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?”

 

 

 

 

 

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.

T'was a slight hiccup and an ex...

After having to live in the same house with my ex for three years after our split, we managed to sell the house, which by the way, was on the market for the same period.

The joy of finally selling the house was soon too replaced by utter chaos. I was dealing with a buyer which had taken upon himself to become the “expert” in everything and at the same time, tried his hand at every given moment to change or amend the sale...totally disregarding the contractual obligations.  In the end, it took a very polite attorney letter for him to realise that I am neither a pushover nor an idiot. The ex’s contribution to all this? Absolutely nothing.

Then came the packing up and selling of the content within the house. It was not exactly the smallest house on the block, and it took me two exhausting months to clear out a five bedroom house. The ex’s contribution? Nothing again.

A couple of other details had to be seen to as well. The roof had a leak that needed to be fixed, the garden had to be sorted out, an electrical compliance certificate had to be obtained...and again, the ex did not surprise me. No contribution whatsoever.

However, at the height of everything I was told that there is no understanding why I am so stressed or worked up about everything. Have you ever had those moments that you could actually see your hands around someone else’s neck? My language use I have to admit paled in comparison to what Uncle Nick had to say, and although my mother tends to stay away from the more descriptive type of words, she was in full agreement with him.

HH though had the “pleasure” of dealing with a very unsettled and grumpy Raven Red. I am thoroughly convinced that my rather striped and very tender bottom at times, was the most important factor that prevented the very untimely demise of the ex.

Fortunately it is all over and done with now...I have moved out, and for the first time in nearly two months, I have time for myself again. However, there is the flip side of the coin...I no longer have valid excuses NOT to visit HH more frequently, of which I have been casually informed that I am in need of (see the rolling of eyes)... Oh, and the ex? Rhett Butler said it perfectly; “Frankly, my dear, I do not give a damn”

Want/Need

The refusal to submit to any form of spanking for a two-month period born out of a spurt of stubbornness had led to a very short lived caning last Sunday, with me opting out at the first opportunity given. It is amazing how well HH knows me by now - he did state that the effect of the caning will only last for a couple of days. We had a tentative appointment scheduled for yesterday afternoon; however, HH had to cancel due to an important meeting.

I was not overly perturbed about it, in actual fact, I was having such a fun day yesterday, that the cancellation seemed not to matter very much. Or so I thought. Last night while chatting with Uncle Nick the first symptoms appeared. A feeling of discontent, slightly irritated with the world slowly started creeping over me. As the night wore on, things progressively deteriorated. As much as what I tried to curb the flow of conflicting emotions, it was of no use - I became more and more withdrawn, unsettled and restless.

I love to make bold statements when defiant; I will quite adamant declare that I do not want or need to be disciplined, I will be quick to point out that I do not want or need any sermons and I will vehemently argue that I do not want or need to be spanked. However, I find it quite ironic today that having being saved by the bell from a spanking yesterday, and should really be jubilant about my bottom being unharmed, I find myself instead craving for it with every fibre in my being.

I want and need to hear a stern voice saying the words that do not come with any other option but to obey, for that redirects me back to where I should be. I want and need to be disciplined, shown where the boundaries are yet again, for that is what calms and releases the stress within me. I want and need to be told to bend over, that I will be spanked, regardless of what I might or might not say for that is when I know I am no longer in control. I want and need that that wonderful/awful emotion when anticipation mixed with fear rise up in me as my knickers is lowered for that is then, that I know that I am beyond the point of no return. I want and need to be spanked.

Everything that can go...

It was not as if I did not want to write for the blog, but Mr Murphy and his stupid laws came into full force these past couple of days. On Sunday night I lost hours of sleep. Pure panic after hearing a noise at one in the morning resulted in a loaded gun being taken out and an absolute refusal to even consider switching my bedside light off. Of course, my totally erratic, slightly hysterical interpretation of various noises as signs of the imminent doomsday approaching, left me rather bleary eyed at work.

Monday night after a brief stop at a petrol station, I lost my laptop, cell phone and camera. A change of ownership happened although this owner was not quite involved in the agreement part of all this. Review of the CCTV footage reflected that the theft took a mere three minutes. Uncle Nick had to deal with a very "out of it" Raven, in actual fact, I cannot quite recall the first conversation I had with him...but I do remember crying my heart out.

Tuesday afternoon I lost my voice. I truly became the Hoarse Whisperer. So there I was, I had no phone, had a battle to get the spare laptop in a working condition (I think it was the shock that made me forget passwords), was not feeling to great in the health department, and on top of it - was in another city, away from my home comforts.

However, I am happy to report that I am back home and have slightly progressed in supressing the desire (if they catch him) to hand one opportunistic shopper's bottom over to a couple of people I know in these parts of the world. Oh, and although my voice is still missing in action, I am not complaining - I think its absence sort of guarantees the safety of my bottom for now.

 

I wonder

I wonder whether he knows as he takes my arm,

I want him to pull me over his lap.

I wonder whether he knows that as he caresses my face,

 I want him to lower my knickers.

I wonder whether he knows that as his hand holds mine,

I want him to hold me down.

I wonder whether he knows that when I look at his hands,

 I want to feel the heat on my bottom.

I wonder whether he knows as his hands rests on the table,

 I want him to spank me, until I beg him to stop.

But then I see him looking at me

and I know that he knows.

Nobody warned me!!

The day I left my parents house, I was overjoyed that apart from my newfound freedom, I would never ever hear dad-isms again such as: "It is my house, my rules!" Nobody bothered informing me that some odd years on, I was still going to be exposed to similar conversations that only do and go downhill fast and furious:

Am I speaking a language you do not understand?!

Because I said so, that's why.

What part of NO do you not understand?

Do NOT look at me in that tone of voice.

Enough is enough!

Am I talking to a brick wall?

I am going to count to ten...1...2...3...

This is your last warning, young lady.

Do not make me stop the car!

Just wait until I get you home.

Stop crying or I will give you a reason to cry.

If I did not love you so much, I would not punish you...I would let you do whatever you wanted...

Nor did anyone bother to tell me that I will still react the same way...and I that I should rather not for I will be and am suffering the same consequences...

 

Raven Red on being Submissive

If I had to tick a box, my tick will be firmly be against that of being Submissive and/or Bottom.  The Oxford dictionary classifies submissive as "ready to conform to the authority or will of others; meekly obedient or passive". A bottom is classified as the partner in relationship who takes the passive, receiving, or obedient role, to that of the top or dominant.

But how does this qualify or quantify me? I am not a passive or meekly obedient person; in fact I am quite the opposite. Nor am I a mindless puppet that can be conscripted to a role as another sees it fit. I speak my mind as I see fit, even when I know that what I have to say might not be liked.  I will argue about a point if I believe I am right, but I will concede when I am wrong. I do not back down if my values or morals are trampled upon, however, I do not judge another for believing in something else.

I believe that respect is earned and is not a given, and as such, with the best will in the world; I cannot call another “Sir” simply because it is “expected”. However, when I know that I am wrong, saying “Sir” is not an appeasement, it is my acknowledgment of being in the wrong. I have a sense of humour which for most of the time can get me out of trouble, but on the other hand can land me in hot water even quicker.

I have a desire to be spanked, although I will attempt near anything to avoid it when I have overstepped the line and it becomes inevitable. I will not deny the fact that I am aroused before and after a spanking, but during the spanking I become stubborn, the resentment and anger spilling over my inadequacy to control and break the hardness within. I will sulk and provoke but at the same time, my need to return to softness will take me back over his knee.

At times I am exposed to some of those on the outer edge of the spanking world, the make-believers that become angry and nasty when their predetermined scripts and role allocations do not happen. Even worse are those that believe that if rules are not followed according to their own believe systems, condemnation and judgements are the only options to follow.

Although degrees of interest in spanking might join us together in one way or another, and we might found ourselves with some similarities, I remain a unique human being, just as others are unique in their own ways. I submit to another according to who I am, and not to what might or might not be rules or expectations. I can only be what I am, just as the next person can only be what he/she is.

One year later...

It feels as if it was only the other day that I decided to explore this hidden part of me that I had denied myself for so many years.  I can remember the nervousness, the butterflies and the mental turmoil when I had to present myself to HH for my first adult spanking.  A couple of months later I met Uncle Nick and with his rather gentle way of persuasion I found myself with a spanking blog soon after.

Here I am - exactly one year later, and celebrating my first blog anniversary.  There were the first tentative steps with uncle Nick patiently helping, suggesting ideas and oh dear gods, editing whatever I had written. But, Raven Red has become so much more than just a blog for me.

I have met wonderful people on the way, in cyberspace and in real life, and being in a relationship that has to cover many miles, the blog has become my sanctuary as well. As the man who knows me in every way, Uncle Nick will confirm that Raven Red is me, as much as what I am Raven Red.

I have laughed, cried, ranted and sulked. I have shared my hurt, my anger and my disappointments, my happiness and my love. I have teased, been cheeky and a couple of times were plain provoking, and then of course, there is the  faithful reporting of having a rather red and sore bottom mostly because all of the above.

So, on the start of a new year, and as I blow the candle out, my only wish is that on Raven Red’s next blog anniversary, it will be with Uncle Nick, with me not having to leave ever again. Oh, and I would not mind having a slight erm...meeting with this guy...

 

Maybe...

Maybe after a month of self-imposed silence, a blog posting fuelled by the assistance of some cocktail named after the sunset and sunrise in one, is not the best idea - but then, on the other hand, alcohol does tend to lend courage where it is lacking at times. It has now been two weeks since I have returned to South Africa, and apart from this dreadful sorrow inside me, I continuously feel as if I am looking in from the outside, watching a person that resembles me, drudgingly making it through day after day.

She seems to keep her head up most of the times, but is quick to drop it - for tears seem to form at any given time. She smiles when requires to do so, but she has heard from more than one person that the smile is not touching her eyes. She feels lost, out of place, not sure where to go anymore. Things that use to pleasure her, no longer does, her heart belongs in a place very far away from where she is. She avoids people, barely making contact with anyone, because her sorrow seems to spill over when she really does not want people to see that side of her.

I know that I should be pulling myself together, to re-adjust, to put the smile back on my face but more importantly back into my heart – but for time being, I shamefully admit, I cannot. I know that the aggression, the resentment is building, I know that the anger is somewhere lurking, and I know that sooner than later I will have to present myself...but I am not quite ready... for it will not be Uncle Nick who pulls me over his lap...and that is what I want more than anything else in the world.

Avoidance

I have to confess that I have been avoiding my blog. The last week in South Africa before my flight to the UK was filled with seemingly non-stop last minute arrangements and meetings, and I never had a chance to even think about the blog, never mind write or post some images. The reality that I was finally on my way to the UK, only really set in when I was walking through the Frankfurt airport on my way to board the connecting flight.

Even with the excitement bubbling, a dreadful sadness settled over me. Seven weeks to spend with someone I deeply care about, the desperate attempts to slow time down, fill the days with as much as what is possible - but yet, knowing every day that time is limited. Three weeks have already flown past - I have met people and am still due to meet some more. I have seen and experienced places with so many more that I want to see. I have been folded into his arms, held as he promised me he would when we see each other again. I have been on the receiving side of his lectures and some of my offerings of “valid reasons" had resulted in him laughing from the bottom of his toes.

I have been pulled over his lap, a rebellion instantly quelled by his hand bruising my bottom. I have confirmed once again that for my bottom's welfare, the cane he has stashed in his closet should be destroyed. The tawse he so lovingly nurtures - well, words escape me. He has left it out - where I can see it every day, and I have had wonderful ideas about accidental mishaps that could befall that piece of leather...but must admit the courage to follow through is sorely lacking.

In all this time I did not want to blog. The blog reminds me of the escape it offers from being separated from him, being in another country - the tool to use to calm and soothe the hurt. The blog reminds me that the time will soon come again...my hurt, my frustration and sorrow growing as everyday go past, building to that moment where life seems to lose its vibrancy and colours again. I understand world economics, immigration policies, and the difficulties currently experienced in this wonderful country, but as I living my life in this country with him for the couple of days given to us, I also know that I have always been optimistic about life...yet, now, I am only praying for some miracle.

I am no longer sure whether I can survive the sorrow that I know will be arriving soon, or will be able to fight off the bleakness and loneliness that builds every day with the longing and missing. I do not know how much pieces of my life I will have to lose again as I wish it away until I can board a plane again for a bit of time with him...returning to a blog to fill that void and soothe the pain within my soul.

The Spanking

I recognise that shiver going down my back immediately, when his voice softly direct me into a direction that I do not want, feeling the sulkiness settle over me as I am unable to get my own way. I feel the breath leaving my body when my heart starts racing, knowing that he is right and that I am clinging onto some part that wants to remain in control.

I resist that quiet sensation of disquiet slowly creeping over me, as I defy him brazenly, realising that I am playing with a fire that does burn with a heat that I will feel, but unwilling to acknowledge him in my anger. My mouth becomes dry when his voice change into its dangerous silky tone, with his warnings left hanging in the air, and my hope at escaping unscathed is crushed. Outwards I present as sullen, pouting with resentment that I am unable to hide, I am defiant and rebellious as I feel the first pieces of the hardness within crumbling away.

His words are chipped out of pure ice as he lectures me, and I use sarcasm and a stony silence to defend myself, yet I am unable to look at him, my head hanging, as I do not want him to see my eyes. As every word cuts deep into my shame, my guilt burning inside, I am desperate in my need that I do not want him to know, but I can feel the resistance fall away.

As the verdict is spelled out to me, I voice my denial, but my resistance against him, as he takes my arm to guide me over his lap, is slight. I groan in resentment, mumbling underneath my breath, trying to preserve my dignity and avoid voicing my utter humiliation as he lowers my knickers.

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I once again make that silent promise to myself, that I will not react, I will not make a noise, I will endure – I will emerged triumphant. As his hand switch from one cheek to the other, the burn increasing in heat every time, I bury my head against my arm, my hand fisting as I am trying to keep back the sounds of my discomfort.

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I hear his voice, the words in rhythm with the sound of his hand smacking hard and hot against my bared bottom. My bottom is stinging and the soreness becomes the focus of all my senses. As the pain reaches the point where my anger and panic becomes one, I protest loudly, raging against him, trying to break free. I no longer have control of my body, my legs are moving involuntary, up and down, as I try to twist my bottom away from his hand.

http://red.charls.free.fr/

I try to cover my bottom with my hand, but even as he pins my hand down, holding me down, he does not stop, his hand continuing that relentless tempo against my skin. I want it to stop, the pain has become unbearable, my body is shuddering, waves of heat are creating droplets of perspiration on my back, but still he continues. I beg, I am pleading that he must stop; I tell him that I am sorry, but my words are incoherent as my control, my stubbornness slips away.

http://red.charls.free.fr/

I feel that deep shudder that seems to come from within the centre of my body, my throat burns as the pain pushes me over the edge, the remaining shards of my control now destroyed. The first sob burn and hurts as it pushes up, but as I feel the tears escaping, my body becomes soft, the rigidness melting away, his hand still smacking against sore, tender skin, one cheek then the other. He finally stops, but I do not move away. I feel the lightness return as my tears are falling, I feel my pain going away with every sob, I feel a peace and quietness, I am calm again.

Play Munch

In about four weeks time I will be arriving in the UK. The first activity... make that the second activity I am going to be involved in? At lunchtime, I will be joining a “Play Munch”. Okay, now for clarity sake, for this South African woman, the word “munch” normally refers to the appetite status of someone that inhaled a bit of greenery that is deemed illegal to smoke. You know...”I have the munchies...” I do believe that food and drink will be available, but this will be my first experience of people getting together where spanking is the main thread that all connects us.

I still cannot quite understand what munching has to do with a spanking get together, but then on the other hand, when in the UK do what the British do...not the tea thing though. At certain things in life, I still firmly draw the line. Back to the Play Munch thingy...Uncle Nick is slightly concerned that I might be a tad too tired after the long flight, but then I do tend to be far to curious for my own good. There is NO way that I am not going. I will be meeting people that I have chatted to on Facebook, seeing the real person, hearing a voice...plainly put: I cannot wait!

However, I do hope that any hands itching to get to my bottom will realise that one should not mess with a woman that just had a 12 hour flight, was nicotine deprived and to top it all up, had to go through customs. I have decided that I will be on best behaviour, not backchat anyone, will be demure and properly behaved. I rather do think one should be as nice as possible with UK Customs officials.

Finally!!

It is finally over. A couple of loose ends to tie off, but it is done. I have been classified as a workaholic in the past, and it had never bothered me, but for this past month and a half, a financial year-end was nothing more than a seemingly endless nightmare. I missed reading the blogs, and my blog postings were done sometimes in so much haste, that I would wonder afterwards if I really did put a post out. As time moved on, and my personal time became less and less, I became withdrawn and sad. I was missing a part of me, not so newly discovered anymore, but so important to me.

Nevertheless, here I am, actually feeling nervous and like a new blogger. Not quite sure what to write, but knowing that there is so much I want to say. Yesterday, Uncle Nick was the first to hear the change in my voice, the lightness returning and my joy shining through. He was also the first to know that for once, I was at home and not at the office where I have been constantly, especially over the past three weeks.

For all you that has left comments on my blog, that sent me mails, and still read what I did at times manage to post, a huge thank you. I have some serious catching up to do, to see what has happened to friends, to say hello and that I have missed them. I have however decided, that if I am still in South Africa for the next financial year-end, I am SO going to pull up a "to do list", delegate it afterwards, and go on extended leave. What the hell, if they are not happy with it, they can join the queue to spank me!

 

Same Difference.

We are different in so many ways.

Yet, bound together.

We are both prepare to bare that part of our soul,

http://maxoperandi.redbubble.com/

Whether it is in your or my corner...

for that which we both love and hate.

We are different, but yet we are the same.

What turns you on?

"So what turns you on?"

As I sat staring at the person, multiple scenarios were racing through my mind.

The quiet voice that says "Stop it" or "Shush" that sends delicious shivers down my back?

A face with no expression, eyebrow slightly raised, waiting for you to stutter into silence with the fluttering of hundreds of butterflies in your stomach?

In a shopping mall, pulled against his body, held tight, while he softly, but slowly and clearly informs me of consequences, that my knees go week and a warmth fill my body?

Knowing that he will be pulling me over his lap, and I will feel his hand lowering my knickers, my shame and humiliation mixed with a willingness, sending my heart racing so fast, that I can barely breathe?

Being held, with a burning and sore bottom, nuzzling into his neck, and indecisive if I am still shuddering from the spanking or whether it is from the desire, the heat and moisture between my legs?

Knowing that I am his, reduced into submission, for his pleasure and mine?

Flicking through the paint samples, I eventually am able to say,

“Er...If I were you, I will go with the burgundy red"