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).


Low Hanging Fruit...

I have had a couple of surreal moments in my life, but then again, I do seem to have sign on my forehead that says: "Trouble Welcome Here". Attending a get together with some friends, I was introduced to a rather jocular, seemingly highly intelligent man. I did not think much of it, nor take much notice either, apart from the fact that he seemed quite a nice guy, friendly and easy on the ear of a newly arrived South African still trying to decipher the words between all the different British county accents.
As things sometimes do obtain a life of their own, so did the evening. From what was supposed to be a bit of chatting and catching up over a glass of wine or two, it turned into a serious "Global Resolution” summit, even briefly including some heavy duty strategies to resolve the current global economic crisis. As with any good informal social discussions, thought processes were definitely being influenced by the copious amounts of red wine consumed. The topics and debates thereof were on the increase in direct proportion to the amount of empty wine bottles in the recycling bin.
It was in this rather robust atmosphere where personal opinions were now based on the size of egos with a simultaneous reduction in intelligence and common sense, when I made my escape to some cold evening air to have a cigarette. I was joined by the afore mentioned gentleman and the conversation (very one sided at that) started off innocently enough - he was curious about the South African for about 15 seconds before proceeding to tell me about his latest business venture. 
Take my word for it...staring at an empty wine glass wishing you brought the bottle with, whilst making the appropriate acknowledgement noises as your ears ache, does not even closely come to describe my despair. When the inevitable promises came that he would offer me a job, no, actually I should not scoff at him, he is offering me a job; it took every bit of self control not to roll my eyes. When I finally did manage to utter a single sentence about going back into the house as I am slightly tired, he pounced on the subject of sleep deprivation with great gusto. 
It took nearly fifteen minutes to establish that he had not slept for some indeterminable time...but would I like to know why? Another bit of advice - when you get that little niggling thought that you should run before it is too late...DO IT! I was proudly informed that his sleep shortage was due to “bonking” every female in his sight, because they all find him irresistible, especially when they see his appendage’s considerable size.  It appeared though that my disinterest in his overwhelming busy sex life or the size of his “brain” was interpreted as disbelief. 
Before I could even say the word “penis”, he jumped up, excitedly shouting that he will show me what so many desires - “MY COCK!” which he then promptly hauled out. I will give him this - he is well endowed - it is just a pity about the rest of him. My desire for something stronger than wine increased dramatically as he was waiving his asset around for all and sundry to admire. It was about five minutes later when I heard his voice rather plaintively stating that he loves having his cock sucked. (I ignored the statement - At this stage, my glass had been thankfully been refilled, and I was concentrating at getting as much nicotine and wine into my system in the shortest period of time possible). 
Silence descended.
Then...“Would you like to suck my cock?”
All the red wine in the world could no longer put a lid on my temper. “No”.
Another bit of silence.
“Congratulations! You have the job!!”
I have to admit, I could not help but to laugh - it was one of the best attempts I have ever heard anyone make trying to safe some face...well, in his instance, attempt to save cock? 
The surreal bit?  It was about ten minutes later after I finally managed to make my escape, when he came up to me...
“Love, how ‘bout a cup of tea, please?”




A bit of advice

Another long period of time that "Raven believes that blogs update themselves" has gone past!
Erm...yes, Uncle Nick, save the sarcasm...SIGH!
I have finally arrived in the UK after frantically finishing off all my responsibilities and duties with my previous employer. I would rather want to forget about the packing and unpacking of my personal belongings. I soon realised that with the airline's baggage weight restrictions, whilst trying to fit everything in, also meant that I should have budgeted another two days or so trying to make things weigh lighter.
Not that it quite worked...the damn luggage was still over the required weight, but thank the gods above for a ground crew member irritated with her boss. Her massive sulk combined with my strategically well placed sympathy saved me quite a bit of money! It is now three weeks later, and I am still pinching myself, not quite believing that this time I do not have to get on a plane soon to leave again.
Taking into account that with rather being occupied in other areas for the past couple of months, my bottom has been reasonably well protected, but my arrival in the UK, coupled with being around Uncle Nick meant that sooner or later (and trust me...it was the sooner bit that came first), I would start gravitating towards the “I think I need to be spanked” thoughts. However, I am a realist - the nice tingly thoughts of wanting to be spanked continuously did get confronted by the cold (hot would be more apt) reality that when Uncle Nick gets hold of your bottom, you definitely know it. I swear his hand is harder than a rock!
Believe it or not, I am also quite a “good girl” most of the time, and for the rest, I tread carefully - I really do try and stay out of trouble. All of this only resulted in days of trying to decide whether I really do want to be spanked (Yes!!) taking into account the hardness of the hand that will be doing the spanking (No!!) whilst knowing that my carefully controlled good behaviour would mean that I actually will have to ask for the spanking...which started the circle of contemplation all over again.
At least the issue has now been resolved, although not quite in the manner than I anticipated. All I have to say -  do NOT go and sit on a cold wall and when all feeling have left your derriere, go up to a spanker and turn around lifting your skirt telling him to feel how cold your bottom is...



I have a couple of weeks left before leaving my job. At the same time, I have the same couple of weeks left before leaving the county. Oh, and over and above that, in between I am focusing on a business that I am trying to get of the ground.
So, between juggling work issues, reading some manuscripts received, editing, packing up stuff, I have now reached a point where if you look closely I am waving a white flag. Actually, you do not need to even look closely, if you look in the distance and see a large blob of white frantically moving around - that is me. I admit defeat!
Although I normally will try everything to get out a spanking, I now humbly request, can I please just crawl over a knee and have my derriere undergo a change in colour? I am tired, out of sorts, now and again going of on a temper tangent and even worse, having sulks that even I frighten myself.
I know that as that hand impacts over and over on my bottom which frankly has become quite complacent in not having any firm discussions with it, the tension in my back and shoulders will start unwinding.  I know that this awful feeling of being unsettled, being moody, from the one moment close to tears to the other ready to kill anything in sight, will go away.
I know that when the tears finally do come, and they will, I will experience a feeling of quietness inside myself, creating peace and calmness, and therefore I will no longer be waking up because I have a sore jaw from grinding my teeth, or having half-moons in my palms left from clenching my fists in my sleep.

And I know that even though my bottom will hurt, this terrible hollowness inside will be gone, I will once again safe and strong enough to face the future, no matter how difficult these last couple of weeks might be.



You are talking to me?

I have the view that when a general statement is made, it is nothing more than a lot of words being bunched together, with the actual message hidden in there somewhere. At times, it is a way for a person to assess your mood, whilst summonsing the courage to actually tell you what they want. Alternatively, the statement is made on the assumption that you will decipher the hidden code, get the message and react accordingly.

As such, I do not have a very receptive ear when they are uttered and quite actually tend to ignore it. Let me illustrate by an example - during a heated discussion, or maybe in the attempt to convey some slight mistakes I might have accidentally made, a statement like “Bottoms will burn” will not mean anything in my life.

 Firstly, the term, Bottoms, refer to more than one bottom, plainly put - anything from two and upwards. I also do not suffer from some obscure mutation disease, and the last time I checked, I only did have one bottom. Granted, perhaps slightly bigger than what I would like it to be, but that does not mean that it can be quantified as “bottoms” either.

 Secondly, regarding the “will burn” bit. Will burn when? Today, tomorrow, next week, maybe next year? Oh, and burn how...too much sun, hot water? More importantly, why on earth will bottoms burn? I might be curious, but such vagueness is far too much even for me to try and obtain all the information.

 Therefore, since there is no actual definition and clarification that it is a direct reference and/or threat being made to my anatomy, I will ignore such utterances.


Announcement...or something like that...

If there is one thing I am certain of is that I am a bookworm. Having had a teacher for a mother, I was taught appreciation for the written word from a very young age, and could read at the age of five. I have never stopped since and although I have a love for certain genres, I love to browse and discover something fresh and unusual.

Two major events are about to occur in my life, of which one is leaving South Africa, with the second being the consequence of the first – the end of a very successful career at my current company. However, it is also the beginning of a new life, and one in which I have decided to combine my love for books with work.

I am setting up my own publishing company, as I firmly believe that everyone does have a story to tell, whether it is fictional or not. In terms of Erotica submission, a non-negotiable rule is that your manuscript should not contain kids or animals. For novels, the word count must be between 50,000 and 80,000 words and in your mail, please include a chapter by chapter outline. All submissions are to be sent as Word attachments. I have no objection if you want to submit your work to other companies at the same time. Regarding royalties, fifty percent of the received royalties will be paid over to you.

For more information or submission of work, kindly mail me at ravenred001@gmail.com.



The one that got away?

For a couple of months, I was working up to twelve hours a day, seven days a week, being involved in a development phase, not only for the business, but for myself. I can remember that horrible tiredness that set in after the first month which blurred the rest of the time in a “let survive day by day” philosophy.  With all that was going on, my two weekly bottom warming visits to HH effectively came to a screeching halt.

At first, it seemed to be all fine. I could flop down in chairs without going through the “oh holy cow, my bottom hurts” moments, my constant fidgeting  in meetings ceased and I was no longer getting up every ten minutes make a cup of coffee to alleviate the uncomfortable sensations experienced in my rear region.

However, in the absence of my regular mood stabilising therapy sessions, as performed on a certain part of my anatomy, my temper was flaring more than normal and I have to add, rather spectacularly at times. Coupled with the temper was the steady increase in my refusals to willingly co-operate with anyone in general, and I do think, it reached a point where any self respecting mule would have gladly handed me the stubbornness crown to wear.

This unhealthy state finally reached a point where a disagreement about paying for lunches ended it all. I had become totally fed up with the team leader of the project, more specifically, with his insistence to buy me lunch every day without wanting to take my money for my share. I am a firm believer in paying my own way, and my irritation levels knew no bounds when trying to leave money on the table or paying for the food directly, I would invariably find the cash lying on my desk later in the afternoon.

I kept the money in an envelope, and every time I had to add some more, my temper and impatience soared. I also knew that if I handed the cash over, stating that it is for the lunches, I would have not been successful. So, I put on my most innocent face, took the envelope out of the drawer and set of on my mission. As he came down the passage, I stuffed the envelope in his hand as I passed him, dismissively stating that I was told to give it to him.

When I was sure there was enough space between me and him, I stopped and then told him, gleefully and quite mockingly, I have to admit, that it is the damn lunch money. Oh, and he that can forget it – I have locked my office, it will remain locked, and even though it is against the law, if the money is returned to me, I will burn it! Feeling quite smug and satisfied, there was nothing in the world that could have prepared me for his next words. “Young lady, I feel like putting you over my knee, because you are in need of a good spanking”.

It felt as if the whole building was caving in on me – I knew my face was burning, as I could feel the air cooling it down while I was whipping my head in all directions to see if any of my colleagues heard this little, unexpected and devastating statement. At the same time, as I was leaning back against the wall due to a sudden but serious weakness being experienced in my legs, and trying to get a bottom under control that was clenching and unclenching involuntarily, I was frantically trying to think of a response, apart from the “Yes, oh my goodness, yes, yes, yes, please!” that was racing through my mind.

In the end, I did manage a weak laugh, and a mumbled some inane response that to this day, I cannot quite remember. However, a message was sent that very afternoon to HH, quite clearly stating that I am in dire need of not only a great cup of warm coffee, but also a bottom warming session with him and his cane. I have to confess though, that for the rest of project duration, and in the many meetings following, I did rather have a fascination with the hands of said team leader, not being able to look away, and constantly found myself daydreaming, wondering whether he was a hard spanker...


Nothing left...

That cold and clear moment when reality sets in. 

When nothing but contemplation and the wait remain.


Bottom Betrayal

It has been a couple of weeks, well more a month or three since my bottom had declared a state of emergency. Slight twinges of concerns that it might have had regarding implements infringing on its territory slowly disappeared, especially when the owner of said bottom seemed to do nothing more than sitting in comfortable chairs, day after day, and from one meeting to the next.

Complacency is never a good thing. Much to my derriere’s consternation I decided that the signed copy of Uncle Nick’s book that was sent to me, as a gift for HH, should maybe be delivered...six months after it was posted from London. I am not sure why it took the South African Postal Services all this time to get the book to me...but I am definitely not going to waste energy trying to figure it out either.

Anyway, back to my bottom’s story. Clinging firmly to belief that the only hot object in the room will be the cup of coffee in my hand, the bottom very tentatively tried to relax in yet another comfortable chair, as conversation filled the air. However, sadly my bottom has now declared a breach of trust.

Nervous and jittery it realised that the conversation was coming to an end, and that all too familiar small silence filled the air, before HH uttered the fatal words that confirmed the ultimate betrayal: “Right, I think it is time, please assume the position”. As the winter air lightly cooled the bottom down, it was desperately trying to send messages to me to retreat and please, whatever I do, not to surrender.

Alas, as the tawse commenced to restore heat, the bottom admitted defeat. At my little whimpers uttered, it sneered in contempt – reminding me very clearly that it had been quite happy to continue with the status quo, but it was my insanity that was now causing it considerable discomfort.

Hearing the swish of the cane as it cut through the air, my bottom clenched in absolute disbelief and a clear message of “You MUST be kidding” reverberated in the room. After months of enduring nothing harder than padded chairs, the bottom was now faced with carefully placed strokes across its cheeks. As I finally agreed with my bottom that maybe I should have opted for the escape route, and better heating solutions can be found, my derriere was praising the gods above.

However, it is currently in a full blown sulk, taking every opportunity when I do sit down, to painstakingly remind me that it is not happy with me, making sure that I am well aware of the sudden insufficient padded chairs due to red stripes that are so nicely placed. I do predict that the sullen behaviour will continue for another couple of days. I have, wisely, I think, decided rather not to share the news with my bottom that Uncle Nick is of the firm believe that the old two week visiting routine to HH should be restored...it is definitely NOT going to fall for the “just a visit and coffee” routine again...   


Some clarity required?

Perhaps the question was not clearly understood, but this is the short version of a conversation after it was established that the “available” Dominant male might NOT be so available:
“Does your girlfriend know about your alternative interests and actions?”
“Yes, but we do not discuss it”
“I am not prepared, nor want to be, the cause of any issues between the two of you”
“Do not worry, you will not be”

Let us now proceed to the phase where actions such as composing and sending text messages that openly and graphically declare kink intent of a certain kind to a third party, whilst at the same time leaving the mobile phone in range of said girlfriend, are simply beyond my comprehension. Clearly the expression about the cat and curiosity was never clearly explained to this particular individual.

Then...the cherry on the top of this delicious recipe for disaster...a frantic text message:
“Do not call me until I call you” with a total and utter shutdown in communication thereafter.

Later that day...another text message received from an unknown number which notified me of my level of perversion, her thoughts about my level of perversion, well, suffice to say, said level was a couple of feet below ground with a clear indication that evil little red men with horns and forks must be my only friends. Oh, and some fervent hopes and wishes that I should die a horrible death.

My opinions?
I fully understood her anger and rage – I would be just as angry, because clearly she did not know anything about his desire to dominate, control and punish. In fact, I would be angrier – because this person that professed wanting to marry me (information included in text message), did not have the openness or courage to even attempt to discuss or explain what BDSM was about. Great way to build a relationship...

I am not sure when the “until I call you” bit is going to happen – seeing that it has now been over three months, I rather do suspect that it is never, not that I mind though – I have low tolerance for cowards and assholes in general. Yes, I know – bad language...naughty, naughty girl I am...so spank me, be assured, at least I will not lie about it!

The whole debacle:
I know and realise that I am most probably in a “better” position than most. I am not in a relationship where I might have to hide things, but on the other hand, I have never been a person to hide crucial details that I think another should know. I am in a consensual relationship where my desires to be submissive and to be spanked/punished are clearly understood, as it is also accepted without prejudice that it is an integral part of my sexual being.

I truly appreciate that not all people can or is willing to disclose what they perceive as their “darker side” to another. I have also come to the realisation that for me, this is who I am, and I have accepted the fact that I will never be able to be fully happy within a vanilla relationship. However, for some, whatever the kink might be, it is a fantasy, something to get the sexual juices all fired up and they might or might not get involved with some play, but once it is all over, they go back to their vanilla lives.

 My message for those individuals that do hide little secrets away from their dear ones and do not want the kink to infringe on their vanilla lifes, please belief me when I say that I do understand, BUT, if you do want to play and are playing – please do me this small little favour – at the least, have some respect for the person that you are playing with and have the damn courage to be honest about yourself and your lies.

Oh, and one last thing – utilise those brain cells –when the urge overcomes you to compose text messages to other parties detailing your kinky desires, every mobile phone does have a delete function...it is highly recommended that you should familiarise yourself with it.



It was never my intention to land up in a situation where my blog no longer featured in my daily rituals, but somehow I quite nicely manage to do just that. My somewhat disastrous adventures into the local BDSM scene, coupled with volunteering for a “twenty-week that lasted for twenty six weeks” project at work in addition to everything else I was busy with resulted in a complete stop in activities that in hindsight would have rather be the more preferred options.

Every now and again, obviously without a hint of sarcasm in his voice (yeah right!), Uncle Nick had to make this statement about “certain” people that think blogs update themselves. To be fair, although I would receive a lecture quite on a regular basis about taking on things that I never should have in the first place, Uncle Nick had been remarkably patient with me. It is rather concerning though that the question when last I saw HH, seems to be on an increased and regular repeat pattern lately.

As for HH, he is rather more down to the point regarding his demands about the blog. Taking into consideration that our regular chats also had diminished behind the evil wall of work, the “Get back to your blog!!” message was rather hard to miss on these occasions. Oh, and for some reason I am apparently instrumental in the current decline of his cane’s wellbeing. He does rather stress his concerns about it being covered in cobwebs, and although I am still of the opinion that it will do the cane no harm, I do get the message.

So, with the project finally over, and my life seemingly returning to a more normal routine, I can finally pay some attention to my blog again....and well, seeing that I no longer have any valid excuses for tantrums, sulking or unavailability to present my rear-end for cobweb prevention (previously, successfully blamed on project commitments) I suppose HH will be most eager and delighted to return his attention to my rather neglected bottom, with Uncle Nick on the sidelines, grinning in glee...awaiting my moans and groans about a red and tender backside.


Raven and the "Dom"

It took months of debating and self-assessment to decide whether I should act on the desire to explore total submission that is coupled with strict discipline. Locally it meant that I had to explore the fringes of the BDSM world, and although I am very comfortable in the spanking environment, it took a lot of courage to finally take a very tentative step into the unknown. However, anyone that reads Uncle Nick’s blog will know by now that it turned out to be a disastrous first experience.

I do not hide the fact that I have a dominant personality, but yet, that I am submissive. My self-awareness and understanding of my psyche in relation to the desire to submit, is also at a level where I acknowledge that certain actions, conscious or sub- conscious, are purely based on assessing whether the person commanding submission, is truly a dominant, and a strong dominant at that. I have a tendency to push against set boundaries, simultaneously testing that the boundary posts are not moved to make an allowance for my actions, and that where I have overstepped, real consequences whatever they may be, will follow.
However, where consequences are concerned, it is based on mutual and informed consent. I should also be able to fully trust the person in all aspects, to experience care and nurture at the same time as it is not a weakness, but a further strength in the person responsible for the submissive.  With all of that in mind, an initial get together with a “Dom” lasted nearly three hours in a local restaurant. Some more conversation followed the following day, in which I agreed to a second meeting to further discuss whether he would be right person in terms of what I need. Due to circumstances this meeting took place at his house, which, yes, in hindsight, I should have never agreed to.  
It turned out that he had a serious drinking problem, and within an hour or so was totally drunk. As the drinking escalated during the hour, so did his aggression. His ideas and theories around what a true dominant male should be and act as, were nothing more than a wall to conveniently hide sadistic and abusive tendencies behind. Apart from thrashing the local BDSM scene as pretentious, fake and only for show, he built in his need for alcohol by mocking an important safety rule, apparently within the local BDSM group: “No play when alcohol has been consumed”.  
A total illogical and surreal speech was made where BDSM where likened to Afrikaner culture, and it was during this speech that the danger signs appeared. I was informed that he wanted to slap me (and my assumption was in the face) at the previous meeting, because I had the audacity to reply to a waitress without asking him first as he was the “host”. Upon correcting him that I arrived first, it was a meeting between two adults with no prior arranged consent to do anything but talk, that I was responsible for my own bill,  a list was set out of what will be allowed and what will not be allowed.
Between the glasses of brandy with some very limited Coke and ice, I was informed that he will decide when and what I will say to Uncle Nick. I will not mingle with the local BDSM scene, yet in another breath, he wanted me to go to a local upcoming BDSM function. His desires will always come first, and as far as what he was concerned, the needs of a submissive are of no importance. Somehow, in his mind, I have somewhere along the line agreed to be “trained”.
 I was locked in a house with him, and I had no idea where the keys were, and no words can describe the cold feeling that I had in the pit of my stomach. Fortunately as he became drunker, he also became more uncoordinated and off balance, and towards the end of the ordeal, it appeared that he was ready to pass out. I did finally manage to leave relatively unharmed, partially due to some well placed text messages and calls from Uncle Nick, however, it took several days to make peace with the fact that I had to ‘submit’ to certain demands in order to do so.

My initial reactions of total rage, coupled with a sore body and feeling totally violated although no sexual acts were required, left a very bitter taste in my mouth towards the BDSM scene. However, common sense did prevail, and although so easy to do, the actions of one man cannot be transferred onto a group, nor can they be held accountable.
The sad thing though, like a true alcoholic, his response to my text message that I will not be seeing him again under any circumstances, reflected that he most likely did not remember half of what he did or said.  A harsh and scary experience, I do admit, but at the same time, my desire to continue exploring has not diminished, and after receiving some moral and emotional support from individuals within the BDSM community (local and internationally), I do know that I will be okay.
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