfilled. The first time I experienced the swish of the dreaded and feared implement against my bared bottom, I could fully understand the panicky looks I so often saw. I vehemently declared that it will not come near me again, yet, that same awe, fear and mystery that the cane has held for me, is still there. It has its own finesse, making it different, in a class of its own...the whispering as it cuts air in half, the “thwack” sound as it finds it mark and then those couple of seconds before it leaves its own special burn across my skin. I hate but yet I love it, and how I crave to feel this feeble looking implement once again.  
Rottang (Afrikaans) I assumed directly translated from the word Rattan (or from the Malay rotan)
In gratitude to China Hamilton


Quest for The Spanker

For days, months or even years you have wondered and fantasised about being spanked. You have found your favourite spanking blogs, a couple of spanking sites that you love visiting and the images on your earmarked Tumblr blogs are firmly established in your mind. Sometimes you are even brave enough to leave a comment or two on a blog posting, blushing as you do so, for after all, those little shivers that are running up and down your back, is your little naughty secret. Then, one day, you decide that you want to perhaps turn the fantasy into something more tangible...
So, as Google is your best friend, you start searching for that person that can help you cross the bridge between daydreaming (although most likely more prevalent during nights) and reality. You quickly stumble across dating sites that boast that they cater for those that have a mutual love for giving and receiving red bottoms with promises that you will find the firm handed spanker of your dreams. With eyes glistening in excitement you enter your details, not quite sure how you should word your profile and you might stare in confusion at the different kinks that you are suppose to tick off... somehow your spanking might also encompass some other kinkiness...which you have never thought about.
Common sense prevail, you leave a profile picture out of the equation - you are after all quite web wise,  whilst at the same time you ignore the flashing messages that at the payment of a fee, your membership will include, short from a visit to the moon, wonderful and not to be missed benefits. Your find your first potential step into the spanking world scary and exciting, waiting in anticipation for him, that perfect spanking man. As sirens, bells and whistles go off and your screen is flashing that you have a message from an interested member; you cannot wait to open your mail...
After a couple of these messages, quite likely within seconds of each other, you will realise a couple of things. The male capacity to read is widely overrated - you have requests for quick sexual flings but a “sexy” (not that you can see anything sexy in it) chat will also do, but alas nothing about spanking. The male obsession with their brain (the hanging bit between the legs) is clearly established - you receive pictures of various bulges, sizes and colours, but no offers about being spanked. Some offers are sort of in the right direction - it does refer to part of your bottom, but somehow, the spanking bit got lost again in between offers and pleading for anal sex and rimming (do not worry...I had to Google that last one as well...) You shudder at the obvious caseload that the courts will have to face...so many, terribly sex denied and unhappily married men.
So, do you blame all these men that have missed the glaring bit about a mere bare bottom spanking? Or, do you blame a website for misleading advertising? And where do you go from here, once you manage to wash off that absolute dirty feeling that you are only seen as fresh bait? My sincere advice is to approach the authors of the blogs that you are reading, I am sure that they will be able to send you in the right direction, give some sound advice at the same time...wanting to be spanked does not mean that you have to sacrifice anything else but your bottom...you have the right to have your dignity and self respect being left intact.



I see the raw desire in her eyes, her brown eyes beseeching and searching mine in return, unasked questions hovering in the background; but I do not know this person, this stranger staring at me. I slowly lift my hand to touch her face and she stares at me questioningly, suddenly seeming slightly bewildered as if she is lost.
Without moving away from the sad gaze, I pull my hand back, suddenly unsure whether she can perhaps recognise the same naked craving in my eyes. Does she wonder as I do what happened to our innocence for I have been told that this yearning that burns and eat at my soul is not pure? As I gaze at her, I could see light red blotches appear over her cheekbones before we both look away.
I remember the seemingly unending time where I tried so hard to avoid my “tainted” soul. I did not want the lust and hunger when dreaming of being stripped of my control, the removal of my dignity and pride whilst his hand would create a fire on my offered bottom. I can feel my face burn at the memories, flaring in heat of resentment against my perceived shame and my embarrassment.
As we both look up and our eyes lock onto each other once again, I had a fleeting glimpse within her of the same need that fills my being. The hunger for submission remains a constant ache with moistness and desire settled deeply between my legs. My irritation flares, how can my needs and longing be deemed as dark as if lurking in sinister shadows but I can see their frowns and their sighs denouncing my choices.
I want to shout, I want to cry - how do I describe the brightness that shines in my soul when the burn streaks across my flesh, the release and freedom, how do I explain that within my offering lays my honesty and existence? I again lift my hand slowly and she mimics me, until our hands rest against each other’s.
I can see that she understand that I need a touch that does not request any permission but expects only my restrain and submission. A touch that controls and demands unquestionable trust and obedience. A touch that without mercy or with wonderful tenderness directs, splaying open every fibre of my being until I burn in pain, heat and wetness. A touch unrelenting until I lose myself in total acquiescence, my submission measured in my pliancy to his desires?
She smiles at me...and I know, I know who this woman is that I see in the mirror.

My gratitude to China Hamilton


A Dragon's Song

He did not say anything when she arrived, but stood quietly, waiting patiently until she had removed all her clothes. It was not only the act of removing her garments; it was a removal of her defences, her protection, leaving only an offering - naked, open and in his hands. When the last piece of clothing sagged onto the floor, he turned away, not looking back as he walked into the house, knowing that she will follow. In the large room with the clock and dark furniture, he had prepared for her - an altar of his choice, only waiting for her. 
As she took in the sight of what awaits, her nipples hardened, and she knew that he was aware, but yet, even as he bound her, not a word was exchanged. He carefully ensured that the cane was left in her sight during this time, a dragon cane. She could see the terribleness, the loveliness in the smooth, thick bamboo, she could imagine the hard promises of its fiery kisses, and a heat started burning inside her. He gently placed the cane over the back of her knees and walked away, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. 
In her open, displayed nakedness, air was gently folding over her, softly caressing her, her body responding without qualms, she was swollen and moist. As she made a small movement, she could feel the crackling leather underneath her knees, but no allowance would be given to her now - she was bound to her situation, her choice, her needs, and her desire. She could feel the cane as it was resting on her legs and she was yearning to feel the burn, leaving hot, warm stripes of exquisite pain across her sensitive flesh.
She could smell the heavy oversweet scent of the dark shining mahogany. The polished grooves were cool against her skin where her hips touched it. The uncompromising cold embrace of the metal around her wrists kept her hands together in the small of her back, her palms open in what could be interpreted as a near entreating gesture. The alternating sensations of coldness were in concert and maybe, with slight sympathy, small whispers of goose bumps were raised over and over on her skin, spiralling into heat and moistness between her legs. The heat was amplified with her desire, her wish for his return, and her anguish at waiting for him.
The deep silence in the room was only broken by the tick of the grandfather clock and out of the corner of her eye she could see the pendulum slowly swinging from side to side, counting down the seconds. She has lost track of time, not that it mattered anymore, as she has forsaken her identity, her being, for this moment, this infinite moment of acquiescence. She knew he will return, she knew he will gently feel her heat, her wetness - test her readiness and if she was, he will remove the cane from the back of her legs. For then, he will create her desire, a song, a dragon’s song...

My gratitude to China Hamilton for allowing the use of his images.



Love our Lurkers...and Custard Creams?

During a rather pain in the derriere period of the wrong kind (no pink coloured tender bottom type), I disappeared into the corporate netherworld whilst liberally adding some more angst to my life in deciding to emigrate to the UK at the same time. The result was that a status of absentia was declared on Raven Red’s commiserations of spanking and life in general.
I have never thought that a Statistics report could induce so much guilt or gratitude for that matter. Every month I would receive the blog’s visitor profile, and yes, quite a bit of lurking was going on. For every single day in the period that I did not blog, I still received visitors. The corporate world has receded, okay, basically I am jobless, but I am now where I want to be, has started blogging again and realising how much I missed it...and lo and behold...I even have been spanked a couple of times!
With the return of my fingers to the keyboard and actually producing some blog posts, Chross and Pink have graciously restored my name to their blog rolls, Uncle Nick is praising the gods above that I finally realised that my blog will not update itself and Wordsmith is muttering something about escapes and custard creams...
As it is the annual Love our Lurker’s day that started with the Bonnie's wonderful blog, it is also a day where our lurkers are encouraged to leave comments if they want...but my message for YOU who did and do faithfully return every day to see if I have been up to something, or rather been upended over someone’s knee, regardless of the fact that there was for a period nothing but a purplish type of page, in your silent returns daily, I received your comments and for that, I thank you.  
I would appreciate some thoughts about Wordsmith’s sudden preoccupation for custard creams though...I personally prefer hot cross buns....




You have the flawless response; you plotted a seamless reaction whilst your brain seems to be functioning at optimum output...but, alas, this normally is always after the fact. 
It seems to be a human flaw that when something nasty occurs unexpectedly, you often wonder afterwards
1.         Why you did not say something more appropriate,
2.         Why you did not act/ react as you should have,
3.         Or as in my case, wonder what happened to your normal logical thought processes.
After a long road trip down to London with Uncle Nick and finally in the quiet surroundings of a warm hotel room, I was slightly astounded when I was informed that he had enough of my insolence. Before I could even formulate a proper response, (refer to paragraph 2, point 1) I found myself unceremoniously being hauled over his lap, as he was sitting on the edge of the bed.
As I was still trying to figure out exactly what it was that I said or done that could be regarded as “insolent” as this is after all, quite a broad definition of various possible scenarios that might or might not have occurred, I did sort of missed the fact that in my pondering, my knickers no longer were in place. In actual fact, my bottom was bare and I did not even lift one finger to try and stop this?! (Refer paragraph 2, point 2).
As his hand came crashing down on my bottom time after time, my only thought was...”OMG! I better make sure that no-one hears me being spanked!!”  With that desperate thought, I promptly grabbed the pillow in front of me, stuffed my face into it, and happily endured the spanking, after all, all my yelps were quite succesfully being muffled...
Erm...(refer paragraph 2, point 3).

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