Happy Canada Day.

Civil disobedience, Canadian style.

War stories.

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Kara's birthday spankings.

She was already under the blankets, casually reading an erotic novel from my bedroom bookcase as I came in from work. I enjoy it when she lets herself in. She looked to me with a smile as I came upstairs, and the smile remained as I slowly stripped before her to get into the shower.

The day before, we strolled on Yonge Street to enjoy some birthday shopping. (Yeah. I'm a guy. And I shop. Deal with it.) At Northbound, we picked up a sharp black PVC evening gown and charming black satin corset, and later found some racy shoes to match both. Gradually, my little spitfire is creating quite the fetish collection, which is as it should be if she's going to drape her arm (or lap) over mine at deliciously sinful venues.

I had already given her a large box from Jacob the week before that contained a very sheer black sweater, a satin miniskirt and a shimmering bra and panty set. The metallic studs on the black and purple bra could easily be seen through the thin sweater, giving Kara an excellent dancefloor look. Our mission for the evening was to visit the store again and confirm my sizing choices, since we wanted her to be completely comfortable during the coming playparty before her impending fate made her completely uncomfortable.

Anticipation had been building up for weeks: Kara was to experience her first public birthday spanking session, and she had been left a-quiver as she waited for me in my bed. It had been at least two years since I last had the pleasure of administering birthday spankings with a lover, and so I thoroughly was enjoying seeing my waif whimper and whine for a while. She's so cute.

Despite how striking and precious the PVC is, she opted for the Jacob ensemble for the evening's play. Its miniskirt and panties would certainly make for easier access and more subby-appropriate vibe for what diabolical plans lay ahead of her. She had already taken it upon herself to polish the linked steel ringlets that adorn one of my favourite leather collars, and this fit charmingly around her throat to shower her upper chest with diamond-like glitterance.

Red attire was the theme for tonight's playparty, which I met with a sensual scarlet shirt under my leather officer's cap. Kara's contribution to redness would soon be her blistering, tight, naked and pert little ass.



Hands down, Goodhandy's is the most cosmopolitan venue I've ever been to. "Toronto's Pansexual Playground" is foremost a den for the local queer community, but is so adventurously openminded that people from any orientation or interest can and does taste its forbidden fruits and all in complete harmony with one another.

It was Dancing Nazi who first caught my eye as we entered the club. A buff dude grooving to DJ Jimi Lamort's tunage with his nearly naked partner, his Nazi replica uniform bugged me. Not because of what it was, mind you, but because the history buff in me was peturbed that he had mixed his insignia all wrong. Go figure.

And how often does one have the opportunity in life to watch a Nazi... dancing? Life can be so weird.

Leave it to Kara to steer my attention toward more topical eye candy. Nursing our ciders, we drooled at th sight of a sensual lioness n the dancefloor, a lithe and bald woman in a PVC gown very alike that which Kara chose not to wear for the evening. Alone, she swayed fluidly on the floor, and heartily beamed when we later shared how much we had enjoyed watching her.

Another couple, a plump Asian woman with a very athletic grunge blonde, kissed sensually as they swayed. Multiple couples of muscular men gyrated and filled the house with laughter. T-girls shuffled about in perfumed packs, eyeing one another enviously and each striving to command as much ambient space as possible. Kara and me took it all in, whispering to each other joyfully as we drank and moved to the tunes.

Until it was time.

I took her hand and led her upstairs to the play area. A blonde twink tended bar (yes, a 'drink twink'...) there, around whom a few voyeuristic dudes watched the dancing below from the balcony. A robust, mulatto woman with long, golden dreadlocks was receiving a light whipping on her naked ass by a muscular dark black dude as she rested on all fours on a table. A lesbian couple relaxed with their drinks in an alcove. Numerous individual men, gay and not-so-gay, enjoyed the action.

I made our way for a reasonably empty spot near the other end of the balcony where an unused spanking bench sat lonely and isolated. It wasn't very long before Goldielocks' nearby flogging came to an end and the area began to clear of most of the voyeurs. Once the space opened some, I commandeered it by turning the lonely spanking bench into a position that suited me, with its upper tier facing what I knew would become new voyeur space and its rear close to the back wall but allowing me plenty of safe movement room. The area was dim, with the blended scent of cologne, bodies, and drinks. Shafts of light from nearby spotlights in the rafters beamed down to the dancefloor but yielded an ambient glow to the area. The thumping thunder from the DJ's work below pulsated through the floor.

I sat Kara down on the bench as I lay my bag of tricks on a shelf that ran along the back wall, moving some candles and empty beer bottles. I went to Drink Twink for some ice, and he looked at me with that slight sneer that gay boys are wont to do when they feel like being judgmental, but his attitude cleared up rightquick when it dawned on wee li'l him that he was being addressed by a Top that wasn't just looking for free fucking ice.

I stood before Kara and held her head in my hands, giving her a slow and wet kiss.

"How do you feel?"

She smiled.

I grasped the short, dark hair at the nape of her neck and slowly pulled her around and upward until she was in position, on her hands and knees on the two-tiered spanking table. I rested her forehead all the way down to the polished wood before turning away to stand behind her and near my bag on the shelf. Leaving her there untouched, I knew the voyeurs would begin to gather around again as I set my toys in a neat little row along the shelf while my back was to her. By the time I turned around, a gathering had come but nicely remained at a respectably workable distance. Among them was Goldielocks.

I didn't waste time. After a few gentle shoulder rubs, I went for Kara's backseat jugular and hoisted her hem up and over her pert heiney. Her panties framed her most nicely, and with only the minimal amount of warm-up, I began an openhanded assault on her delicious little ass. I wanted her to see stars. I wanted her to twitch and yelp aloud. I wanted her writhing and her face looking at me from over her shoulder with a shocked and embarassed expression, wide-eyed and stunned, as she received her birthday spanking. I wanted her to thoroughly entertain every hungry pair of eyes, male and female, gay and straight alike, with her public punishment.

And I got what I wanted.

I had count aloud, marking each of her years with every spank. Of course though, my memory lapsed from time to time... seventeen does come after thirty-two, right? Oh well. Damn that grade school I went to. Better start over.

Kara's ass was bare and red and glowing by the time I paused long enough to slip some ice into her mouth. She was panting yet breathless, her face even redder than her posterior as she strained to keep her forehead against the wood. She looked at me pleadingly.

"Are you alright?" I smirked.

She nodded slowly, blinked, panted some more, and gratefully swallowed the water that melted along her tongue.

Behind her again, and now I pressed against her lower back to guide herhips even closer to the edge of the upper tier to the bench. This raised her butt even higher, giving her lithe body a pretty but uncomfortable S-curve. By now her bare knees were feeling the wood too.

I drank a swig of my cider, and looked around me. Some looked right back, smiling and nodding most approvingly. Others couldn't take their eyes off of my pet. One man sat nearby, slowly stroking his cock. One of the lesbians gently played with her partner's earlobe as they watched.

I retrieved one of my slappers and began giving my pet a series of loud, cracking smacks on her raised behind. Kara wiggled and squirmed, especially when I used my other hand to hold the crotch of her panties and tug them upward to apply pressure to her swelling and drenched clit. I rained punishment along her thighs, which sent her into jolts. I held her head up by tugging her hair, forcing her to look at the crowd which so enjoyed seeing her suffer.

"I love you. Are you having fun?"

She smiled and nodded. "I love you too."

I paused. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

I smiled and returned to my cider. I took a long look at Kara's glowing ass, round and red but still somehow ready for more. I turned to one of the lesbians who had moved closer to me.

"Hi," I said. "So, it's her birthday... would you like to help me out?"

One of the things I learned when I was bouncing and supervising playparty scenes back in my pro-dom days was how to raise the bar of fun in a safe, well-considered way. If you're going to seek "audience participation," it's healthy and wise to know how to read body language and observe that someone understands a sense of protocol. If a Top is going to offer the utmost in generosity and actually offer his or her pet to a stranger, intuition and resilient observation is vital.

But this woman only blushed and stammered, smiling in her quiet and polite refusal. Oops: I had picked a submissive. Still, it was adorably cute. But I was undeterred and wanted a sharing. Somehw I knew I wouldn't be turned down again if I sought a guy. Call it a wild guess.

Greek Guy looked presentable and intelligent, and he had been enraptured with my handiwork. When approached, he almost came in his pants at the opportunity to participate, and I gave him a crash course in certain ground rules before squatting down near Kara's head. I gave her a sip of cider and more ice. Her ass remained high in the air. Caressing Kara's head, I kept a watch on Greek Guy as he stood behind my pet and began with a series of very light spanks.

He had a (shall we say) interesting technique, beginning with a rapid fluttering of his outstretched fingertips that only barely met her skin. Her firm ass jiggled slightly under each series of rapid butterfly swats, which he would then finish off with only a moderate final smack. He was completely enjoying and behaving himself, but for Kara this treatment was a cool-down. Not entirely a bad thing, but not where I wanted to take her yet.

(Later, Kara and I would call this the "good kitty" technique, and mimicked it while rapidly patting one of her cats on its head. "Goodkittygoodkitty...")

It was Goldielocks who helped me make the evening. Even though I had seen her on the receiving end of a lash, somehow my instinct told me that she was an experienced, sex-positive switch. I was right: she positively beamed when she was invited to help me wish Kara her happy birthday.

Goldielocks was an earth mother. Those long, golden dreads rained down her light brown back like a lioness' mane, and her eyes shimmered with sharpness and wit. Buxom and broadshouldered, I could easily see her gyrating with thunderous feet around a bonfire as djembe players resounded on a lakefront beachhead. I could see her smoking cigars. I could see her downing whiskey. She resonated with fun. I liked her instantly.

I gave Kara a break and let her kneel up, sip some more cider. I introduced them.

"How shall she address you?" I asked Goldielocks. "Ma'am... or Sir?"

She chuckled deeply. "Sir."

Smiling, I looked down to Kara and back to Goldielocks. "Have fun." I walked aside and leaned against the back shelf, confident my pet was in good hands.

And she was. Goldielocks' hands were soon all over Kara, caressing and stroking and teasing her little faerie titties. Kara was in bliss, like a little domestic kitten caught by some wild mother tigress, and soon found herself back in position as her new friend had her way. The nearby lesbian couple sat up with rapt attention. Submissive girl practically drooled. The crowd of men doubled, and soon I was standing to maintain acceptable distance as I supervised what went on and guaranteed my lover her safety. With eye contact and the occasional ear whisper, Goldilocks and I handled the scene as though we had been partners for years, keeping it smooth and safe and fun. It was a treat.

Goldielocks spanked Kara's smart little ass to a glowing amber, and it glowed even under the red spotlighting. Each swat was decisive and true, and my poor little dear cried out with whimpering, gasping breaths. Her ass was squeezed. Her ass was gently punched, with Goldielocks smacking her bum with enclosed fists that would tenderize a slab of beef. We flogged her. We caressed her. We made Kara a shared little public playtoy, and when all was done, Kara was a puddle of living goo.

Goldielocks and I shook hands.

"We really need to do this again."

Eager to enroll.

Delightful.

At the risk of sounding like Humbert Humbert, I smirked to myself when, recently, the afternoon downtown rush hour found me in a sea of bobbysoxed, tartaned young ladies freshly released from various local parochial schools. It wasn't their age bracket that spied my wandering eye (I enjoy my wine with a few notable years within it as well, thank you), but the fantasy thereof and its relationship to innocence, submission, and proper training protocol.

That is to say, the uniforms, and in observing the sway of wool over tight, cotton socks and with classy, crisp white shirts, my thoughts drifted to Kara's recent and tawdry efforts to please her man. This is what made me smirk.

She'd done some shopping, you see. She's realizing how much fun is possible with Us. She likes it.

With her previous background in theatre, she tells me how sh's thoroughly enjoying fashioning "her new costume." I had intended to buy this for her, and as she cutely apologizes for "taking the wind out of (my) sails," it's clear to see that the little waif is having her fun. Now how could I deny her?

Standing with a sly smile and giggling eyes, she modelled the plaid skirt, the smart little steel clasp pin, and a tight white top. At my instruction, she bent over her stairwell to reveal the lace-trimmed white panties she wore underneath that so delicately framed her amazing little ass.

The same amazing little ass that I made certain to spank a blushing red later that evening. And the same amazing little ass that I intend to bare and punish during an upcoming playparty as she experiences her newfound wardrobe. A few days later, she modelled a pair of Mary Jane shoes that so aptly worked for the ensemble.


Her innocence melts before me. Truly delightful. I am having so much fun corrupting her.

Dress code.

"If you're going to be teaching me about how you like your cock sucked," Kara recently said to me, grinning, kneeling, her mouth still puffy and wet from sliding on my dick as I hoarsely whispered instructions down to her, "then maybe I need a schoolgirl uniform."

The thought hardened me more and had me thrusting deeper into her mouth, feeling her widening lips closer to the base of me as my fingers tugged the back of her shorthaired head. Kara, the high school teacher in a schoolgirl uniform. Just the idea made me laugh from deep in my belly, definitely causing my cock to twitch and swell even more in her sensual, soft, wet, suckling mouth.

While cosplay as a hobby is far more sophisticated and imaginative than its psychosexual dimensions alone, when it comes to fetish play, French maid, cheerleader, and schoolgirl uniforms are so de rigueur to dominance fantasy that one can easily find cheap imitations of these costumes at any party supply store during the Halloween season. And how interesting it is that it is these costumes which are so easily obtainable from non-fetish-specific retailers, packaged and promoted virtually for the power-exchange vibe that people have instilled in them.

Schoolgirl uniforms are totally hot. Both they and French maid uniforms share a sensual undertone that bespeaks submission, obedience, compliance. But unlike the maid, the schoolgirl adds training and corrupted innocence to its vibe, which may also explain its prevalence in spanking and other corporal discipline related fantasies.

And God knows I love corrupting innocence.

I love to bend my pet over, slowly hike up her tartan, and reveal a crisp pair of white panties tightly framing the pert and vulnerable target of my attention. It's a unique, elegant, powerful moment to gradually bare your pet's delectable ass, drawing out the energy and the anticipation and the consensual shame and the frail sense of exposure to inspection and scrutiny before the raining of wrath. Mmm.

Here. I'll say that again. "To gradually bare your pet's delectable ass, drawing out the energy and the anticipation and the consensual shame and the frail sense of exposure to inspection and scrutiny before the raining of wrath."

Aaah. Thank you. Detention, anyone?

Shayne looked adorably cute in the uniform that her training began in with me. Diva, my first partner whom I introduced to kink, had later fashioned one for herself after we parted.

And now, as she bobbed her gorgeous head below me, here was my amazing Kara softly moaning around my girth and picturing herself in wool tartan, bright white shirt, smart little tie.

Someone's been reading the blog, thought I to myself. Someone smart who's learning what Daddy likes. Good grrl.

So imagine the small wince on my face when, over my tea, I read in today's paper how my local Catholic District School Boards are seriously considering shifting from tartans (skirts) to pants. It seems that the sassy li'l ladies, the real schoolgirls, have this habit of hiking their skirts so high to the thigh that "disproportionate amounts of time is being spent addressing the issue with students." Fifteen centimetres above the middle of the kneecap is the rule.

Why, those little hussies.

Some parochial schools have already changed uniform policy to pants, and others have adopted a so-called "x-kilt," which features bullt-in shorts under the regulation length. I wrinkled my nose at these when kinky, supportive, incredibly generous and understanding me purchased Shayne's.

Nice to know that some parents and students are aghast at this dire turn of unfashionable events, however. Tartans may be declining in sales and not as "in line with Catholic traditions and values" as pants (an historically debatable point) according to local retailers, but that's certainly not going to stop the students from desiring cooler clothing in summer, or the parents from wanting to perpetuate a charming life niche many of them remember from their own days at school.

Or prevent safe, sane, consensual kinksters like me from enjoying adult playmates in charming attire as we bare their wanton bottoms for palm, cane, lash, or throbbing, lubed-up cock.

Yes, Kara, you'll get what you want. I will dress you in a cotton shirt with emblems and stitching over the pocket, a handsome matching tie that I will use to bring you to your bare knees and bobbysocks. You will feel the sway of coloured wool around your tiny waist as we stroll through the crowd at the playparty, and you will feel this same as you find yourself bent over a table, swallowing hard as my strong hands hold your hips. Cool air will breeze across the back of your upper thighs... far, far higher than fifteen centimetres from the middle of your knee... as your exquisite, pert, round, firm and lovely ass gets revealed by the slow raising of it. Bare, or framed in panties, I will enjoy your bum as your man should. I will spank you. I will fuck you hard and deep.

Both the nature of your garments and the ways you are taken will have you understanding more of the deliciously submissive parts of you, and you will know how tenderly, how assuredly you are Mine.

Keds.

You're walking down the street, enjoying the sunshine along the lake. Around you are the yuppies, the dog-walkers, the tourists. You, in your funky torn jeans and baggy Tshirt, are a spirit unto yourself as your charm and character contrasts with those around you.

Your sneakers. Dark Keds, the kind I haven't seen in years and seem to making a comeback on the fashion scene. They still remind me of hot summers in Coney Island, hanging out at the pier, first kisses and first pettings with cool, countercultural grrls like you.

Am I bad because a part of me is now imagining you on your back, your naked and strong legs tight around my waist, those Keds high in the air as I fuck you? Am I a naughty man for, in between my moments of genuinely admiring your prettiness and the way the sun races across your form, wanting to feel those rubber heels tapping the small of my back as my potent thrusts force your legs to shake?

Let me fuck you while you're wearing your sneakers. Hard and deep. Let me feel your flesh cloying wetly to the length and girth of me, your succulence being drawn from you as my hardness withdraws and pumps in again. Let me feel laces along my spine as you lock heels together, yielding to me, getting fucked, getting taken.

Shayne goes to class.

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Shayne enrolls in school.

My waiter, dressed in a smart canary yellow waistcoat, had arrived with the coffee. I enjoyed his attentiveness as I crossed my legs to relax, casually looking across the street to the building she would soon emerge from. This elegant Italian bistro couldn't possibly have been situated more appropriately.

I wore my favourite black suit, the black silk tie flowing down my cobalt-blue shirt like a river of exquisite anguish. I relished the sensual fusion between the fresh air, my excellent coffee, my evening's attire, and the knowledge that this new, endearing, lustfully wonderful little tart I had discovered was about to get a hint of what she had been asking for. I was especially looking forward to spanking her womanly ass. I smiled, pleased with myself, as my hand patted the package I had set on the chair beside me. She wasn't expecting this, not exactly all of this, tonight.

She came from the building. I made eye contact with her, and with a slightly bemused smile, she came across the street toward my table under the scarlet canopy. My waiter returned to refill me as she set herself down. Asking me if she would like some coffee as well, I enjoyed seeing both his and her faces briefly contort with confusion when I replied that, no, she will not be having any. Like her, the coffee was singularly my pleasure tonight.

In time, I pushed a small white plate across the linen to her. On the plate was a black leather bracelet.

"This is the time for you to ask your questions," I said to her. "If you choose to pursue what I'm offering, what you have asked to share with you, then show that acceptance by placing this bracelet on your right wrist. This is very old-school. But also know that your placing the bracelet upon yourself will also be your final independent act, until it is removed, and then by me. Once you've worn this, everything you do and say will be prioritized with my pleasure in mind. You will be my pet. You will behave accordingly. Do you understand?"

She tried to be coy, but I saw the swallow and the slow nod that followed. She asked her questions. She received her safe word. With a silent pause, she lifted the bracelet from the plate and snapped it upon her wrist. I finished my coffee and stood.

"Take that package," I instructed, motioning to the other chair, and walked away. She followed.

As we walked through the crowded downtown streets, I gave her a crash course of all the basic expectations I would have for her if she wanted to pursue this sort of experience with me. She listened attentively as she tried to keep up with me. Soon, I had taken us into the elegant lobby of a corporate building. Guiding her past the sumptuous couches, I stood her next to the door of the women's room. I gave her a kiss, looked at my watch, and then looked directly into her adorable eyes.

"You have ten minutes. You will change into the contents of that package and you will place what you are wearing neatly folded in it. For each minute that you are late, you will receive one stroke. Do you understand?"

Her eyes widened as she nodded, trying to stifle a nervous laugh. Around us, businesspeople wandered. An old man turned the page of his newspaper. I smiled at her and relaxed on one of the elegant couches as she disappeared.

I waited. I waited a little longer. My my. I waited some more. Oh, dear me. The poor thing, thought I to myself.

Some 33 minutes later, she emerged with a blush and look of confusion. The blue tartan skirt and the white bobbysox were charming on her and fit her well. The crisp white shirt had the proper cut to accentuate her waist and ensconce her breasts. I had also selected proper shoes and underwear for my little tart.

But the poor wee thing just couldn't manage the tie. I laughed when I pictured her, bent over the washroom sink under the mirror, frantically doing and undoing the tartan tie, sweating over how much time she was taking. I lwas amused.

Helping the poor distressed baby, feigning a supportive pout, I did the unfortunate thing's tie up for her. Oh, the price she'll have to pay for that. But then, that's what daddies are for.

On our way to my car now as we continued our walk among corporate alphas and betas. To amuse myself, I had her skipping towward the car as she obeyed my instruction to open the door for me. Once inside, I reached under her seat for the chain I had set there, and affixing the handcuffs to a link by means of handy clasp, I cuffed her in such a way that her hands were held low and between her legs. I was amused.

From another compartment, I produced the brown leather collar and the leash. I showed them to her.

"Earlier, I explained that the bracelet, and its being on your right wrist, is old school. So is this," I said, gently shaking it. "The leather is brown because, as a pet, you are inferior. You are untrained, and to wear black, or steel, or lace is a privilege that you have yet to earn. And yet, to wear any Top's collar, no matter the make or style, is your reason for being and the most important honour. Your bracelet reminds you that you are in playspace. The collar reminds you, and shows all, that you are the property and pleasure of your Top. Do you understand?"

She nodded as I buckled the soft brown leather around her neck. I smiled as I affixed the leash to the D-ring and tugged her head closer to me for a kiss. A few teasing smacks on her bare thighs, a gentle probe under her tartan, a random squeeze of her tit over the crisp schoolgirl shirt, and I started the engine.

"All learning should be sweet," someone told me once. So, simply for the contrasting debauch and the humour it brought me, I began Shayne's training experience with a visit to an old-fashioned soda shop where she, in her authentic Catholic schoolgirl uniform, enjoyed a root beer float.

Me, I had more coffee. Not much later, coffee wasn't all that continued to stimulate me.