Category Archives: ShadowLane

Coffee, Spanking and Shadow Lane

[Wasn’t this blog topic a wonderful chance to use this classic coffee advertisement?]

Those of you who know me in real life or on Twitter know that I have a pretty intense relationship with coffee.  I don’t like getting up  in the morning, but the knowledge that when I do I get to have a cup of coffee with a bit of half-and-half and three Splenda packets lures me out of bed. I usually start tweeting with my first cup and feel a lovely glow about half way through it.

Twitter has added to my coffee ritual. Here, every morning over coffee, are many of my lovely spanking peeps, also having coffee and getting ready for the day (or dinner and getting ready for the night in the case of the UK folks).  It helps me live a bit of my fantasy that we all live in a lovely (semi-)functional spanking community.  Later in the day I sometimes meet up on Twitter for an afternoon coffee and bit more tweeting.

But once a year I get to do more than that. At Shadow Lane, there’s a coffee bar in the ground floor of the casino. Every morning, when I wake up, I can text friends and have them show up to drink coffee with me.  For a weekend every year I get to live in a spanking community.

This past year, Shadow Lane 2011 was great. As Kaelah wote, I met her and Ludwig (and was caned by her very own hand — well her very own hand holding one of Paul’s canes). I also spanked Indy in a lovely scene witnessed and encouraged by Paul and Judy. Yet, as ever, some of my very favorite moments of the party were the informal ones, chatting about scene, life and everything else, while sipping coffee with friends old and new.


Many thanks to padme and @bronte_a0a for inspiring this post.


Book Review: Late Bloomer

At the Shadow Lane vendor fair I bought one of the very last copies of spanking model and blogger Erica Scott’s book Late Bloomer from the author herself.  I then found myself staying up late Friday and Saturday night, not to play at suite parties but to finish Ericia’s excellent book.

I’ve read a few spanking memoir books and honestly, this one is my favorite. Not just because Erica is a very fine writer with a good memory for detail, but because she wrote in depth about her childhood, family (especially her fraught relationship with her idolized yet distant and emotionally abusive father) and life before spanking. The book is an honest retelling of a woman’s life and I enjoyed it for that, even apart from the spanking action.

In fact, my only criticism of the book is from my own desire to have more detail of how early Erica began having spanking fantasies and how she feels they shaped her early sexuality.  She doesn’t get into an analysis of where her desire to be spanked came from and I did wonder about her thoughts on this topic. But it’s a smal thing and, in part an effect of how much of herself she does give the reader.

So what does a reader get from this book? A story of a woman’s life lived by halves, in the darkness of depression and anxiety and her overcoming them.  It’s about her efforts to understand and undo damage done in childhood, her claiming of self (sexual and otherwise) and her successful battle to do things that matter to her, even in the face of fears.  There’s also frank accounts of her experiences as a spanking model, working on a variety of projects.  Thoughout the story, what shines through is Erica’s wit, humor and unflinching honesty.  I love reading Late Bloomer, and found I was staying up long into the night to finish it.

Highly recommended.

Back and all that stuff

Paul and I got back on Thursday from our travels.  Where have we been?  Vegas where we attended yet another amazing Shadow Lane party.  Northeast England, where we visited Paul’s family and I got to attend a wonderful conference.  London, where Paul attended a counter protest about the Pope’s visit and finally Paris, where we spent far too little time.  Through it all we got to play in hotel rooms.  I feel like my mojo got a lot of love.

Someday I may blog about all that travel and play, though given my track record I understand if you doubt it.  I’m honestly not all that convinced myself.

But for now, I’m home and it’s hot.  113 today in Los Angeles, 103 in Santa Monica.  A new record high.

Happy Halloween & A Story

Over on his delightful blog, Rad’s written about his Halloween costume — a priest’s Roman collar — for the party at Paddles tonight.  While I won’t be at the party, I got to see Rad wearing this costume for the Shadow Lane party this past Labor Day. At the same party, I got to finally watch,** curled up on our bed with Alex and Bailey, the DVD Spanking Confessional.  Great fun!

Rad and his collar looked great at the SL vendor fair — wish I was closer to Paddles.  I suspect that tonight he’ll get to hear a number of confessions.

My own confession is to cop to the priest fantasy as being one of my favorite and most sexual fantasies dating to my high school days. Along those lines, I’m posting an old story based on one of those fantasies.

Copyright 2001 to <mijita (at) thetreehouse (dot) net>. Please respect this copyright. Don’t distribute or archive this story in any way except for personal use without explicit permission. No, it’s not in the public domain. Ask first, okay? Thanks.

priestFirst Fridays

On first Fridays we have to go to confession. Every month we’re in school the nuns walk each class over one at a time. We kneel and reflect on our sins as we wait our turn in the box. A lot of girls think it’s boring, but I don’t.

Not with the thoughts in my head. Not this month.

I’m next for Father Damien. So cute. Totally wasted as a priest. Maybe I’ll give him a thrill. And me too.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, by my thoughts, my words, my actions. It’s been a month since my last confession. These are my sins.”

My sins. My hands slipped beneath my skirt and I slid my panties down, letting my knees step over them so I could take them off. The kneeler squeaked and I wondered if he could guess what I’d done. The plaid pleated skirt felt rough against my skin, bare beneath it. I squirmed, pressed my knees together tightly.

“I – I’ve sinned grievously, Father. I don’t know where to start.”

I spoke the words softly, low and right into the screen, my voice catching just so. I imagined I could hear him sighing and shifting on the other side.

“Go ahead, my child. God can forgive you.”

“I’ve been wicked, Father. Done things I know are sinful, but I don’t know which sins they are.” I lifted my skirt with my left hand.

“Tell me your deeds, girl.”

“I – I touch myself, Father. Repeatedly run my hands over my body and, and between my legs.” As I spoke, my right hand brushed against my thighs and then up between them. I licked my lips and imagined him listening. Maybe even starting to sweat a little just above his lip. Running my tongue over my own lips I could taste the salt.

“I know it’s wrong, Father, but I can’t help myself, love the feeling of my own skin beneath my fingers.”

I moved my hand back and forth, stroking gently, quietly.

“My boyfriend touches me too. Under . . . well, you know, under my skirt, Father. Over my panties. And, and well, I touch him through his jeans.”

He cleared his throat as if to speak. I spread my knees wider and let my fingers push inside, more deeply and insistently. I breathed quietly, through my teeth, but my breath kept coming in faster gasps.

“At first I mean. And then he unzips and I feel him through his underpants. And he gets, um . . . he gets hard Father. And puts his hands inside my panties. Sometimes I let him take them off me.”

“You’re putting yourself in danger with these actions, child. Wanton behavior can’t lead to good. What would your family say?”

“Oh Father, they know! I mean, I think they do. Last week I left my panties in the car and my boyfriend’s father found them. And then his wife told my mother. Who told my father.”

My hand became more insistent and my body began to move in response. I covered the noise in my throat with a sob, not quite pretended.

“The next day, my father met me at the door when I got back from school. He had my panties in one hand and the paddle in the other. He threw the panties at me, telling me where they’d been found. And slapped me too. Then, right there, in the front hall of the living room he yanked me over his lap and began whacking me over my panties, telling me what a disgrace I was to them.”

My fingers moved quickly against my own wet slipperiness as I poured my thoughts out to him. I could hear his watch ticking. Hear his own breathing.

“He, he, he stood me in front of him and yanked down my underpants and told my mom to check to see if I was intact. I could feel her finger push inside me, Father. Because she had to know. I cried and felt like such a sinner.”

“As well you should, young lady. What if you found yourself with child? You’re putting yourself and your boyfriend’s souls in jeopardy – becoming a near occasion of mortal sin.”

At his words I moaned slightly. So bad – such a bad girl.

“After she finished checking me, told him I was a virgin, he pulled me back across his lap and paddled me more, this time on my bare bottom. I cried so hard I was screaming, Father. I swore to them I’d sin no more.”

“And pray to God for the strength to honor that vow, child.”

“But when they sent me upstairs, I lay on my bed in the darkness and ran my hands between my legs, feeling the heat rise. I – I can’t stop sinning, Father. Has God deserted me?”

My fingers touched my clit and I felt myself explode as the blood rushed through me, filling me with pleasure as I moved frantically against my own hand. But I lost track of my audience until the light blinded me and I dropped my skirt quickly but too late. He’d come around to my side, opened the door and saw me – well, you know what he saw me doing.

He said something I didn’t hear – but heard the anger in his voice. Did he call me harlot, sinner, Eve? Not sure. But then Father Damien grabbed my upper arm and yanked me to my feet, pulling me from the confessional. I could say nothing, could feel the shocked eyes of my classmates, my teacher, on me. As he pulled me toward the front of the church, my last image of the box were my white panties against the dark wood floor. I could feel my nakedness beneath my modest plaid skirt.

The priest’s finger tightened into my arm as he pulled me across the sanctuary to the sacristy behind. His voice was low but clear as he stood me in front of him.

“You’ve sinned most grievously, young woman. In a manner I’d have scarcely thought possible for one so young. What you’ve committed today is sacrilege. I wish I could violate the confessional and tell your teachers and family what you did while you were pretending to beg God for forgiveness. Ensure you’re punished as you deserve to be.”

I dropped to my knees before him in tears.

“Please, Father! I beg you, forgive me. I’m sorry, truly sorry.”

Father Damien’s hands were on my shoulders, shaking me as I cried harder.

“Beg God’s forgiveness, not mine. If you dare. You deserve to be punished, but I can’t say what you’ve done. The confessional is sacred, even when abused as you did.” His hands were at his waist, beneath his robe. For a second I feared violation but then his object became clear as he pulled his black belt from around his waist.

“Go across to that kneeler and stand before it. Good. Now bend over and place your hands on the pad.”

The wooden prayer book shelf dug into my stomach as I stood on my toes to reach the padded kneeler. My skirt rose up to my thighs on its own before Father Damien threw it roughly to my shoulders, baring me from my waist to the top of my knee socks.

“I suspect that your story of being spanked by your father for your wantonness was a tale to seduce me and yourself. Let’s see if you enjoy being thrashed in reality nearly so much.”

With that he cracked the leather across my bottom and I kicked and tried to rise, biting my sleeve to keep from crying out. His left hand pushed the base of my spine, keeping me bent over.

“Burns, doesn’t it? I promise you when I’m finished your hands will never even consider roaming your body without remembering this hell fire.”

The strap burned my skin again and again as I struggled and choked sobs into my arms. My thighs were lashed along with my bottom as I promised him never again and confessed my sorrow at offending him and God. Finally I could bear no more and my sobs broke through, echoing through the church, leaving my classmates no doubt as to my penance. . . .

I watch as the door opens and the red light turns to green. A girl kneels on the pew in front of me to begin her penance.

It’s my turn to confess before God and Father Damien.

“Bless me Father for I have sinned. By my thoughts. . . .”

** Paul had been at the filming last December, but I hadn’t been able to make the trip to Vegas, even though people I’m so fond of were doing such a long-standing fantasy. This definitely made up for not being there though. Almost.

Photo credit: / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0