The raven has landed....

Granted, although a bit windswept at the odd occasion, slightly less than dry at others, and alternating between being far too hot, and far too cold, the Raven's arrival in the country with stories and myths of magical swords, wizards and round tables, have been reasonable trouble free.

Armed with a knobkerrie (traditional weapon) and a cattle whip, not one but two different leather straps, and some serious looking leather belts, I have expected, and actually resigned myself to the fact, that I might have to face some very awkward questions about my choice of luggage items.

However, with a plane that arrived ahead of schedule, customs officials friendly and courteous, no one at the "Nothing to declare (however we know better)" section, my biggest concern was to find the smoking area. As such, before seven in the morning, I was standing somewhere on the outside of Heathrow, trying to text the news of my safe arrival, finding a lighter and cigarette in a handbag stuffed full with everything that could conceivably be needed in an emergency , and smiling politely whilst answering every second person "No, I am not cold." Thanks to Uncle Nick, the owner of Moonglow collected me from the airport and two or three hours later, I was re-united with my family.

The jubilation of seeing familiar and loved faces, the attempts to put months of absence into words, made it seem as if the old farm house was filled with laughter and joy. And with us all having the African child in us, it was not long before we went in search of open spaces. My shoes were discarded first, shortly thereafter followed by the stockings...and as I stepped onto the cold, wet grass, feeling the earth underneath my bare feet for the first time, my heart settled...I have finally arrived.


From the airport...

I am sitting in the smoking area at Johannesburg Airport, waiting for my 20:20 flight to London to be called. I arrive tomorrow morning at 6:55 local time, and I'll spend most of the first week with my family.

I will post again in a day or so when I get settled.


Raven's FAQ Part 2

Somewhere in the evolution of the opposite sex, some misguided advice had become firm religion. I can remember my brother at the age of sixteen practising his pick-up lines, well, truth to be told, I never laughed so much in one day. 

Whether the line is delivered in the attempted form of seduction, with some guy hoarsely whispering some idiotic thing in your ear, or being delivered with all the arrogance of a bantam cockerel, it appears that men firmly believe that a pick-up line is the golden key to attain a woman's undying love, or, as Uncle Nick pointed out, it is rather that the believe is based on the hope of sweeping the woman right of her feet onto her back.

In my opinion, the culprit that shared his advice all those years ago, should have been hunted down and made to stand in a corner for a long, long time.

"Your ass should be red / Is your ass red? / How red is your ass?"
"I do not own an ass. I know this is Africa, but unlike the lions that we do have roaming the streets together with the elephants, it is rather illegal to keep donkeys within city limits. However, if I had a donkey, why would I want the poor thing to be red? And they only tend to come in shades of brown and grey."

Raven's Notes:
I do acknowledge that the word "ass" in American English refers to the bottom; however, I had my mouth washed out with soap once when using the word. In short, I have quite an aversion to the word. By the way, the redness? It depends....

"I want to spank you."
"You are number 1456 in the queue, please take a seat and wait for your number to be called."

Raven's Notes:
 Not sure why it is that, every Tom, Dick, and Harry seem to want to spank me. I am investigating the possibility to install a pay gate on my chat box that automatically collects a dollar from every person stating his desire to get hold of my bottom. There is a distinct possibility that I might then be able to retire before the year is out.

"I am horny!”
"Oh my goodness! Congratulations! You found your brain!!"

Raven's Notes:
None. Whatsoever. Do not want my mouth washed out with soap again...  

Alas, I am rather sad to say, that I do not see an end to the folly of the opposite sex, especially when I found a couple of websites, which provides advice on how to use pick-up lines, with a guarantee that it will work.

Try online training free and discover how to: 
Get a woman aroused and interested in you immediately by using proven, dirty pick up lines.
Keep a woman engaged and interested in what you have to say, so you can chat long enough to move things forward to a phone number, kiss, or sex.
Make a woman fall in love with you, by using our secret techniques that are invisible to the naked eye.
Use body language to make a woman feel rushes of sexual attraction for you.
Confidently approach women. 

Raven's Notes:
I have sent a prayer upstairs, nicely asking if I can please, please be witness to the teachings of the secret techniques...that are invisible to the naked eye...  


I will be home

I was watching the curtain gently moving in the early morning wind, the birds having their lively conversations in a neighbourhood slowly awakening to the new day. I was not sure what woke me so early this morning, but as the sleepiness slowly drifted away, I realised, this is it. It is the last weekend before leaving, and I will only be back in a month's time.

I am exchanging the summer for winter, the southern hemisphere for the northern, long warm days for short dark and cold days, being barefoot and sleeveless for shoes and coats, bright blue sunny skies for grey clouds and rain, but I am going home.

In a short few days, I will hear his voice, the vibrations against my ear, the thud of his heartbeat, the gentle movement of his breathing, as I rest my head against his chest.
I will be home.

I will hear our laughter, our teasing, our conversations, and our disagreements, no longer interrupted by the failure of technology and no sad moments of missed opportunities.
I will be home.

I will feel myself become softer, pliant and gentle, the becoming of me, as I submit to him willingly.
I will be home.

I will revel in the safety and protection as I am pulled into the safety of his arms, into his life.
I will be home.

I will snuggle up against him, with his hand gentle, no longer hard and punishing but lying protective over my burning bottom, allowing me to cry the tears so long in the making. I will hear his reassuring voice gently whispering, the vibrations against my ear, the thud of his heartbeat, the gentle movement of his breathing, and I will know that I am home.


Amendments to travelling notes and luggage

I made a small mistake, and I admit, the consequences could have been serious, but I did not make the error intentionally or maliciously. Dearest Uncle Nick obviously hit the roof (both floors), and then resorted to his “hell has just frozen over” voice. The voice makes me nervous, and sadly, when I get nervous, I giggle, and the more I try not to giggle, well, suffice to say, quite a few of them escaped.  

With that lovely sarcasm of his which I so adore, I was then not only informed that "He is so happy, that I seem to find it so amusing", but another scribble was made into that skin thieving, tree destroying notebook of his.

(Raven’s Note: Watch this space for the sad announcement of the accidental demise of one moleskin notebook...not any fault of mine of course.)
(Raven’s Second Note: I am going to invest in a dictionary, as it is also clear that there is a huge difference between South African English and British English - my definition of happy is definitely not in agreement with his)

Then it was lecture time. I have honestly thought my days of attending fire and brimstone sermons were over for good, but seemingly, they are not. Now, I cannot be sure whether it was because I was tired, or that I did feel like an idiot for making such a daft mistake. Maybe it was the embarrassment or perhaps it was a combination of all of it, but a sudden a wave of rebellion came surging forward, faster than what Fidel can say Castro.

I was ready to stage a coup d'├ętat, but hell, the initial rebellion had already turned into a  disastrous affair. It was nipped in the bud so quickly, and countered with that absolute awful question “Do you understand?” With the quiet threat made that the punishment will be escalated, if there is not an answer shortly forthcoming, had me fighting a different battle altogether. I knew the answer is affirmative in nature, my tongue knew how to form the word, but my brain had formulated a completely different message, lying on the tip of my tongue for delivery. After some severe infighting, a reluctant, mumbled yes eventually managed to escape from my lips. 

Did I then gracefully apologise and beg for mercy?

Well, let me put it this way: The liberal use of the word "whatever" followed by a major sulk for nearly twenty four hours, added with the refusal to engage in any conversation that required more than a yes or a no, is not recommended.

Therefore, being the practical person I am, and in preparation for my UK trip now only a couple of days away, I have amended my luggage and travel notes slightly.
  1. Riot gear (it does state its purpose is to protect the body of the wearer)
  2. Flamethrower (instant death to the moleskin notebook – do not take chances),
  3. Ear drops and plugs (serious Sermon Syndrome ear infection requiring cotton wool being stuffed into ear canals)
  4. Development of hacking cough with as polite people do, hand in front of mouth (should cover any escaping giggles and tell-tale movement of facial muscles)
  5. Practise to say Yes, I do understand (complete sentence in mind – Do you understand that today I will take you shopping and I will pay for it on my credit card)
  6. If all of above fails – beg very, very nicely and add a couple of sincere sounding “I am really, really sorry” for good measure.


Raven's FAQ Part 1

Since I have joined the social spanking sites, I have chatted to many people, made some friends and some well...not so good friends. It is a world made up of so many different characters, some true to the persona they reflect under their alias, some a mixture of own personality and fantasy...but all of us drawn, one way or the other, into the underlying sexual currents, contained in the giving or receiving of a spanking.

As I am a relatively friendly and easygoing person, it does not perturb me in one bit, to say hello to a stranger or having a conversation with him. Nevertheless, I was quick to realise, after quite a bit of conversations that even the most hardened experienced spanker mostly wanted to hear about my spanking experiences, and in some instances had these unexplained and overwhelming urges to threaten me with spanking.

It is clear to me that these chat sessions are regarded not only as a means to get to know me,  but it is also rather regarded as a bit of a uplifting experience for some. The only problem is, just as in the final countdown for a rocket launch, some very repetitive checks and questions are to be asked before the control tower can be informed; "We have ignition, we have lift-off".

Therefore, a post or two will be dedicated (slighlty with tongue in cheek, well pardon the expression) to the frequently asked questions and statements so often directed at me that I am now convinced that there are a various copies of “The Dummies Guide to Bottom Spanking Questions” in free circulation.

My most favourite, which must be the most irrelevant question of them all, but asked so many times over, can only be:
 "So, do you like spanking?"

Answer not yet given, but the day is coming:
"No, I only signed up as Raven Red, but I am actually Facebook Agent 007. I have now completed my mission, I have analysed your friends requests, your photos posted, and your comments made. I regret to inform you – You will be deleted, resistance is futile, you are the weakest link. Goodbye."

The Childhood Questions:

Were you spanked as a child?
(No, I have not been spanked)

Were you spanked at school/home?
 (I have just informed you that I have never been spanked)

Who spanked you?
(Oh, for goodness sake! Read the letters slowly – I h a v e n o t b e e n s p a n k e d, e v e r )

Were you ever subject to corporal punishment?
(Finally! And the answers to all of the above questions: Yes, No/ Yes, Parents)

Did you have to bend over, lie over a desk etc?
 (Take your pick)

What were you punished with?

What is a sjambok?
 (It is a traditional whip, with the leather normally harvested from a rhino or hippo’s penis area....)

Normally, there tends to be a long deflated silence here...followed either by “Wow” or “Really?”, and somehow I do tend to get the idea that busy hands are now utilised in a more protective way...

How long did the punishment last?
(Far too long)

Was it on the bare?
 (Well, I use to make my mother so angry, she would hit me where she could find place – so I definitely have to say – Yes and No)

How old were you when receiving your last punishment?
 (Seriously?? Well, taking into consideration that my last punishment session was last week, but I have another couple scheduled in the nearby future...can I come back to you on that one?) 

The last for today, is actually only a statement dedicated to the person that assumed that South Africa is actually the continent of Africa.
“Dear Sir, the south bit, as in South Africa, is actually there for a reason...”


Lessons from the Moleskin Notebook

It started out as a normal, sunny morning, with me on my way to a quick appointment, the last of the "Have to do's” for the week. A few kilometres after getting onto the highway, slightly earlier as normal, I encountered major road works underway with nowhere to go. With everyone courteous, driving at a snail's pace, allowing each other access as lanes keep on dwindling from five to two, I was not too perturbed. It was the weekend, after all...

That was until Mr Taxi Driver arrived on the scene. He was clearly not content with the current traffic situation and seemed convinced that to gain a one-car length will result in a major changing life event. However, in order for him to gain eternal happiness, he had to deal with a slight obstacle, which was my car, or rather, me. Quickly realising that I was not going anywhere, he decided to deliberately swing his minibus towards my car...the threat clearly made: "Give way, or else...”

I do not do the "or else" bits very well in life. Thus, a rather heated conversation ensued, each in his own language, but with clear understanding of what is being said due to the ample use of profanity in between the Afrikaans and Zulu words, which in turn were topped off with the liberal use of hand gestures to emphasise certain points. The argument was most probably at its peak, with me already having offered various opinions regarding current brain power, family roots, questionable manhood and warm wishes for upcoming trips, when I realised that motorists around me have actually switched off their engines.....we were not going anywhere for a while.

So, all of a sudden finding myself stationary, I looked up into my rear window mirror, and saw one very, very angry taxi driver getting out of the minibus, walking towards me...and all that went through my mind was...."Okay, this time you have now really done it..."

During the rest of the day, a mixture of different emotions was simmering - the relief that I manage to escape unharmed from the situation and horror at my own actions. The utter disbelief in the level of stupidity I displayed, especially knowing that it is general knowledge that most taxi drivers are armed in one way or the other. Then there was the small matter of Nick.

I tried, really tried during the Skype conversation the next morning not to say anything, or to act differently, but right at the end of the conversation, I heard to my own horror - the words pouring out of my mouth. For a minute or so, I still thought maybe I got away with it, as at first Nick thought I was referring to a cab driver, but being the man he is, he quickly realised that this is not about a cab driver. It was not even put to me in a question; he purely stated, "You are talking about collective taxis. A mini bus"

I actually closed my eyes in silent prayer, before I confirmed the statement. Instead of clamping my mouth firmly shut, I added stupidly, that there are some clips on the Internet about SA Taxi drivers. When someone says in this calm voice “Go on” my advice is that if you can run...do so. The call ended on a slightly chilly note, with clear instructions that I must wait, he will contact me shortly. Which he did. It was a short conversation, no longer than three minutes. In those three minutes, I never said a word. Angry, livid, enraged, furious, incensed, outraged - I think that describes Nick the best during the call. Moreover, it did not help the matters any further that he has just finished watching one of the news clips I so brazenly referred to.

The end-result was an entry in the moleskin notebook.  To my utter shame and mortification, I was gently reminded about the people that do care about me, whilst receiving a scathing lecture at the same time about my obvious desire to get myself killed and for having an insane death wish.  A quiet promise was made to me, that in my upcoming trip to the UK, the punishment awaits, as he so calmly did put it, “I will be just as angry as I am now." 

Out of all the idiotic, mind numbing stupid things that I have done, as the result of my quick temper, this surely takes first price. And as far as the promised punishment is concerned, I have no objection. As Nick so eloquently had summed it up, victory for me would have meant that the taxi driver would have backed off; however, defeat would have resulted in either personal injury, or even worse. The sad truth contained in this, is that both options are devoid of any real value.


A Moleskin Notebook

Let us not make any mistake about the fact that I am a Daddy’s girl. When he asked me some time ago if I would help him at a monthly collectors fair, I agreed...and then promptly forgot about it. Until two days ago, when I received a phone call reminding me. I was horrified when I was told what time I had to report for duty.  

I literally fell out of bed on Saturday morning, absolutely desperate to get to a hysterical alarm clock, which was screaming at me that it was six o’clock. My not yet recovered bottom protested about all these sudden movements, and as a result, one or two expletives did send sleepy cats scattering. I do vaguely recollect having a shower, getting dressed and driving to the other side of Johannesburg. The mother’s only comment when she saw my  face on arrival was “I will make you some coffee,” while the father was already pacing impatiently...destroying a good piece of grass in the process.

A couple of hours on - unable to stop yawning, a tender bottom protesting about being placed on what must be the hardest chair in the universe, persuading  very reluctant facial muscles to smile politely at people, I was not a happy child. I was in amidst what can only be termed politely as the approved meeting place for the most bizarre collection of, and I am making an assumption here, people, that I have ever seen.

Nevertheless, I am a firm believer in the simple philosophy that one’s word is one’s honour. Consistent honesty and integrity do not only ensure self-respect, but it also shows an amount of respect to others. That is  why, on a Saturday morning, where other sane people have not yet moved a toe, never mind a bottom, I was stumbling around with eyes barely opened, bitterly cursing my fate.  And, alas, as demonstrated, my moral convictions are also the cause of many of my woes.  

My problem is not in so much that I am unable to lie or deceive, but my extraordinary talent for guilt. One then has to add the fact that I know exactly when I was in the wrong as well. These two factors together have resulted many a times, that I cannot even reach the stage of looking guilty, because by this time, I had blurted the truth out a long time ago. On the flip side of the coin, there are the two very, very small issues regarding my slight stubbornness and near absent temper, which in my opinion I do rather handle well when left to my own devices.

Which brings me to Nick, a moleskin notebook, and my utter desire to demonstrate to him how a South African woman can build a fire, which a couple of thousand years ago, would have had the Neanderthals worshipping me. I remember telling him a couple of months back a story that I heard about a gentleman that conducts disciplinary sessions, and where there are distance issues, he would meticulously record the crimes and note the  punishments due at  the next meeting. I should have seen the warning signs – the way his eyes lit up, the smile, but I was so engrossed in my storytelling, that I only realised after a while, that he is asking way to many questions, and even though desperately trying to back pedal, I knew was too late.

He is now the proud owner of a moleskin notebook, which was gleefully displayed to me on the day of purchase. Not only did I have to look at it, I even had to mumble words in agreement that it is indeed quite impressive looking, and trust me, I knew it was not the appropriate moment to practise the expression of “The truth will set you free”.

In the period that the poor mole had lost its skin, and a tree was no longer more, I have tried my very best to refrain from sharing any minor, and you cannot even regard them as newsworthy, incidents I did have. I have also tried to be on best behaviour, but sadly, I have to report, there are a couple of scribbled lines already recorded.

And in less than two weeks, I have to try to convince him that the “FINE!” text he received was only due to the phone all of sudden only having capital letters available. And that same phone then had an unexplained battery failure for a couple of hours. (And I do not have any idea why he would think the phone had a sudden impact with the opposite wall in my office).

I am still working on some ideas for the other recorded infractions, but time seems to running out.  Unless I can perfect my skills as a fire starter with the moleskin notebook as the first offering,  I have no doubt that the only heat I am going to feel will be in the region of my bottom.


When Raven Met Nick

Sometimes in life, one can have quite a set idea about what you want to achieve, forgetting that the universe might just have other ideas. And when she does have other ideas, she takes great delight in reminding you, that she can add to your journey in life, without having to ask permission. That is how it was with Nick

Early one Saturday morning, I was browsing the Internet, when he posted a comment on a site that both irritated and amused me. The comment was not addressed to me, nor did it actually have anything to do with me, but the temptation to respond was overwhelming. Therefore, I did, with my usual tact and politeness...Okay, it was ever so slightly edgy with a tiny bit of my wry sense of humour added for good measure as well.

His response was immediate, sarcastic and at the same time, mocking my sense of humour! Needless to say, quite a lively interaction commenced, but slowly and surely I started realising, I am not only dealing with a highly intelligent man, but with a man not actually bothered or perturbed at how many barbs or sarcastic remarks I directed at him.

I was in trouble, and as the conversation continued, I realised, not only was I in trouble, but I have met my match. This was confirmed seconds later in message received: “Raven, I am going to take an interest in you.” It was not a question, nor a threat, just a plain, simple statement of fact.

Ever had those moments in life that leaves you wondering what just happened?

I have tried very hard to make sense of it all with even Good Girl Guilt trying to emerge from her slumber. The phrase “Bad Boy” comes to mind, where reactions around a girl can range from a firmly declared pacifist father all of a sudden purchasing the largest shotgun in the shop, mother intent in locking her in a room and her sister walking around with her lip on the floor, because she did not see him first.

But then I have always been the observer, always looking in on the inner circle, the outsider. I had quickly realised from a young age, how people love to identify and classify people, judging them according to own prejudices, stereotyping, materialistic status and personal belief systems. No matter how hard anyone tries, we do not fit into these neat little boxes – we are unique, each one in his or her own way.

This sentiment can be seen in the works of Aesop and JRR Tolkien (how I can see Nick raising his eyebrows at yet another quote):  "All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost". I found a man that does not hide behind a facade of false niceties. He is brutally honest about himself and the world around him, and on many occasions, I have found myself literally at a loss of words, which is somewhat unfamiliar...or trying very hard not to choke whilst finding myself in an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

We are not in the same country, I am in South Africa and he is currently living in the United Kingdom, but it is a few months down the line already, and the declared interest has remained firmly in place. I will be shortly off to visit Nick, this time, for a relative longer period, to see where this journey will take me.

Of one thing, I am certain though, interesting times are lying ahead, especially with both of us very complex in our own way. But, I have fallen head over heels in love...well; actually, a more accurate version will be bottom over knee...I am happy.

Funny how I all of a sudden can hear his voice saying: “Very droll.”


An open letter to HH, my South African disciplinarian

An open letter to HH, my South African disciplinarian:

My joy, my excitement, when I found your profile, had me restless all night long. Your frank statement that you enjoy spanking female bottoms and your explanation of a session with you had made it seem that there were thousands of little butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

Your detailed introduction to adult spanking for novices like me, a hand spanking to warm up a willing bottom, and for the shy at heart at first, and an allowance to be clothed had my undivided attention. And there it was! A firm, quiet but non-negotiable demand, that the baring of the bottom will be inevitable. Quivers went down my spine, reverberating into the muscles of my bottom with your insistence that the hand spanking will continue, until the soft flesh raised and presented to you has taken on a hue of rosy pink.

The change in pace and intensity described in the change-over to a wooden paddle, that will alter the  degree of sensation, the stinging of the hand spanking changing into a deeper burn, felt deeper as the paddle finds it mark had my bottom clenching in sympathy. I could imagine how the rosy pink was slowly turning into a crimson red as the bottom yielded to the paddle.

But the final instalment of the session gripped me, an answering response within my soul, and I knew that you were to be the one. The swish of a cane, striking a reddened bottom, the fiery fire across a sensitive bottom that is already burning within from what went before, and raising the sensitive flesh, marking it as its own.

When I sent you the first mail on that night and seeing your mail in my inbox the next day, my heart was pounding so hard, for it had now become a reality. I remember on agreeing to meet you; I was literally counting down the hours, the anticipation creating moments of sheer terror mixed with utter desire. When you sat down at the table in the coffee shop, looking at me with that slight knowing smile that I have become so accustomed to by now, I knew that my life was about to change.

Any control I might have thought to possess, you have removed without any effort. You brush aside my nervous bluster and flip answers when you change a rule deliberately, only quietly promising retribution if I do not desist. You have allowed me my initial shyness but which is now ignored, your hands lifting my dress and lowering my panties, baring my bottom, your canvas to change in hues of pink and red.

How well you saw through me, my South African disciplinarian, the day I stepped onto the road where I belong, the day I met you in a coffee shop, the day I asked you, a total stranger then, if you would please spank me!


A Sunday morning with Coffee, Croissants and a Caning

I was late. Very, very late. More than an hour and a bit late. HH told me on Friday afternoon, that he was not working his normal Saturday morning, but would be at the office on the Sunday morning for a short while, and I am late! Oh dear God, how I was praying that he will still be there when I searched for him online. I rushed to the bakery, with a lighter heart, a smile and hope renewed. Relief had washed over me; he will be there, waiting for my offering.

I rang the bell and he opened the door, as was our normal routine. I was relaxed, happy to see him, to have some of his time. I followed him into the room, where on other occasions I would have normally been bent over, but a quick look at the table confirmed that no paddle or cane was visible. There was no spanking scheduled - I was only the bearer of croissants, and he was the coffee maker.

I knew it was time to leave. The coffee cups had gone cold, the croissants had been eaten, and there were only crumbs left on the two white plates. I thanked him politely for the conversation and the coffee, knowing I have not given him any reason for my out of characteristic croissant offering, but grateful that he did not ask either. A slight smile curled around his mouth, as he accepted my gratitude. My eyes widened, my mouth dried, as he returned his thanks for the croissants."I would like to thank you appropriately".

I nervously tried a laugh, ignoring the contractions of muscles deep inside of me, the instinct to arch my back to present my bottom, a bottom quivering in anticipation, ignoring the emotions of thrill and fear, which were creating small waves of heat, gently lapping in between my legs. I waved carelessly with my hand in the air, unable to look him fully in the eyes: "No need really, I am happy with normal thanks, and it was only a pleasure".

I got up from the table, standing next to my chair, my heart raced as he repeated his wish. I attempted to deflect him with another denial, but he quickly called my bluff, and dropping my eyes, I conceded. I watched him, barely breathing, as he moved around the room with purpose. Moving from window to window, he closed the blinds, and I watched as the light from the bright sun slowly disappeared. As the last blind was closed, the room had become the familiar place I knew, my sanctuary, my altar, the place where I relinquish control.

He left the room, closing the door with his instruction hanging in the air: "Get yourself ready". I was pushing my back against the wall, my bottom now bare, my trembling hands having removed my panties, waiting. My breathing erratic, my hands protectively over my bottom, waiting. I stared at the empty cold coffee cups and crumbs in the two white plates, waiting. I saw the black chair, pulled away from the table. I placed it where he has shown me previously, and it was ready, waiting.

As quietly as he had left, he returned, my eyes flicked to his hand, my breath caught as I looked away. He stood waiting, not moving. He watched as I slowly approached the chair and I could feel his eyes on my back as I assumed the familiar position. Bent over the chair, he silently stepped forward and lifted my dress up to my waist, and I could feel the warm morning heat against my bared bottom. In the absolute silence, I felt the  gentle tap-tap-tapping of the cane on my flesh, I arched my back,  and as I lifted and offered my bottom to him, I closed my eyes.

The touch of the gentle tap-tap of the cane against my skin, induced anticipation into every fibre of my being, every nerve sensitive and alert, as I waited for the inevitable moment of nothingness. When the moment arrived, I barely managed to draw a breath, when I heard the swish of the cane on its way, followed by a loud crack as it found its home against my bared flesh. A white-hot searing flash of pain streaked across my bottom with darts of fire piercing deep into my tender flesh. With a deep gasp for breath, my fingers gripped into the chair, and there were no thoughts, only an empty space into which I lost myself, as I waited for the fire to ease into a stinging throb. As I exhaled, I felt a hot flush of heat as it rushed through my entire body.

He never spoke, nor did he request that I count the strokes aloud; the silence was only broken by the swish of the cane, the crack of it snapping into my flesh, and my involuntary sounds of agony and discomfort. He took his time, with every stroke allowed the cane to search for the tenderest spot, tap-tap-tapping against sensitive flesh. He patiently held off, waiting for me to return from my empty space, to respond to the searching cane, to arch my back and present my bared bottom, willingly, waiting for the fire to cleanse my soul.

Afterwards, with my flesh raised and burning in protest to my gentle touch, as I covered them with my hands, I realised, he did know the reason for the offering of croissants, after all....


Good Girl Guilt - Conclusion

South Africa changed irrevocably on 11 February 1990. People restless, waiting for hours, cheers and jubilation when Nelson Mandela, emerged onto the Cape Town City Hall balcony, a free man. As for the Afrikaners, many were in full and open support of the new order, celebrating the death of Apartheid, but for some the end of the world was near. Talks of civil war, and retribution coming, food being stockpiled with amusing rumours going around about the alleged scarcity of baked beans. Always wondered about that one...when they ran out of bullets, were they going to rely on biological warfare?

As for me, the nineties were years barely remembered, as I struggled and battled everyday nearly oblivious to all that was happening around me, the changes in my country noted but adapted to, without question, without opinion, without reaction. Consumed by guilt, avoiding intimate contact of any kind, including friends and family, becoming a near reclusive. I was diagnosed as clinically depressed, but yet, even with the prodding and nudging, My Good Girl guilt and secret, remained mine...and mine alone.

With the arrival of the millennium, and with me in my thirties, the little bit of world I had, came crashing down. I suffered a personal loss so great, so painful, that my soul became frozen, dead, and incapable of feeling anything, even guilt. Waking up in the mornings, feeling the core of ice within, so heavy, so cold, that left me clutching the sheets, a pain so deep; I would curl into myself, barely moving.

But my soul did slowly re-awaken, and as the ice within were slowly melting away, I became more and more aware of changes in me. The years of fear and anger, self resentment, had been replaced by a feeling of freedom. The shame and guilt had been replaced by compassion and excitement. I remember standing in front of my bedroom window, staring at the huge mulberry tree in the backyard, new leaves sprouting as spring had been nudging winter firmly out of the way. It had just rained and little droplets hanging on the edges of the leaves, caught in the rays of the late afternoon sun, sparkled, reflecting the different shades of bright green. I saw new life and hope.

Then I finally realised. Through the deep sorrow, through the pain, my soul had become free. The imposed and accepted Good Girl guilt, destroyer of a soul, had retreated and was cowering in a corner, far and deep away. I became aware of my body, as if coming out of a deep sleep, my muscles relaxed as it no longer was bearing the weight of defence and self protection.  

And I thought about being laid over a table, bent over, my bottom bared, awaiting the stroke of a strap, feeling the burn, the sting, hearing the sound of the strap as it claims my flesh as its own.

I thought about my secret and I smiled.

I imagined gently taking it into my hands, slightly cupping it and whispering to it:
“I am who I am, and you?
You are part of my soul
My soul, submissive in nature, needing to quietly obey
You are part of my desire
My desire to accept the pain and control, without any shame
You are part of Me
Me, with acceptance and joy, my journey complete, because
You are who I AM”


Good Girl Guilt - Part 2

Broken pieces of yearning and desire throughout the years, utter desperation, yet, the harder I was trying to escape, the more aware I became....

Boys accompanied by a teacher, disappearing to the Principal’s office, and on return unable to sit down without wincing, and during break disappearing with friends around the corner and where you know they were admiring the red welts on the very tender bottom.

And being in High School where girls were no longer disciplined on the bottom, but now holding out hands for a thick wooden ruler or leather strap to come down so hard, that most could not help but put their hands between their legs, with the teacher patiently waiting, threatening to add another stroke if the hand is not back in the air by quietly counting backwards; “three....two......one......WHACK”, and the girl crying, saying sorry over and over, pleading for it to stop.

A chance discovery of a book in the library with full descriptions of “sexual deviations” inclusive of adult spankings clearly classified. And how I read, and read again the story of a woman, who as a girl at a boarding school was regularly punished by being caned. Her description of how after she was already laying across the table, and her panties circling her ankles, her bottom exposed, the teacher would ever so gently dab perfume behind her ears, in an effort to increase all the senses to ensure that every stroke thereafter delivered would be felt in full.  

Memories of intense physical reactions, a body betraying a mind so desperate not to react.

In my early twenties curled up in a chair, giggling with a bunch of friends in anticipation of our first criminal activity, getting ready to watch a porn movie. The fear and excitement were tangible in the room, unable to look at each other, embarrassed into our souls, but unable to look away. Then...a scene where a woman was first bent over a table, her dress lifted up and being caned, then tied up, and whipped with a riding crop. And as her cries became more desperate, I remember how my body not only reacted as always, but continued reacting. My breathing became shallower, I felt my face flushing, and my nipples were so hard that I can still remember the small pinpoints of pain as they rubbed against my bra. The heat between my legs that grew hotter and intense, hearing the whip smacking against flesh, the cries of the woman....and how everything contracted in a single non-ending wave, sharp sensation after sensation coursing through my body, from the pit of my womb, in between my legs...over and over again... I remember how hard I concentrated not to move, biting down on my lip not to make a sound, praying that no-one will decide to look at me...

The introduction of the Internet in South Africa, first regarded by all with great weariness by some, with the subsequent explosion and availability wherever you went. All of a sudden, I had access to sites depicting spanking photos at first, then clips and however hard I would promise myself that I will not return, invariably, I would find myself sitting staring at the computer, dreaming, desiring, wishing...

For a while I resorted to self spanking, using a thick leather belt, naked bottom, eyes closed to experience it all, absorbing the sting, the burn, revelling in the sound, trying to make sure that the next whack will be harder than the one before...

And all through this, a gut wrenching feeling of guilt and shame, the bitter tears alone at night, praying, begging that God above should remove this terrible illness, this taint on my soul...for I am not a Good Girl, I am Shame, I am Deviant, I am Evil...

(Concluding Part 3 on Friday)


Thank You


A massive "Thank you" to all of YOU.

I have 107 visits to my blog yesterday alone, which has left me somewhat speechless (and that does not happen often!). My heartfelt gratitude to those who have been leaving words of encouragement and support on the blog, as well as on my Facebook profile.

I will be updating the blog every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

Some of the roads that I have travelled on in my journey, cannot be told in one sitting, therefore on occasion, I will be telling the story in Parts. (Part 2, of Good Girl Guilt, will be posted on Wednesday morning.)

Again, to all of  you, "Baie dankie/Thank you"  for reading and sharing in my journey...

Raven Red


The Good Girl Guilt - The Journey to Self Acceptance (Part 1)

True guilt is guilt at the obligation one owes to oneself to be oneself. False guilt is guilt felt at not being what other people feel one ought to be or assume that one is.

Growing up in South Africa during the seventies, eighties, and part of the nineties, conjures images of rigidity and rules, supported by political and religious dogma. I was brought up in a strict, Afrikaans speaking, conservative household. Attending church every Sunday was compulsory, and questioning any statements made during sermons, definitely not allowed.

Between the government and church, decisions were made on your behalf, whether it was about whom you could marry, where you were allowed live, what you could watch or listen to, what level  your education would be, what language you received your education in, what shops, hotels, trains, busses, beaches you were allowed to use. There was no choice given either when claiming your son for two years, to defend the borders against the imminent threat of the invading Communists.

Clear expectations were set out within the Afrikaner culture about what the perfect woman should be like. During my high school years, in a very small town, so conservative that it could actually be regarded as leaning towards the extreme right, it was not unusual to hear boys stating that a woman's place is in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. A further unwritten rule that was to be obeyed at all times; anything or anyone that came across as strange, or not understood, was to be regarded as falling outside acceptable Christian principles, and therefore should be either  ignored or destroyed.

And then there was me. Somehow born with a huge dollop of defiance within my inner core, asking what I now realize, relatively uncomfortable questions to answer. Especially coming from one as stubborn as what I can be, with the ability to recognize evasive answers from a very young age. And obviously, the easiest way to deal with me is not to deal with me.

I was the outcast from a very young age, marked as the rebel during my teenage years, and unpatriotic during my twenties and thirties. I can clearly remember my mother once asking me in absolute desperation at about the age of fifteen, after I had my history teacher in an absolute rage, for refusing to participate in the compulsory two hour military drills (for readiness against the imminent threat of invading Communists) every Friday; " We have not brought you up this way, why are you acting like this??"

However, as much as what I rebelled against principles sometimes so absurd, I still became a product of my environment. Guilt was a weapon very effectively used, from within the house, the schools, the church and the reigning political party. The "Good girl versus Bad Girl" guilt trip was firmly implanted within me. "Good girls do not question authority, Good girls do not back-chat their teachers, Good girls do not tell boys to go and play with themselves, Good girls love their country...."

And all through this, I carried my secret, alone. And believing that Good girls do not have sexual reactions based on thoughts of being spanked, with a bottom bared, humiliated and controlled, I became convinced that there was something fundamentally wrong with me. I could not escape the thoughts, and as I became older, and the sexual reactions became more prominent, so did the conviction that I had serious mental problems.

I felt so alone, so afraid and so isolated.....


Awareness, a South African School Spanking Tale

From a very young age, I realised that somehow, I was different. I was not like children my age, nor did I act the same way. I did not play with dolls - I had books. I did not have a group of friends, I was the loner, the outsider, always observing. I constantly challenged the status quo, firmly gaining the reputation of being anti-establishment prone, unpatriotic and rebellious. And being blessed with a mind, that even from a young age could distinguish weaknesses in people, together with the ability to dream up the biggest stories, I used these talents to defend or emphasise that what mattered to me.

But there was this other thing...my deep, hidden secret, that I could not name for years. I must have been eight or nine years old, when I walked past a classroom and saw a girl laying across a desk, her school dress lifted and her panties around her ankles. Her friend was on the opposite side of the table, holding her hands. And then there was the teacher....using a thick leather strap, applying stroke after stroke on the naked bottom. The girls had to change places, and the friend was crying and pleading, but she was bent over the same desk, the dress lifted, the panties pulled down...and the same was done to her.

I remember that I was frozen in one spot, barely breathing, and scared to death that I would be seen..but totally unable to look away, even for a second. And I can so vividly remember this feeling of excitement coursing through my body....it felt as if my whole body, my bottom was tingling in anticipation... Even today thinking back, I can still see the face of the teacher, so absolutely determined to mete out the punishment, his total concentration in ensuring that every stroke of his leather strap found its mark, the girls, helpless laying across their school desks, their hands held captive, the sound of leather smacking against bare flesh....

Taking into consideration my age when this happened, and the knowledge of the physiological development of a female body, I have wondered and still am, whether my response could have been my first moment of sexual awareness...which rationally and logically was way to early. And the reality - corporal punishment those years were the norm in South Africa, with courts meting out caning punishments for minor infractions. Schools teachers were allowed to punish students in a manner they saw fit.  However it was never regarded in my parent's house as the absolute, nor was it practised with any sexual connotations, and in actual fact, I went out of my way to avoid doing anything that would invoke a spanking (not very successfully I might add).

But the question remained for years, with the realisation that I am a person with a natural instinct to dominate and rebel, to question and to challenge, my ingrained negative attitude towards authority, why this event, seeing the total submissiveness and the accompanied punishment meted out that day, resulted in an absolute desire and wish, that it was me with my school dress lifted and panties pulled down, stretched over that table, feeling the leather strap biting into my bare bottom...
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