Beauty beyond imperfection

The mirror reflects her flawed body, her youth and grace a long forgotten memory,
Her skin is blemished, marked and scarred, and she wants to curl into herself,
She can barely gaze upon herself long enough, only seeing what is not there,
the absence of perfection and desirability - only brokenness.
Yet, he stands behind her and says: "You are beautiful to me"

She sees in her eyes all the hidden and broken pieces of her soul,
shards that had splintered off, at times crumbling into nothing more than dust.
She needs to protect and fiercely defend that what still defines her,
her inner sanctuary created against the blow of painful words and actions.
But he reaches for her, breathes in her scent and says: "Allow yourself to trust me"

She wants to hide, to cover all her faults, desperately wishing for perfection,
She can feel his gaze upon her, his hands pulling her into his embrace,
With his heat against her back, she can barely breathe, her body stiff and unyielding
But deep within, she can feel a fluttering response, small beats of desire moving.
He turns her around, looking into her eyes and says: "Do not hide yourself from me"

The heat of his hand traces over her back, leaving in its wake a yearning for more,
He touches her, his hands roaming over her body, claiming it for his own,
Slowly undressing her, whispered words and gentle hands, his eyes never leaving hers,
She leans deeper into him, the wings of being a woman unfurling in her soul,
Then she reaches for him,  submitting to him in trust, and says: I need you to make me fly once again.


Disciplined Gardening

I will be very honest and say that I will never, ever, appear on one of those unbearably cheerful television shows, kitted out in the most horrendous dress and waving around a garden fork in a gloved hand while spewing out the Latin names of plants.

Well, okay - you are not even going to get the English plant names out of me. Nor I am going to stand there with ruddy sunburnt cheeks telling you what you should or should not plant, simply because I can barely distinguish a rose from a daffodil.

And that brings me to my current prediction. I have met a wonderful Dom and as our friendship is growing, I have recently been asking him quite a lot of questions about general stuff that I still need to find my way around. Sadly, sometimes, I do not think before I speak - or write in this instance.

So, I approached C, after we had some wonderful weather, lamenting my now extremely overgrown garden and my total lack of talent in the horticulture sector. 

I explained the garden's layout, going into detail about the willow tree that seems to be on steroids and the weeds underneath it trying to outgrow it. I raised my concern around the three bamboo bushes that appear to multiply by the day and the creeper that I think had the starring role in The Little Shop of Horrors. 

Now he has given me some great advice to do a little bit of work, but often, however, I still do not think a flamethrower or dynamite would be the correct solution for the creeper. However,  out of all my garden issues, what did C fixate on? Not my dire fear of being chased and consumed by the descendants of the Triffids in my back garden, or the fact that I might be carried away by the slugs and spiders.

Although he finds my fear of death by plants and bugs quite amusing, C zoned in with the deadly accuracy of a sniper on the fact that there are three bamboo bushes and a willow tree. In my garden. Belonging to me. 

His target range estimation between my bottom and these four plants are according to him, spot on with an imminent execution. He is gleefully talking about willow switches and the fact that I can even go and cut my own, to hand over to him. I often hear similar sentiments about the bamboo bushes. 


To make matters worse, I am being asked every day how the little but often gardening regime is going. So far, I have managed for this past week to come up with very good excuses but the reality is that I am thinking about it often but have done little. Until today that is. 

I was gently informed that garden inspection time is coming up, with the necessary direction and correction if results are not satisfactory. Oh, and that I do not need to be concerned about the form of device that will be used for the modification of behaviour. He is looking forward to us together inspecting the willow tree in depth!

There goes my restful weekend, as I will now, of course, have to dedicate it asking around and looking for flamethrowers and dynamite...


Communication 101

As I have recently decided to slowly inch my way back into the world of kink again, I took the decision to update my profile on a kink website with some minor details. I am fully aware that this is a kink site, however, kink or no kink, I have received some messages that absolutely test the limit of my patience, tolerance and sense of humour.

"The man who does not read, has no advantage over the man who cannot read" (Mark Twain)
My profile clearly states I am submissive only. I am at a loss whether there is any other way that I can state this or whether I should insert the definition as one would find in a dictionary. I am uncertain though whether it will stop the various invites, of which some are very graphic and to the point, requesting my talents as a Mistress or Dominatrix. Those type of messages only get one response: Please read my profile and consult dictionary if so required.
My profile also nowhere states that I am into swinging, well apart from the swings in a park which perhaps I will still consider to attempt. Funny that  - I never received another invite.
And for those who send me the " Hi, are you busy this weekend, I feel like a quick f**k"...I will remain busy until hell freezes over - refer to your left or right hand.

"What do you take me for? A fourteen karat sucker?" (Stanley Kubrick)
Following the above, please believe me that I do read the profiles of people that send me messages. In one such instance, the person on his profile professed to be quite the academic, stating that he is a well versed individual and world traveller. I do not expect essays, however, six words, two sentences? With spelling mistakes? Seriously? And for the last bloody time, Africa is a continent, South Africa is at the bottom of the continent - one of many countries in Africa!!!

"Men read maps better than women because only men can understand the concept of an inch equalling a hundred miles" (Roseanne Barr)
Finally, I think that my absolute pet hate is the messages that I receive from senders proudly referring me to their profile photo/s that are displaying their dangly bits with no other actual message. Now some will be a clear attempt to reflect that they proudly possess a meter long king kong dong and others will proudly proclaim their ability to stand to attention. I am not quite sure what I must do with this visual information? Should I be impressed, grateful that a great honour is bestowed upon me or perhaps build an altar where I can bow down in eternal supplication? 

I am sometimes at a loss for words, which I may add, takes quite a bit. The fact that I am part of a kink site does not mean that I automatically will not be offended. If people choose to display photos of themselves in which ever way,  I have absolutely no issue with it. Each to his own - but it does not mean that an assumption can be made that I will find it acceptable to receive a message only referring to said body parts. Nor do I have to accept messages from people that misrepresent themselves, or who does not even bother reading or trying to understand what I am saying in my profile. 

Having said all of this, I do know that there are some good folk on the website as I have recently discovered again (thank you Charlie!). To these people, a huge thank you - it is a place where I do feel more at home and can have interaction with like minded people.


Way forward?

It has now been just over five years since I have done any posts. So much water has flowed underneath the bridge, and sadly, the joy I did find with my first steps into the spanking world and my writing as a result, lost their way.

I can now proudly proclaim that I have settled in my new country in which especially the people of Scotland welcomed me with open hearts and arms. It has been a long and at times, a hard road to today - but for once, I can say " I did it!".

But I also have to be honest that in my focus to adjust and integrate, my absolute dedication to excel  in a working environment where I had to start afresh from the bottom of the ladder, proving my leadership skills - constantly only showing my strengths, my dominance - buried that piece of me that made me - me.

In the beginning I did attend one or two munches in London, but I quickly realised that a person I  believed in, turned out not to be what I thought him to be. The hurt and disillusionment that came hand in hand with the realisation, left me bereft and stranded. I made one or two attempts to reach out locally but I quickly found out that apparently you have to have a body ready for the catwalk (not me) or be at an age where I will never ever be at again.

I am an introvert - I will never ever be that person who wants to be centre of attention, and so perhaps I then took the coward's way out - I pushed and locked away my need and desire to submit and forged ahead - on my own.

I still kept in touch with a Dominant within the initial circle of friends. During a day visit from him last year, I foolishly thought that I could perhaps haul out that piece of me, lightly dust it off and once all was over, I can bury it away again.

I can honestly state, five years of not having a cane near my bottom was rather an eye opening experience however, I am still stubborn (his words, not mine). However, as the burn and stripes started fading away, the realisation quickly dawned upon me that I cannot acknowledge or ignore selective pieces of me - they do not fade or stop burning.

The awakening I felt in my soul, in my sexuality, my absolute need to hand over control, to let go and trust someone else - that cannot be hidden. It is part of who I am, it is part of my psyche.

So, I am now in a bit of a spot of trouble. As I am single and as any human being want someone to share my life with, I am contemplating the dreaded dating websites. However, I am rather certain that a request for a Dom, a strong male that likes to spank will rather be frowned upon.

As FetLife does not quite fit the box here as a dating site, how do I go forward? Do I make peace with the fact that I can perhaps find someone to share my life with - without the spanking and submission? Do I then live my life partially, suppressing part of what is my sexuality? How do I turn my back on myself?



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

Creative Commons License
Raven Red by Raven Red is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.