Category Archive: secrets

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The Very, Very Beautiful Marilyn Monroe

By Poppy | 01/10/2010 - 1:30 am | childlike, inspiration, love, secrets 15 Comments

I am new to a lot of this. I am new to TTWD, I am new to considering Hollywood greats. I am new to any kind of considering of Marilyn Monroe.

Of course, I have heard of Marilyn Monroe and seen her in couple of films. I knew she was pretty and blonde, much desired and loved not enough.

My strongest memory is of her being sad, being chased by photographers as she left hospital.

It was a tragic scene. She was wrapped up in a coat and had no bodygaurds, no one to protect her and she got cornered like a fox. Poor girl, I remember thinking, poor girl.

She needed someone, she needed a strong someone, she deserved that. I don’t want to print this picture here. It is too heart breaking.

But more than that, I think she was one of us. Look at her down here, look how she sits. She wants to adore him, this adored woman. She wants to love utterly and be subsumed by it.

On Dev’s site, Phil Kemp wrote,

John Huston’s The Misfits (1961) was, sadly, the last movie made by both MM and her co-star, Clark Gable. But there’s a lighter side to the film, not least in Marilyn’s apparent Electra-complex crush on Gable.

After the shoot was over she told her psychiatrist Dr Ralph Greenson, “I have a dream for you. I dreamt I was sitting on Clark Gable’s lap with his arms around me. He said, ‘They want me to do a Gone with the Wind sequel. Maybe I will if you’ll be my Scarlett.’”

“I woke up crying. He was so nice to me and I didn’t deserve it. When I came back from a day off set, he patted my ass and told me if I didn’t behave myself he’d give me a good spanking. I looked him in the eye and said, ‘Don’t tempt me.’ He burst out laughing so hard he was tearing.”

“I wanted him to be my father. I wouldn’t care if he spanked me as long as he made up for it by hugging me and telling me I was Daddy’s little girl and he loved me. Of course, that’s fantasy.”

Or was it? Alas, we’ll never know.”

Isn’t that perfect? Isn’t it breakingly honest? Maybe not for you but for me.

I think, as I am growing into this thing we do, I am starting to understand what makes a girl like me. Very often the girls like I am (and maybe you are) are not to be found in spanking pictures. They may be models who do or do not like to get spanked. But they are girls who are not shy, not small inside, not with this core of something soft and dark, a velvet core.

I am not saying I am like Marilyn Monroe, sheesh in my dreams. I am saying maybe that part of her skill was showing that part of herself that other women share.

She showed that part that most of us fight to keep secret. Something cute, girlish, quaint, beautiful, delicate, and more, more besides.

She seemed (and I know that I know nothing about the Hollyood manipulation of image) to be a girl that exemplifies what it is to be a girl just like me. Maybe, like some optical illusion (watch the eyes follow you around the room) she seems to be a girl just like all the other girls.

I can see why men love her. I think I could love her. I like the type of woman I imagine her to be.

Here is a cute picture of that very famous shot before her knickers were approved.

I have an extra Marilyn postett which I am desperate to put up – I will do it on Saturday thereby breaking my own two day rule. But I can’t not break rules. That would be breaking a brat rule.

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How Much To Say

Over She Goes

You Know What Turns Us On?

Life Under The Big Top: How To Argue

Tagged beautiful women, directoire knickers, spanking

What Spankees See

By Poppy | 25/06/2010 - 2:30 am | punishment, secrets 20 Comments

This is what we think about.

When we see a man dressed like this …

then we see this …
And when we see pretty things like these …

We think of this …
and this too …
If we see this …
we absolutely think of this …

That is why we sometimes look like this …

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Just A Thought About Perversion

Naughty- what it isn't.

Jessica Rabbit - A Short Ode To The Hourglass

Pretty Little Things

In Search of Big and Small

By Poppy | 08/04/2010 - 4:22 pm | childlike, love, secrets 15 Comments

I believe that Winnie The Pooh can teach us almost anything, certainly anything we need to know. The silly little details like how to get a mortgage or flight details can be found on the Internet but for all the good stuff – speak to the bear.

When girls like me first find out that we are like this, we are not at all sure what this is. We know we get all stammary and red when people talk about spanking and we know we get tense when a man that wants to date us won’t make a decision but that is about all we know. And so we end up talking to lots of new people. Some of these people can seem terribly knowledgeable and they are eager to tell us all about everything and how it works.
We are trustful little bears and we listen.

And then all too soon we end up with them wanting to see our bottoms (our real or imagined bottoms) and we realise that they are not interested in what is going on in the rest of us at all.
They just talk about things that make them interested and things that are all about them.

We feel a but stuck and embarrassed and a bit silly.
I always feel I must have the brain of a small bear when these people come and try to see if they can get me to their world.

But this part of us matters and it is all secretive and quiet and we can’t just go and get a library book about it or ask our best friend. We can’t ask the person that wants to tell you because they just want to look at our bottoms.

We have to look in very dark places because that is where secret things live.

But when we do that on our own we can get confused and it can all feel a bit much.

Little bears like us that need these things are not the kind of bears who are happy in dark places.

So we stop and think.

We realise we have lost something.

We can’t find it in dark places because they are not good for us.

We meet other people just like us.

They are looking too.

Then this is what happens if you are very, very lucky.

You (and maybe your friends you are looking with) find someone safe and somewhere safe to be.

In my case a someone came and got me and tucked me under his arm and put me somewhere happy with good people.

It was a very odd sensation and a bit bumpy at first.

Little bears don’t understand new things and they have to have some time to work out what is going on.

The best kind of people that get little bears and take to them safe places know this and don’t pay much attention to snarling and grumping of little bears.
And then this next thing might happen.

This is what happened to me.

I found my small. This small was with me all along and I did not know or maybe it scared me a bit.

My small is my way of being when I am not so important and what I want is not what is going to happen. My small tells me that it is like this not because I am rubbish but because I am loved.

My way of being small is accepting that sometimes I don’t make all my decisions and instead of making those I can just settle down and let myself be loved.

It was always there waiting to be found. I just had to look all around to find it.

I realise that I found my small because standing over me and watching me and making sure it was all OK all along was this other person. He is not in the picture above, above you can see a friend being shown small and maybe saying things like, “Ooo- look! You have a small.”

It is all good now.
I don’t need to go into dark places.
I don’t need to listen to people who are not good for me.
I have found a small within me and the best kind of big who puts his arms around me.
And when I write stuff, I can push it across the table and say, “Here- I wrote this for you.”

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You see!?

Getting Dressed

I Know It Is Early But ..

Wildermagen - by Scarlet

What I think about when I can’t sleep.

By Poppy | 07/02/2010 - 11:20 am | school for grown up girls, scolding, secrets 5 Comments

I am one of those irritating people who find it almost impossible to get to sleep. I do sleep, it just takes a while to get there.

I think the problem is that when I turn off the lights and snuggle down into soft pillows and get warm under my thick, lovely duvet that is the moment I go off into my head.

The rest of my day is always about not being my true, private self. I hide myself during the day so that I may be appropriate, so that I do not shock what I am supposed to be. We all do this, don’t we? We think a million thoughts that are secret, we exist in our heads, we smile at a silent wish, an alternative moment that cannot be.

But after lights out, after I close my eyes I can let go and be as I wish. I tell myself ( and I am told by Himself) that this is the time for sleep but it isn’t. It is the time for dreams.

I don’t know if I smile, I doubt I do. It is a moment too precious for smiling at. I search my head for where I want to be. And then, I am there.

I remember the moment when I was first getting to know Himself. I remember being over his lap, face down with my eyes squeezed shut. I was new to everything, to life, to happiness, I was reborn. I feel his hand holding me tight, holding me still as I wriggle, as I try to get away. I am acutely aware of my nakedness, wanting to cover myself from this man who I cannot control, from this man who seems to read what is beneath my mind. He spanks me so hard that the force of it travels through my bottom and into my heart. I can hear him tell me that I am willful and stubborn. For the first time I know that I am seen and that I am loved. He does not stop when I ask. He does not stop when I am sorry or I beg him to. I don’t know when he does stop, I can’t remember that moment.

I travel to a place I have never been. I am scared but camouflaged with petulant anger. I feel my eyes narrow with disdain. My white cotton blouse feels cool against my budding breasts, my thick, dark skirt is revolution short. I am brave, I am unashamed, I have confidence in my youth to help me through this. My fingers play with the edge of my skirt. I feel its thickness and try to work out how many millimeters it might be. My ploy to be elsewhere fails when I hear his voice. I am standing, waiting where I have been set down, where I was led and left. Blackboard in front of me, covered in cursive writing, it is a classroom. I feel a little sick and my heart thuds an ignored SOS call.

I would regret my actions if I could but I can’t say that. I have not the maturity to know my way out of this. I don’t know what I did. I don’t know much about where I am. A schoolgirl, a classroom, a master’s desk to my right, just out of eye line. His voice again, steady, low and deep. My lips push to one side, my eyes look to the floor, then a tap on my shoulder and I am brought to his desk. It is wooden and old, an obsolete place for an inkwell in the corner, as I am bent over the inkwell is just to the side of my left elbow. My skirt is flipped up and my white panties briskly lowered and I know that my lack of modesty means nothing to him. Fellow schoolgirls flicker in and out of existence behind me. I breathe to steady my nerves. He talks to me, metronome calm, authority that stills me. I hear the cane before I see it, I feel it before I react to it. I feel and see the red lines on my pale bottom. My eyes are wide as they stare at the desk. My fingers are splayed as they push down to help me stay still. I can see my written work on his desk, red marks on it, red as the lines behind me.

I am scuttling through a kitchen in Florida, he is right behind me and says, “Get into that bedroom, right now.” His voice is as stern as it gets and a giggle from me almost dies. I can’t fathom that I can’t alter this event. As dreams shift, I am told by him to stand up. My bottom is burning hot, it feels swollen, I want to touch it to gage the heat. I dare not and I stand. I can’t look at him and it takes several moments for him to reposition me. I don’t understand how I am standing now, I just now that I am bent double, I cannot move, I am exposed and he is using his belt with expert practised hand and I am so relieved that he will punish me like this, with such love, such force that even as I cry, I know that I owe him everything.

I am in a corner, my hands behind me. I am half naked, my legs held tight together, my hands clasped behind me. He tells me not to fidget and I stay as still as I can. I hear his voice, the deep voice of the man I love. I know this is a time for me to wait. I settle into myself. I am not being spanked right now and I feel a thrill of temporary victory. But then I hear him continue and I realise he is not talking to me. He is talking to another man. I don’t know who it is. or maybe I do, I can’t tell. But he is telling the other man what I did to get sent to my present ignoble position. My shame sets me on fire and I whimper. Their voices are relaxed, happy to be where they are. I am not even centre stage, just a bit player, beloved of one of them but not what either of them are fully focused on. There is an admonishment every now and then when I move but otherwise they continue with their conversation. I have no choice. I wait.

I lie in his arms and he holds me so tightly that it is almost painful. I move my head up and he kisses me.

I lean back and he pushes one of my legs to the side with a casual palm.

I see his smile as I kiss my way down his chest.

“Look,” he startles me, “Its a firefly.” My eyes strain and then I see it, my first ever and I dash into the darkness and see another and another of the creatures of American childhood dreams.

He laughs at my Boggle word. I toast him with my mojito and he laughs again.

He whispers something in my ear that makes me gasp with longing.

He looks over at my poker hand and nods. I beam with pride.

He holds my hand as he drives. Wide American roads are warm and comforting, light browns, I spot a turtle and laugh. My hand still rests in his. His car is red and the sun is shining.

Eventually, I sleep. I don’t notice it happening but I do.

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Wish Me Luck.- thanks for wishing me luck.

Now I've Done My ABCs ...

Who Wears Short Shorts?

Constriction

Just Between You and Me

By Poppy | 23/01/2010 - 6:37 pm | bottoms, secrets, squirmy 8 Comments

Last week I wrote a post that had a teeny, tiny squirmy bit in it. I get very shy writing such things. It is one of those areas that I be all taken away with the feelings of but I get so shy when I talk about it that I just curl up into a ball.

Anyway, I spoke with Himself about this squirmy bit and he thought I could do better. So here it is. I am now going to hide on a little boat on a big ocean where no one can find me.

Lazy afternoons in bed are the ultimate luxury, like whispered secrets, a delight of privacy and soft darkness, a place to unfold, to roll in the love, to feel, to feel, to feel.

She was kissed and she kissed. Her most relaxed moments, laid back on soft goose down pillows, him propped up on his arm, face over hers, hands toying gently with one another. It was a time to kiss, to laugh softly, to kiss again, and tell half dreamt dreams of childhood recollections, and observations too slight for daylight scrutiny.

Being held so close to him with his lips in hers and hers in his, she started to want more of him. Knowing her as he did he kept still, allowing her to find him in her own time. Her confidence building she smiled at him, her best lascivious smile. It was a request, a silent request that she never managed to form words to describe.

She knew from his smile that she would make him happy and she kissed him the only glad goodbye that she knew. Kissing his lips, his chin.and feeling him settle back, she found her playground. Lips over chest, finding hard stomach, soft hairs and a place to kiss in circles, she celebrated her joy.

His hand settled in her hair, long hair that recorded her journey, reddish blonde against skin, light playing through her.

He could not see her mouth curl in satisfaction as she took him in her hands, and her tongue slipped out and found the tip of him. Smooth as velvet, warm as spring, hard as desire, she traced the outline, remembering its curves and taking them for herself.

She forgot him then, left him somewhere as she enveloped herself in her task. Opening her mouth she took him deep inside, hearing a gasp somewhere she dismissed it and kept him within her warm, demanding mouth for a moment, tongue continuing to search, finding its goal, reluctant to let it go.

But then the moment swelled in her. She released him to trace an invisible line, around and up and down, feeling for twitches of delight, ignoring his desire and focussing solely on her own, she searched on.

Her legs kicked around, facing him completely, her legs stretched out behind her, unaware how they splayed open. She would not have cared had she known.

Her head dove and rose, it circled around him, her fingertips traced his thighs and his stomach. It was a slow, lazy tracing, oblivious to the depth of his breathing, unaware of his movements, rising and dipping along with her own.

Her teeth gently stroked him, a suggestion of pressure that never materialised, to be replaced with a hot mouth that held him tightly between hard cheeks.

Soft lips and curious tonguewere constant partners in her pleasure. This is greed, she thought, I want this, I want all of this. His pleasure turned and twisted his body beneath her but she did not care. Her head dropped again, a student focussed on her work, an artist at her easel; she would not be distracted.

She felt his hand in her hair, down to her neck, and without thought she leant back into it. She could only give herself to him. He brought her back up his body, close to him, and face-to-face they laid. She was bereft.

“Please, don’t,” she whispered into his arm.

Hard muscle pressed against her lips as she traced her tongue over his skin, skin that she adored, skin that was warmth and home. It was skin that she wanted against hers without pause, without a splinter of light between them.

She wanted to kiss his neck, his chest, his stomach, she wanted to rest her head there and take him into her mouth as she had done moments before. Her tongue darted around her mouth, tracing her teeth, the edge of her lips.

“But can’t I …?”

She did not have the words. He knew what she wanted, as he always knew. He had taken her up, guided her head away, ignoring her inarticulate protests.

Her head turned to the side, every part of her alive and alert, the best kind of deprivation, the worst of wanting. He traced her side and her back with his fingers, kissing her and smiling as she wriggled in his arms. She wanted to leave him, wanted to pull away like he had denied her but more than that she wanted to remain in his plan, she wanted to know what was coming to her.

She nibbled the hard muscle of his arm. Incoherent, impatient and heavy with longing, she did not know what he designed but she knew she wanted it.

His hand explored her back, skin soft and pale, untouched by the sun, innocent, a new body, made new each time he found her. Fingers traced curls down her shoulder, back and forth, patterns fitting with his plans. He carried on, reached her bottom and smiled when she flinched. She held her breath and let it out in a rush when his finger inched inside her most private place.

Like a snake she twisted and turned.

“Please don’t,” she whispered, desperate for him to stop, her voice high with despair. “Please,” she begged, trying to escape him.

He answered with a kiss to her neck, and parted her legs with his fingertips, the gentlest touch, and neither of themdoubted or questioned her obedience, obedience that slid out of her like ice off hot rock.

“But this is wrong,” she told him, “This is not what …”

Too ashamed to say more she pushed her face harder against him and gave in to him completely.

There may have been silence then, but she could not hear it. She whimpered and begged inside herself as he continued to enter her, just one finger, so little effort,no force at all. It entered; it left. She tried to pull her legs together but they stayed still, an invitation.

He accepted. Deliberately and slowly he moved around her, strong, hard body covering her soft, pale skin. His knees were between hers when he bent to kiss her neck, a gesture to still her. He knew that her eyes were wide, even though buried in a pillow.

His hands opened her bottom, opening her in a way that elicited an extra squeak, and with great care he pushed himself deep, deep inside her most secret place.

Having him there, so secure, filling her so obscenely, she gave up and she gave in.

Her body spoke a language her words never could.