It's a small, small world

Recently, we celebrated the fact that our lovely little stat-counter had clocked up 100,000 hits. Now, this is all very well and good, and the little stat-counter (I think I shall name him "Albert") is rather cool. However. (There's always an 'however', isn't there? *Sigh*.)

However, despite his many good points, Albert is driving me slowly mad. See, one of his skills is to tell us where our hits are coming from. It's not like we can see people's addresses or exactly where individuals are reading from, but what we can see is information such as "Dear Viola and Irelynn, sixteen of today's hits came from London but only five came from Aberdeen, love Albert." (Only, he isn't as polite as that. He just gives us a map and a list of numbers.)

So why is this driving me mad? Because I can see on the map, there are people reading the blog from my home town. And from near where I go to uni. And, from the town I used to live in. And I want to know who they are! To be fair, most of the people from my home town are probably my friends being nosy. But the others aren't, and I want to speak to them! I can't exactly say 'hey everyone, tell me where you live!' because you have to respect people's privacy. And I'm definitely not about to announce where I live, go to uni, and used to live, on the blog. In fact, this is a very pointless post because all it is is me sulking and sharing the stress with you. There are kinky people near me, darlings, kinky people who read the blog, and I don't even know who they are! It's a hard life. Sympathise with me, minions.

Bubbles

First of all, let me point you in the direction of Sarah Jane's new spanking blog. Sarah Jane officially delurked here recently, unable to resist the pull of Professor Alan Rickman Snape, and started a spanking blog the very same day. Which I thought was rather impressive, so I thought I'd tell you to go over there and say hi. *Waves at Sarah Jane* It's only polite you know.

Now then, let's get onto the subject of mouth soapings. I wondered for a while whether they actually have anything to do with spanking, since they don't involve any bottom reddening of any kind. I think it depends on whether you see the concept of "spanking" as merely smacking a person's bottom, or whether you see it as being a kind of ritual that can involve lots of things, all having something to do with punishment.

Either way, I suddenly found myself thinking about mouth soapings. You see, when I was little, instead of Christmas we would celebrate a Dutch national holiday on the 5th of December. Some say that Santaclaus was derived from the Dutch Sinterklaas - who plays the lead part in the 5th of December proceedings - when settlers first arrived in America. I don't really care about its history though. As it was explained to me when I was a child, Sinterklaas comes from Spain on a big boat every year with his Zwarte Pieten (Black men who go by the name of Pete :P) who were his helpers. On their big boat they brought lots of toys for all the children, and two or three times before the 5th of December, they would all go up on the roof tops with Sinterklaas's white horse and throw presents down the chimneys. Then on the 5th he would give out the real presents (aka the big, expensive ones).

Sinterklaas, I was told, was a very kind man, but he did not like naughty children. Indeed, if you had been deemed to have been naughty enough, one of the Zwarte Pieten might leave you a birch in your shoe at night, for your parents to use on you the next morning. And if you had been really bad, Sinterklaas would take you back to Spain with him on his boat, where you had to live in his palace on a diet of stale bread and water, and he would make you eat soap if you were rude to him. I think my mum can't have meant eat the soap, but that's how I remember it. Naturally, I was terrified of upsetting Sinterklaas when he was standing right before me, but I wasn't too bothered about misbehaving the rest of the year.

And then I filmed a mouth soaping scene for a private film I did a while back. Well, a pretend one. I'd never done anything like that before and I thought it was hilarious, and kept making mock-choking noises which made both me and the person doing the mouth soaping crack up a lot. I'm willing to suffer on film, but nobody puts soap in my mouth, ever. It must be the most disgusting thing (which, I know, is obviously the point) and I still haven't got over the thought I had as a kid that eating soap must be poisonous. Lethally so.

As such, I'm not about to do a proper mouth soaping scene any time soon. It doesn't appeal to me either, to be honest. The only thing I like about soap, apart from it being good for washing things with, is that it makes bubbles. And I do love bubbles.

I do swear in films sometimes when it suits the character I'm playing, or if I think the top needs that little bit extra to be pushed over the edge. But I don't swear in real life, and I still have a hard time thinking of any other swear words than "fuck" and "asshole" so the concept of mouth soaping would be lost on me anyway. I don't really get what the attraction is to so many spankos and spankees though, especially because there isn't any spanking involved in a mouth soaping itself. Unless there was a second top who was spanking the naughty girl (or boy) while the other one was doing the mouth soaping, but that would be quite hard to choreograph methinks. So what is it? Is it the feeling of the soap in your mouth? Is it the thought that the person undergoing it must think it's absolutely disgusting? Is it a kind of rightful revenge? Enlighten me, minions. I'd love to know.

Not so vanilla after all!

I took Irish down to the local riding school for a riding lesson the other day. Unfortunately, we managed to time our visit to coincide with a school trip, a riding lesson for some disabled children (or 'differently abled minors', whatever the politically correct term is now, just please don't sue me!), and Pony Club. This meant, every single semi-sane horse in the yard was out being well behaved and appropriate for beginners with someone else. So, Irish and I picked the calmest-looking horse out of the rest of the ones who had been deemed too big, too feisty, or too fast for beginners, and I set about trying to wear him out before putting Irish on his back. For all he teases me, I do rather love him, and I'd really prefer it if he made it off the horse in one piece.

I'd prefer it if I made it off in one piece, too, and hyperactive stallions aren't my favourite things in the whole world, so I deposited Irish safely by the gate to the arena and started lunging. (Lunging, I have been instructed to tell you in case you don't know, is when you tie a super long lead to the horse and make him go in circles around you to calm down and use up energy. More or less.)

And what did we learn, from this little trip to the riding school? Well, Irish learned that a grown 19-year-old guy sitting atop a 16.2 stallion, with his 5'3 girlfriend skipping along beside holding the lead reign, looks like a plank and encourages little girls to point and laugh from atop their ponies. When a nine-year-old in pink jodphurs, riding a podgy little pony in a diamante head collar and pink bows in its mane, looks like a more qualified rider than you... you are officially a loser.

But also, we learned that possibly Irish is beginning to be a little bit kinky. You see, he declared that me lunging the horse was incredibly hot. Me, in my good riding kit, all done up like a fancy equestrienne (I had new clothes. I wanted to wear them. Never mind that they're too formal for a riding lesson!), cracking a whip on the ground and being all forceful is hot, according to his right royal irishness. Apparently, he particularly enjoyed it when I was leaning through the fence sticking my bum in the air.

He claims, one can appreciate a girl's bottom as she bends over without actually wanting to spank it. And, or so he claims, he was more impressed by the brand new, so-skintight-the-lace-pattern-of-my-underwear-showed, jodphurs and the funky 'gracefulness' of the whole thing than any whip-cracking, powerful vibes. Having had several (dozen) in-depth conversations with him about sexuality and kink and all that jazz, I suppose he really is telling the truth - he isn't kinky. But bollocks to that, it's just boring. I shall choose not to accept that reality and instead focus on the significantly better, though imaginary, scenario which actually gives me mocking power over Irish.

I've spent the past several days teasing him about being a closet sub. I wholeheartedly encourage you to do the same ;-)

Spank me, Snape!

I just watched the new Harry Potter movie, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, yesterday evening. It was rather nice, though I still insist they're not nearly as good as the books - probably because a) I love reading, and b) you can get far more detail into a 600 page book than you can in a 2 hour movie. Still, the movies have got one thing going for them: Alan Rickman.

I'm sure I'm not the first to find Alan Rickman's performance as Professor Snape very hot. I'm sure there are hundreds of people out there who have already declared their wish to be spanked by Alan's Snape. I think Snape in the books, without Alan playing him, already has plenty of devoted followers. But I need to say it as well, because it's just too yummy to ignore it. Not Alan Rickman as Professor Snape himself, mind you, because I don't think he's the hottest guy to have ever walked this planet. But his performance in the movies is incredibly yummy, for sure.

Professor Alan Rickman Snape is hot. And evil. And so, so convincing as a punishment-hungry, hot, evil man. I want to be spanked by him right now. Or the world's most amazing Professor Alan Rickman Snape impersonator, whoever is more inclined.

Pretty please?

Life is like a box of chocolates...

...and some people are like bottles of ketchup; you need to slap them on the bottom before they move.

At least, that's what my new fridge magnet tells me. I was browsing those little magnets that Irelynn likes so much in a cute little store the other day, and I was very pleased to find such a kinky message in among the flowers and angels and kittens - I was beginning to feel sick.

It now sits on the magnetic board (our fridge isn't magnetic), opposite the cupboard containing my mug - the one my friend gave me, saying "If I was meant to touch my toes, there'd be diamonds on the floor."

That's the cupboard, in case you were wondering, which is beside the carpet beater hanging on the wall, and across from the store room containing the brand new riding crop and whip which for some reason are not being kept in the tack room. And they're not mine.

Those magnificent words...

I recently went on my first official date with James. He had planned for us to go bowling, which I love but hadn't done since my 18th birthday party - a party that involved me and a friend making silly palm tree hats that we forced everyone to wear to the bowling alley. People looked at us in a very strange way that night, but I'm a firm believer that everyone's 18th birthday party should have a theme, just like kids' birthday parties, to say goodbye to your childhood. Yes, I'm sentimental like that. Or really I was just looking for an excuse for my palm tree hats. But I digress.

I may not be very strong, but I have always had very good aim. So, even though my bowling balls (good thing I'm not a guy, or that would have sounded very wrong) never go very fast, at least they're mostly right on target. And I may have been out of practice, but I'm still proud to report that I won all three games. That's why they call me the Queen. I was very sure to let James know every three seconds or so that I was winning, and when he was going to stop letting me win. So sure, in fact, that at some point he got up and smacked my bottom. "You're going to be getting a spanking, you are!" were his exact words, if I'm not very much mistaken.

This being our very first official date and everything, that obviously was an empty threat. I didn't even kiss him, so I wasn't exactly going to let him spank me, was I? Besides, he might like kinky stuff every now and then, as foreplay mostly I suspect, but I don't believe he has any experience with "real" spankings. I'm not about to just let him loose on my behind. Like Viola, I'm not too fond of clueless tops, though I'm probably a bit looser about it. But it was still rather thrilling to hear him say that. :)

Location, location, location

My godfather is an interesting character. Very kind, very well meaning, very loving. He would, however, give Prince Phillip a run for his money. He refuses to eat rice, because he doesn't want to deprive people in Asia. He got held up at customs on his way into Spain recently because he'd tried to enter the country with tupperware containers of shepherd's pie "because you never know what's in the meat when it's foreign, do you?", and when we presented him with a fajita for lunch last week he gave it a poke and said, "So where does this come from? Indian is it? My poppadom is too soggy, don't you have any shepherd's pie?!" (Poppadoms are considered acceptable fayre. Curry is far too risky, of course, and we've covered rice, but he'll eat poppadoms because they're just like stiff pancakes, and India is a bloody good country, having been part of the Empire. Do you see what I mean?!)

It's awfully embarassing when nice, polite, politically correct (or foreign!) people come to dinner when he's around, but it does have its upsides. For instance, he turned up the other day with a book on British stately homes. It's called something like "Best British Property", and I tried to find it on Amazon so I could show you, but I don't remember the exact title of the book, and when I typed some 'keywords' ("British property", in case you're wondering) into Amazon it presented me with 'The influence of non-homogeneity on the elasto-plastic behaviour of soil foundations', which just looks absolutely thrilling, but not quite what I was looking for. Go Amazon.

He brought it so he could show us his house, which to be fair is very nice, but jeez. We've been there a hundred times before, we don't really need to see pictures of it. Still, I can understand that one might be quite pleased to have one's home declared one of the best buildings in Britain, so I patiently sat and looked at the pictures and "ooh-ed" and "ah-ed" appropriately. And then, he turned the page to show me his friend's house... which has been converted. From a Reform School.

He lives, in what used to be a Reform School. A real one! A real, live REFORM SCHOOL!!

Imagine. Imagine! Living in a Reform School. It's possibly the next best thing to living in a workhouse.

I want to move house.