Tuesday, August 31, 2004

Bad pain week...

Or rather bad couple of pain weeks. Haven't even thought about spanking lately. Yeah, that bad...

But, don't think anyone is reading this blog yet anyway so if I don't post much for a bit, don't think it'll matter.

And if it does...well, email me. :)

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

Story: Patron Saint of Spanking

This story first appeared on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup on August 18, 2002.


The Patron Saint of Spanking

Born in a village in the south of France in 1381, Saint Michelle was the only child of a poor tanner and his wife, who had, up until her birth, been barren. As a child she loved to attend daily Mass and began compulsively reciting the Our Father and Hail Mary at an early age.

However, she also had a penchant for mischief, often teasing others mercilessly as well as playing pranks. One day as she was teasing a boy about his appearance, the Holy Mother appeared to her holding a birch rod and sternly reproached her for being such a wicked child. At the end of the vision, the birch rod lay at Michelle’s feet. She grabbed it, and ran home where she found her father seated on a chair. After handing him the birch rod, she pulled up her skirts, lowered her undergarment, and flung herself across his lap, exclaiming, “Father, you must whip me for being a wicked child.” Her father complied and laid the birch rod upon her vigorously until her bottom was raw. Every night after that, at the conclusion of her evening prayers, she would present the birch rod to her parents and ask to receive a sound thrashing as perpetual penance to maintain her piety.

When her mother died from a fever at age 13, Michelle was sent to the nearby convent of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. She continued her habit of nightly birchings at the hand of the abbess, as well as received additional punishments and penances from her confessor. As time passed, her piety and holiness became well known. In her autobiography, “La Fessee Pour L’ame,” she credited her punishments for purifying her soul and focusing all of her mind and heart on Christ.

The same fever that stole her mother took Michelle five years later. After her death, there were several visions of her. One man with a wife who was often lewd and profane prayed for advice about what to do. Saint Michelle appeared to him in the same way the Holy Mother had appeared to her – holding a birch rod – and instructed him to thrash the girl, who became an example of womanly virtue afterward. Another husband had long desired for his wife to spank him, but she refused. Saint Michelle appeared to the wife, again with her birch rod, and filled her with the desire to love her husband with a sound thrashing. She has also appeared to numerous school children who have sought her assistance in enduring their just punishments.

The Church recognizes the devotion, piety and holiness of this great saint, who has helped many seek lives of greater charity and sanctity even through the embrace of physical chastisement. She is the patron saint of spanking, and her feast day is celebrated on August 18.

copyright 2002 by Natty

Thursday, August 12, 2004

Story: Her Dry Eyes

Another story along the same theme, first posted to soc.sexuality.spanking in July 2002

Her Dry Eyes [M/F – though I suppose it could be F/F too…]

She really is such as child.

Don’t get me wrong, she seems like an adult. Being the teacher she is, she can give an extemporaneous, though thorough and incisive history of the Arab-Israeli conflict, a critique of nationalism in light of postmodernism, or a trenchant theological treatise on the importance of unity within the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. She can discuss music from Beethoven to Yo-Yo Ma, Miles Davis to John Lee Hooker, the Chieftains to ‘Amr Diab. And she cooks like a European grandmother ("no, the produce must be fresh – from the garden, or at least the farmer’s market").

But as a graduate student, she excels at tardiness, procrastination, and work that, while fine, is far below her potential. Her stereo will, as often as not, be playing one of those hideous rock bands like Green Day or the Beastie Boys or even, God helps us, the South Park soundtrack. And it’s not unheard of for me to find out she’s had ice cream for breakfast.

She’s not naughty…just…willful. Rambunctious. Bratty. She knows all the right buttons to push – and jams them often. Though I remind her that there are certain physical limitations in this world – time and gravity being but a few – she seems oblivious. An attitude she never grew out of – she still brags about how, when she broke her ankle at age ten, she continued playing kickball in her walking cast.

And now that she’s sick, it’s all I can do to get her to settle down long enough to rest. To pay attention to her symptoms. To take her medicine regularly. To do the exercises the doctor gave her to do. “But, they’re not fun like hiking, or swimming. I don’t feel anything when I do them.” So, I gave her something to feel.

Yes, I spanked her. Long and hard. With a wooden hairbrush, her baby fine hair mingling with the boar bristles. I laid her over my lap. Made her suffer the indignity of my pulling her panties down around her knees. And through it all she whimpered. Curled her toes. Squirmed. Put her face in her hands and sobbed. Or seemed to. When I let her up, her eyes were dry.

She’s laying on her bed now. Her tummy on the quilt. I sense her sadness. Her contrition. Her scalding discomfort. Her ache to cry and let all those feelings out. But that grown up – that sophisticated adult who shut out the little girl long ago – won’t let her. I wish I had seen her when she was that ten-year-old playing kickball, before a hard life came and dammed her tears.

But I know someday it will happen. She will be lying over my lap, panties bunched up around her knees. And I will be using the hairbrush on that tender spot where the buttocks and the thighs become ambiguous. And a salty glaze will come over her earth green eyes. And then tears will finally accompany those vocal sobs.

Story: "To the Pain"

First posted to the soc.sexuality.spanking Usenet group December 2002.

"...TO THE PAIN" [M/F]

“Tonight you’re going to cry,” Adrian said as he turned off Westley and Princess Buttercup riding off into the sunset.

“You know I never cry when you spank me,” Melinda replied.

“But you will tonight.” Adrian grinned, nodded, and walked into the bedroom.

“Oh really?” Melinda got up off the couch and followed her beloved.

“Yep.” Adrian squatted down alongside the bed and pulled the storage box out from behind the eyelet dust ruffle. “Because tonight I'm going to make you go 'to the pain.' You’re not going to just push it away like you always do.”

Melinda looked up at him with a gaze he had only seen a few times before. Afraid. Sad. Angry. Vulnerable. Then looked at him with a smirk. And a giggle.

“Your arm will get tired first,” she teased.

“Probably. Then I’ll just make you stand in the corner while it rests.” It was Adrian's turn to smirk. Melinda huffed.

“But I hate the corner. And it’s not like I did anything wrong…”

“Take off your pj bottoms and panties.” Adrian nudged her with his shoulder. Melinda pouted, then sighed and began disrobing. As she tugged down plaid flannel and white cotton, he could see the concentration in her eyes. The deep, centered breathing. He reached out and smacked her left cheek with the hairbrush. She jumped and reached behind her.

“Ow! Wait! What – “

“I know what you’re doing – stop it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re preparing. Getting your mind ready to dissociate the pain. I don’t want you to. I mean it that I really want you to feel it.” He stared back at her as she scowled. And gaped. Eyes glazed in disorientation.

Clutching her left arm, Adrian led her body over his lap. Then slapped Melinda's fleshy buttocks repeatedly. Hard. In rapid, concentrated clips for several minutes. She gripped the quilts. Pulled herself onto her elbows, moving her bottom forward. And yelped.

“I know that you don’t cry when I spank you," Adrian began, "because you push the pain away to a place inside where you can’t feel it anymore.” His smacks lagged but remained heavy as he spoke. “And it’s worked to get you through some very tough times. But it’s still there inside. Keeping you from healing. Hurting you much more than this is.” The hairbrush returned to the faster pace. “Let it out…Feel it and let it out.”

She curled her toes. Shifted her weight from one hip to the other. Grunted. Dropped her forehead onto her arms.

Oh god this hurts…He’s going to stop soon. He will…Damnit this stings...Just gotta hang in there a little bit more. It’ll stop in a minute…But it burns. I can’t take it…Yes I can…But he’s not stopping. This just hurts too much…If I can just breathe…Concentrate…

“I want you to focus on how much it hurts. Tell me what it feels like…” He continued the sharp spanks then increased the force when she remained silent. “Talk to me – what’s it feel like?” Melinda squealed.

“It…it hurts.” Then several “ows” and “ohhhwees.”

“Okay, what else.” Still slapping the hairbrush down on her jiggling, scorched buttocks and thighs. “How does it hurt?

“Burning…It…it burns. And stings.” Melinda whimpered and squirmed. Adrian steadied her with his left hand on her back. Delivered a biting slap on the right thigh as her legs jerked upward.

“And…?” Several more smacks on the thighs.

“Ahhh…I…ow…I…don’t know…I can’t…ohhwee…” She was making the sounds of someone crying, but without the tears. And it would be awhile yet before they would come.

Melinda was right. His arm was worn out.

“I want you to go stand in the corner for awhile and think. Think about how much your bottom hurts and how much it’s still going to hurt.” She crawled off his lap and straggled to the corner.

Adrian left her there while he went into the kitchen. Humiliation was not his intent. No, he really wanted to leave her alone with herself. To face what was inside.

The paint blots on the wall began to take on individuality as Melinda stared at them. She hated the corner because it was boring. And then because it made her have to look at herself. Like a surreal sort of mirror. But unlike the warped mirrors in a fun house, this mirror reflected back a small child. The little her. The frightened her. The her without any answers. The her she locked away behind maturity, intelligence and toughness needed to survive a hard life. The her she shielded from all pain. Wherever it came from. She shivered as the cold air wafted around her naked bottom half.

“Come here.” Melinda turned to see Adrian back on the bed, switch in hand. Her stomach dropped. He patted the bed and she bent over. And with as much vigor as before he laid the switch on her cold, scalded bottom. She cried out – but no tears. Yet.

“Let her come out,” he whispered. “Go back to that little girl before she had to become tough and grown up. Back when she could still feel pain.” The switch thwacked across her cheeks. “Back before you built up all those walls. Before you put on all that armor.” Then down across her thighs. “Before all the injuries and illness. All the loss and heartache…”

That small feeling from the corner came back. The little girl who felt lost and scared and lonely and sad. And hurt. Unbearably hurt. Who couldn’t find anything to grab onto in her grown up mind to get her through the pain that burned her skin and throughout her soul…

Oh god…he’s not stopping…it hurts so much…so much…all of it…oh god…I just want it to stop…I just can’t…

“It’s okay. You don’t have to be tough anymore. You’re hurting. You’ve been hurting for a very long time.” Again the switch sliced across her cheeks. “But it’s okay to cry. To feel it.” It seared along the thighs once more. “It’s real pain that would be too much for anyone to bear.” The switch bit a few more times. “Let her cry…”

They started in that spot where the stomach and the chest meet. Yes, the tears came from Melinda's eyes, but they started down there. The sobs rippled through her shoulders. Filled her chest, her stomach, her back.

Adrian dropped the switch onto the floor. Climbed onto the bed and pulled Melinda next to him. Held her in his arms as she lay there on the bed – the little girl/woman – crying.

Copyright 2002 Natty

My First BDSM event

So, I went to my first BDSM event this last Sunday. The Portland Leather Alliance had an event called Leather Tastings where participants could sample different BDSM activities. While I didn't find many of the other activities quite my kink, I did sample a little bit at the Spanking and Caning station. :)

Okay, I got thrashed. The good Christian girl in me felt a bit shy about baring my bottom in public, so I only took down my trousers before bending over the stool. But, as rattan canes are best felt on the bare skin, R, the one manning the station and the implements, scrunched my cotton panties in between my cheeks before giving me several strokes of varying force. Then he gave me a couple of strokes with a nasty implement called a sjambok. Ouch! And to finish me off, he used a very old razor strop on my already smarting backside. It apparently has been handed down and used on bottoms for a few generations. After getting a good ten or so hard whacks, I can see why it has terrorized many a child. My backside is still marked and bruised as I type this. Though I've been sorta buzzed and giddy since. I so wanna do that again. ;) When I told my boyfriend (who lives far far away in the Land of Spanking [aka England]) about the sjambok, he was like "I gotta get me one of those." What a sadist... ;)

It's funny because R asked me if I topped. I have a few times but never really get into it much. He told me it might help me understand a bit what it's like to be on the other end. Apparently my stoicism kind of made him uncomfortable as he didn't know if he was hitting too hard or not.

I have a hard time verbalizing when I'm physically in pain. After having Fibromyalgia and a myriad of other painful health problems since breaking my ankle when I was 10, I've become used to being stoic. Nobody likes a complainer.

I think that's something spanking has been slowly helping me with. Every now and then I manage to make a bit of noise. My boyfriend has even made me cry a couple of times -- and that's no mean feat! ;) But, I think R might have a point. Maybe verbalizing my pain would make spanking more of the release it should be.

Wednesday, August 11, 2004

My Natty Moods

Here's a follow up to the last post from about a year ago.

My Natty Moods

I’ve worn my hair in pigtails the last few days. A sort of tangible reminder that Natty is still around. I get in these moods. My Natty moods. When I feel small but rambunctious.

Actually, she used to be Allie. The character I created and wrote about all the way up through high school. But Allie is her own person now. A real fictional person who I do not wish to encumber with my emotional baggage. So in the story I wrote a few years ago about my relationship with her, I changed her name to Natty. I always liked that name better anyway.

As I woke up this morning, she grabbed hold of me. I have often tried to ignore her but I knew my therapist would tell me to listen to her. Would ask what she’s like. However, since my therapist is not around anymore, I asked the question myself. And listened. And as Natty talked, I realized she sounded just like the memoir piece I started writing a couple of years ago in the voice of my ten-year-old self.

It made me cry. I never meant for her to get locked away and ignored. First physically when I broke my ankle and it didn’t heal properly, leaving me unable to play kickball or ride my bike anymore. Then emotionally when I started raising my baby sister, and then my baby brother. And especially after my stepfather tried to crush her. She wasn’t safe in my world anymore.

I’m not sure what made her come out so forcefully this week. Perhaps it’s because I was such a good grown up the week before when I finished my review of post-Zionism, and filled out all those forms for school and Social Security, and agonized over my application essay for the editorial fellowship. Maybe it’s because I’ve felt stronger and healthier this week than I have in a good year or so, suggesting to her that just possibly the body she used to inhabit will let her in again.

During these Natty moods, I have this intense craving for structure and discipline. For a good, long, hard spanking. Not that I’ve necessarily done anything bad, though I find myself feeling much more guilty about petty failures than I normally would. But somehow the spanking would be a palpable reminder that in many ways I am a little girl. I have permission to be Natty once again.

That permission came in the oddest sort of way this week. I finally made it to confession. The Roman parish I’ve been attending because I can’t drive out to my Byzantine parish only has confession once a month or by appointment. And I’ve been hesitant to go because I’ve never been to confession with a Roman priest. But I found out that Father P does the Spanish Mass out here once a month, and as he’s bi-ritual, as well as the one who heard my first confession three years ago when I converted, it made sense to go to him. As I began my confession with him on Saturday, I realized I’d forgotten how human he was. He talked to me about his own health problems. Almost seemed to justify whatever sin I confessed. Then I confessed the one I was the most nervous about.

“I’ve had impure thoughts. Read impure things. And…and…something I’ve never done in my life before…I’ve masturbated.”

He nodded and sighed and looked sort of flustered. “Well…okay…see…alright…” He started in his rapid voice. “I understand why the Church was so big on procreation in the Middle Ages when people only lived until 30 or something. And of course, the more grievous sin is if it’s with someone else. But there’s a lot of disagreement about whether it’s a sin at all…Some priests will laugh at you if you confess it. Some, of course, get really concerned. I just figure if people want to confess it then I let them – I mean the whole point of the sacrament of reconciliation is so you don’t have to feel guilty anymore…”

“Well, it’s just that…” I stammered with an equally flustered voice. “I’ve never done this before and it just seems like it was wrong or something.”

“If it feels good it must be wrong?” He chuckled. I blushed and giggled a little.

“Well, yeah sorta…And it does feel good. I mean, I feel so healthy afterwards.” Wow. This certainly was not how I expected this conversation to go. He smiled, then sighed.

“It’s…it’s up to you if you want to confess it. Let’s just say…” He paused, still looking for the right words. “It’s just…it’s just…not uncommon.” He nodded and returned to the order of confession. As he gave me my penance he stressed that it was not punishment but for healing, a very Byzantine-Orthodox view with which I was familiar. As an optional penance, he wanted me to look up verses about forgiveness in the Bible. I immediately thought of one from Psalm 103: “As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions. As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear Him; for He knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are but dust.”

I thought of one of my earliest confessions with Father S, my parish priest. He admonished me “you’re going to make mistakes. It’s okay. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” For the last few years it seems like this has been a theme God has been emphasizing to me. That He knows I’m not perfect. Just as parents allow their kids to make mistakes – to be kids – God was allowing me, encouraging me, to be myself, to be free, to be the kid I in many ways still am. As I walked home from church, Natty soared.

But right now the adult Michelle must get ready to go for her interview with the Pacific Historical Review about that editorial fellowship. Prepare to discuss style sheets and research about the appropriation of the construct of the American West in the Palestine-Israel conflict. Yet I know that Natty won’t be too far away. That all of this started when I was a kid and devoured the Little House on the Prairie books and became a walking encyclopedia of Laura Ingalls Wilder and pioneer trivia. Then read the Black Stallion Returns set in Arabia and became enchanted with Arab culture. And when I get home, I’ll change from my sensible skirt and shoes into my flannel jammies. Take down my hair and brush it back into pigtails. And savor that delicious tension between my Natty mood and my grown-up self.

Time to Play: A Spanking Memoir

This is a bit dated as I wrote it about two and half years ago, but it's a good introduction to my spanking kink.

Note, it's also a bit long...

Time to Play: A Spanking Memoir

It started with Ping. The story about the little duckling who lived on a little boat in China with his zillions of aunts, uncles and cousins. Everyday the ducks would venture off from the boat in search of food and then at night the boatman would call them home. The last duck to straggle in got a spank on his back. Ping’s adventures came when he realized one night he will be the last one to return. To avoid the inevitable spank, he remained on land that night. Ultimately land life proved more frightening than the spank so Ping returned to the boat, rushing in at the last minute, took his spank, and then basked in the domestic bliss and comfort of his vast family. The Story About Ping was the first book I ever checked out of the library. And it was the first time I ever read about a spanking and felt some inexplicable appeal.

As I am being trained as an historian, I know that such cultural changes do not occur in a vacuum. Prior to Ping, my feelings about spanking had no positive aspect. I certainly disliked getting one from my mom. When we visited my grandpa, he thought it was funny to play spank us, something I simply found annoying.

First grade was the last time my mother ever spanked me. Actually, it was the second day of first grade to be precise. My single-parent mother entrusted me with a key to our apartment so that I could let myself in after school, thus promoting me to the ever-growing ranks of latchkey kids filling my generation. “Now DON’T lose this key,” my mother admonished me after taking pictures before I left for my first day of school. “If you do, I’m going to spank you.” I accepted the key, acknowledged the penalty of its abandonment and then promptly lost it the next day.

I was apparently not devious enough to figure out a way to simply break into our apartment. Rather, I joined my sister and brother at the babysitter’s until my mom arrived. We were going straight to my grandmother’s house from there and when we arrived, my mom hauled me into the bathroom and whacked me several times on my bottom. When she finished, I looked up to her and asked calmly, “okay, can I go play now?” She never spanked me after that.

I went to a private evangelical Christian school for first grade. These were fundamentalists who took the Bible literally, including passages that admonished liberal use of the rod. Even though I was fascinated with the idea of being spanked, I was one of only two students in my class who never experienced a swat on the backside from Mrs. Leiser. I was quite smug about my uniqueness in this area that was shared only with the love of my life: Jeff Bartell. He and I were models, and I relished this role.

However, my need to be teacher’s pet didn’t stop me from incorporating my spanking curiosity into recess. My classmates and I created a game that I vaguely recall went something like us girls would do something to the boys (to be honest, I cannot remember exactly what) and then we would run. If one of the boys caught one of us, he would take us to a makeshift prison (the stairs of the stage if it was raining and we were in the multipurpose room, or the jungle gym if we were outside) and threaten or give a certain number of whacks (usually 5 or so). I wonder if any of my classmates grew up and turned this idea into an S&M website. . .

A lot of my desire for a spanking had to do with what I’ve always called the Dad Thing. Every since my mom left my legal father when I was four, I wanted a daddy. A lot of it had to do with the fact I was quite the tomboy and missed a masculine influence. But, I also just missed having a parent. Yes, I had my mom, but she was an older, more experienced friend rather than a parent. She always treated me like adult, even if I was woefully inadequate as one. When I acted like a child she got a highly disdainful tone in her voice. “Michelle -- GROW UP!” And usually I did. But once when I was bouncing around impishly she spat out, “you know, if you had a father, he’d make you behave!” I was a bit puzzled as I didn’t realize I was misbehaving. At the same time, I so wanted a father to make me behave.

However, I got a stepfather who did more than make me behave; he broke my spirit. Any misdeed, no matter how trivial, could result in a ferocious spanking. On a Sunday not long after he and my mom married, I remember watching a children’s show and then going down to the basement to play. A few minutes later my stepfather came down and towered in front of me, his eyes wild with rage. “Did you leave the T.V on?” he barked. I had but it was because I thought my brother was still watching it. Before I could verbalize this, he grabbed me and flailed my backside with a force I didn’t know was possible.

It was just a spanking. Just his hand. But it was different than anything my mom had done. Or Mrs. Leiser. Or what I imagined a father wanting to help me behave better would do. It was unfettered rage. Wild and pointless. And that’s the way it always was with him. You never knew what would set him off. A voice raised one or two decibels. Papers left next to a broken baseboard heater. He took my spirit and broke it like a china plate on the hard floor.

But, spanking still captivated me nonetheless. My friend Rachelle and I would play tic-tac-toe and then whoever lost would get paddled with a ping-pong paddle. When my pastor mentioned spanking his kids, I would imagine being one of his children disciplined for playing where I wasn’t suppose to. Then there was my pioneer phase: I would imagine I was Laura Ingalls or some mischievous kid coming over the Oregon Trail who had earned a whipping with a switch or her pa’s belt.

Throughout elementary school and junior high, I searched out books with stories that included spanking – or at least would have a high probability of a spanking occurring. And then, of course, read those scenes over and over. Laura’s spanking in Little House in the Big Woods. Miz Crocker’s “whipping chair” from Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry. Tom getting paddled by Mr. Standish in The Great Brain. Papa accidentally spanking Henny’s friend instead of her in More All-of-a-Kind-Family. And, of course, Tom taking Becky’s whipping in Tom Sawyer.

I also began to create my own stories. They were not really spanking stories for the spanking was only part of the larger plot rather than the main event. These narratives usually took place in the past, reflecting my growing affection for history. A rebellious brother and sister who decide to fight with the Sons of Liberty during the American Revolution (influenced, of course, by Johnny Tremain). Or a sacrificing daughter who saves her medieval family from economic ruin by working as whipping girl (hey, if Prince Edward could have a whipping boy in the Prince and the Pauper, why couldn’t a princess have a whipping girl?).

And then there was Allie. Her full name was Alexandra Mary Toggins and she lived in Oregon in 1897 with her Papa. I created her at the end of seventh grade and wrote about her all the way up through my freshman year of college. Again, the stories had complex plots in which spanking was sometimes apart, but Allie’s good-natured mischievousness, often with the participation of her best friend Jason, landed her in trouble on a number of occasions.

Her shining moment of naughtiness came the second day of fifth grade. Allie and the teacher of the town school, Mr. Clayson, shared a mutual dislike for each other and on the first day of school he accused Allie of posting a picture of a jackass on the chalkboard labeled with his name. His was oblivious to her adamant denial and when she refused to comply with his request to step to the front of the room, he stormed down the aisle to her desk, grabbed her by the ear, marched her up to a chair where he laid her over his knee, paddled her and sent her to the corner for the rest of the afternoon.

The extended time in the corner simply gave Allie time to plot her revenge. The next day during the lunch break, she sabotaged the classroom. Cooking lard on the floor around Mr. Clayson’s desk. Paste in the chalk tray. Spilled ink on his grade book. A picture posted on the chalkboard of a monkey labeled with his name on it. Upon returning from lunch and finding the school in such disarray, Mr. Clayson expelled her and sent her home, a punishment Allie had not expected.

Distraught, Allie straggled home, where to her surprise, she met Papa, who had stopped by the house to pick up something before returning to the bank, which he ran in the small town. Likewise surprised to see his daughter home so early from school, Papa felt her forehead and asked if she came home early because she was ill. She really did feel ill and so simply nodded. Of course, by the time Papa got home that night, he had found out the truth. Horrified by her actions at school, and dejected by her lie, he sent her to her room after dinner to get ready for bed while he went to cut a switch. After laying the switch long and hard on her bottom as she lay bent over the end of her bed, he held her as she sobbed and whispered, “O my sweet girl, don’t make me ever have to do that again…”

In real life, I was nothing like Allie. I was meek and passive at home because of my intimidating stepfather, and at church because I wanted God and other Christians to like me. I was the mother for my sister and brother when my mother started beauty school my freshman year of high school and then divorced my stepfather, thereby starting her second adolescence. I broke my ankle when I was ten and because it never healed properly, I experienced a multitude of injuries and eventual arthritis. Allie was the way the emotional me survived – though that emotional part never grew past ten-years-old without a parent of my own. And I so wanted someone to raise me. To help me grow up. To know I really was only ten years old, even if I acted thirty for everyone else.

I dreamed of finishing a book about Allie and getting it published. The editor of the book would adopt me and set strict boundaries to help me reach the potential at which teachers said I never worked. Throughout college and at the beginning of graduate school as I focused on the Arab World, an area I had been interested in since elementary school, I imagined an Arab couple adopting me. They would compel me to learn the study habits I should have learned long before, as well as practice my Arabic. I held out hope that some day I would find the childhood I lived only in my imagination. That I would find someone to raise the emotional me and help it catch up to the level of development as the rest of me.

My second year of grad school I had surgery on the ankle I broke when I was ten, as well as on the knee above it now malformed after years of walking on a weak ankle. It was successful for the ankle but a disaster for the rest of my body as I had complications that included blood clots in my legs and lungs and hemorrhaging in my knee from the blood thinners used to treat the blood clots. After a year and a half, I was still fairly disabled and ached for my childhood even more. I also could not stop thinking about spanking. And so, despite the mounting imcompletes screaming for my attention, I decided to explore the subject on the Internet.

I was bewitched. Like most spankos, I was astounded to find I was not the only freak in the world. Indeed, there was a whole spanking culture out there. There were stories where spankings were narrated with intimate detail. There were live chat rooms where I could actually talk to people about it. There was an avenue by which I could move out of the isolation of my inner world.

After weeks of lurking throughout the Internet world of spanking, I mustered the courage to actually post on a spanking club for my city on Yahoo. “Chubby little girl needs a daddy…” I thought I was crazy. That I was courting unmistakable danger. But I also glowed with a giddy eagerness.

The first of two responses came from a contractor in his mid-forties. We corresponded by email, then began talking on Yahoo Instant Messenger, then the phone, and then met in person. He reminded me a lot of my biological father – intelligent, liked to work with his hands, and talked about the golden days of the seventies. I reminded him of the little girl he once dreamed he would have years before. “My long lost daughter…” he called me. I have a biological father, a legal father, and a stepfather, but he is Dad. Someone to be proud of me, to spend his birthday with me in the emergency room, to attend my chrismation, to threaten any guy I date with imminent death if they hurt me and me with punishment if I stay out too late. Though, I must stress the word threaten as the closest my dad has ever come to disciplining me was a lecture about speeding. “I needed a family, and you needed a dad,” he always tells me. And with a smile I think, yep, totally.

I also discovered the world of age-play. In an age-play chat room I could climb trees, jump out of swings, run after other kids, and do cartwheels – activities difficult to do with the cane I was still using at the time. After a while, a group of us created a sort of cyber family. It was like playing “House.” Except within a week or so it had degenerated into a sort of bizarre soap opera, which I came to realize was quite common within the chat server genre of the spanking community and subsequently decided that occasional visits to age-play rooms would be sufficient for me. My own dysfunctional family is quite enough, thank you.

A couple of months later I began to talk with the second response to my post. We also talked via Yahoo Messenger and created various spanking scenarios together. We lived in the same city and one night as we were talking through a scenario, we just had to meet. “I can be there in an hour,” he said in response to my question. Throughout that hour we each wondered what the hell we were doing meeting a total stranger from the Internet like this. When he arrived and I opened the door, it was just right. After fifteen minutes of small talk, he looked sheepishly at me and said, “I, uh, REALLY want to spank you…” I laughed my high, full laugh, and then, without a thought, we both assumed our role-play.

It was my first real life spanking as an adult – well, as a physical adult. A few days later I received my first kiss. Boys and sexuality were, and still are, an area where I’ve stayed very much a child. I’m not completely sure why that has been so. Partly because I was too busy raising my sister and brother as a teenager. Partly because I was too focused on academia and Church throughout college. And I suppose that in my mind I’ve just been 10-years-old and didn’t feel old enough to date.

That first kiss led to a little tongue. Eventually I learned the pleasure of having someone kiss my neck and play with my breasts. And of course, spank my jiggly behind. For the first time I was with someone with whom I could be both an adult and a child. Who I could play “Little House on the Prairie” with and make out with on the couch. We never actually had sex as I have the old-fashioned desire to wait until marriage that, as much as he respected, I know was difficult for him, as it was for me at times. Eventually he fell in love with a barista from Starbucks and I struggled along with that old Shakespeare admonition “better to have loved and lost…”

Despite an understanding for the erotic nature of spanking, sex and spanking remain separate for me. Spanking does not make me think about sex, though because I began to explore my sexuality at the same time as my interest in spanking, I have a hard time thinking about sex without spanking.

For me, spanking has always been about childhood. About play. About the world of pretend. About a desire for the care and comfort of structure and boundaries. About submitting to that structure, but certainly not being dominated. On one of my favorite websites about spanking, Pablo and Mija’s Treehouse, Mija explains in one of their chats that, “Basically at the core I'm a kid. Not a brat, not even very naughty, but a kid and feel most happy and comfortable when I'm being cared for.” Me too.

A year and a half ago, after those initial few weeks of age-play, I dug up the abandoned file folder holding the novel about Allie that had wilted in a plastic crate for eight years. And I realized how much I needed her back. Her emotional energy. Her willfulness. Her playfulness. Her immature selfishness. I need her to feel the feelings my intellect has long ago explained away. To temper my endless caregiving with the demands of my own needs. To stamp her foot and say, “it’s time to play.”

Tuesday, August 10, 2004

Beginning my spanking blog

The first post feels so intimidating. Say something profound... Something witty...Something upon which I can build the blog...


So, I'm starting a blog about spanking as it's something I think a lot about and find I want to write more about. I also want to post spanking stories and essays I've written here, though they are also all available on Google through a search of the soc.sexuality.spanking Usenet group. Though it may take me awhile to figure out how to do that. :)