Sunday, February 27, 2005

More Auntie Natty tales

My five-year-old nephew stayed over last night.

I'd either forgotten about stuff from my boyfriend's earlier stay or figured it was out of the way enough that it wouldn't matter.

Well, both my memory and my judgment were a bit lacking.

My nephew had just been to a birthday party before and had a bag of goodies. Lots of small toys and candy. Like a bouncy ball. And little dinosaurs. And Sweetharts candies.

Which, of course, fell under the bed on several occasions (I live in a studio apartment) causing him to fish around looking for them.

And what should his pudgy little hands grab hold of under the bed?

Why, a line of wrapped condoms, a riding crop, and the bath brush.

"What are these 'Chell?" he asked, holding up the condoms. I thought for a second to think of something to say that would not make him even more curious.

"Um...they' a kind of medicine."

He promptly threw those back under the bed.

He didn't ask about the riding crop, but clearly didn't understand its intended use as he kept using it to poke me. Though frankly, most of the time I wish that was all my boyfriend used it for... ;)

Then he pulled out the bath brush.

He knew EXACTLY what that was for.

"Hey! You getting a spankin' 'Chell. Stand up." And no, while I was a bit embarrassed, I did not let my nephew spank me. Just gave him a rather annoyed look. So then he tried to tickle me with the bristles.

"Yep," my boyfriend said when I told him about it on the phone this afternoon. "That's what happens to boys with too many sisters (my nephew has four - two older and twins 15 months younger; my boyfriend has five -- all older). They end up being tops so that they can finally beat on someone."

Saturday, February 26, 2005

Story: Why Tommy Lee Jones Spanked Natty [M/F]

And this, my gentle readers, is the fruit of spanko daydreams.

And to you my dear, Mija, I dedicate this most mediocre spanking story. ;) (I promise that someday I'll write a much better one to dedicate to you lol)


Story: Why Tommy Lee Jones Spanked Natty [M/F -- like you couldn't have guessed]

One night Natty and her Uncle Tommy cuddled on the couch watching "Law and Order." It's a sad show (and sometimes scary), so it's important to watch while cuddling.

As they watched, there were the usual commercial breaks to woo them with Toyotas, Whoppers, and Carnival Cruises. Then a commercial for Uncle Tommy's new movie, "Man of the House."

"Oh, oh your new movie is out! I can't wait to see it."

"Nope. You're not watching that. Not a good movie for my Natty to watch."

"But why not? It's only rated PG-13."

"Baby, it's not the rating that's the problem. It's that it's a stupid movie and you're too smart to see it."

Natty laughed.

"Oh that's just silly, Uncle Tommy. How can you be too smart for a movie?"

"Easy. Most movies are crap."

"But you're in it."

"Yep. That's cause your Uncle Tommy has to do stupid movies sometimes so we can have this nice house. And a big tv to watch "Law and Order" on. And your pony, Snickers."

Natty smiled when she thought of her pony. Then pouted.

"But I want to see it, Uncle Tommy. It looks funny...sorta.. I mean, Cedric the Entertainer is funny...sometimes."

"Nope. You're not to see it and that is final, young lady."


The next day, Natty's friend Anna-Maria called.

"Hey, let's go see your uncle's new movie."

"I can't. He told me I couldn't watch it."

"What? Why wouldn't he want you to see his movie?"

"He says it's too stupid. That I'm too smart for it."

"But that's ridiculous. I mean, most movies are stupid. That's the point. What does he expect? That you're going to 'expand your mind' all the time?"

"I dunno," Natty shrugged. Rolled her eyes.

"Well, if we go to the mall and then see it there, how will he know?"

"Hmm...that's true. Yeah, we could see it there."

It was settled. They would meet at the mall in an hour.

Except that Uncle Tommy was passing Natty's room while she talked with Anna-Maria.

"Miss Natty, did I just overhear you planning to disobey me and go see that ridiculous movie?"

"Umm..." Natty thought for a moment.

Should she lie? Could she make up a story fast enough?

She nodded slowly. She was a horrible liar and not a very fast thinker.

"Well, young lady, you just got yourself grounded. You can just stay here in your room for the rest of the night."


Natty couldn't bear the thought of calling Anna-Maria to tell her she was grounded. It was so embarrassing.

Maybe if she just turned her stereo on so that Uncle Tommy would think she was there... And snuck out the window...The movie was less than two hours. She would be back before he came to tuck her in.

Uncle Tommy was right about the movie. As she sat there with Anna-Maria, they could almost finish every line. And they groaned at all the silly cliches and bad jokes. And hardly laughed at all. And even felt a little embarrassed for Uncle Tommy.

And the popcorn didn't even taste that good.

And the Milk Duds sat like rocks in Natty's stomach because she worried the whole time about getting caught.

Which she did.

Just like a bad movie plot.

"Young lady, just where have you been?" Uncle Tommy stood beside Natty's big canopy bed with his hands on his hips as Natty lifted herself up to her window and straddled the window sill.

She gasped. Gulped. Bit her lip. Brought her other leg over the sill and stood upright in her bedroom.

"To the movies," she mumbled.

Now it was Uncle Tommy's turn to hmph.

"I'm very disappointed in you," he said as he paced the carpet. "I thought you had better taste than that. That you were smarter than everyone else who pays $10 to see such drivel. Had more sense than to waste two hours of your life with something so utterly banal."

Natty stared at the carpet. Teared up. Sniffled a little. Felt a guilty, sad tingle all over.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Tommy. You were right about the movie. I wish I'd never seen it. Never snuck out. Never disobeyed you and disappointed you." With that Natty began to cry.

Uncle Tommy sighed. Walked over to his niece and put his arms around her.

"I know you're sorry, Baby." He kissed the top of her head. "I try very hard to protect you from all the mindless mediocrity out there. That's my job. And to make sure you understand that, I'm going to have to give you a good, hard spanking."

The mere thought of which made Natty cry even harder.

Especially once she was across his lap with her jeans and panties down around her knees. And the old, thick, cherrywood hairbrush was smacking her backside.

And she cried really really hard when after that he made her bend over the bed while he spanked her with his belt for sneaking out.

But after the spanking was all over, and Uncle Tommy cuddled Natty, and she had gotten ready for bed, they decided to watch "The Fugitive."

At least in that movie, Natty didn't have to feel so embarrassed for her Uncle Tommy.

Copyright 2005 Natty

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

How spanko daydreams start

So, I've been seeing these commercials for the upcoming movie "Man of the House." It looks like an absolutely abysmal movie about five cheerleaders who witness a murder and are then guarded by Tommy Lee Jones in some sort of witness protection program. I still haven't figured out what Cedric the Entertainer's role in the movie is.

Yet, every time I see the commercial for it, I feel strangely attracted to it.

Well, you know, I'm practicing mindfulness these days and so I sat for a moment with my feelings about this movie. I'm repelled by what looks like bad acting, bad writing, bad plot, bad etc. But Tommy Lee Jones. Stern. No-nonsense. Protective.

Mmmm yeah. That's it.

I could certainly imagine being put under his protection.

And then when I, say, snuck out to go watch some B movie, he'd give me a stern, no-nonsense lecture about how it's his job to protect me and in order to ensure that I understood this he was giving me a good, hard spanking...with my hairbrush...or maybe his belt. He does have on that cowboy outfit in the commercial...

Friday, February 18, 2005

That's alotta paddles at work...

Interesting statistic from Tom Heymann's book On An Average Day (New York: Fawcett Columbine, 1989):

"5556 schoolchildren are spanked in schools on an average school day."

Now, granted, that was fifteen years ago and a number of states have outlawed spanking in schools (in fact, I think Oregon outlawed corporal punishment the very year this book was published), but, wow.

A friend of mine worked as a librarian in Oklahoma about three years ago and while leaving after doing a talk in a high school, witnessed two girls being paddled in the hallway. He overheard the teacher say that if they got in trouble again, they would be sent to the office. When he inquired from a co-worker what that meant, his co-worker said that the girls would be paddled "on the bare."


I only thought that happened in ShadowLane videos or at Spankedschoolgirl or whatever.

But what I want to know is how many adults get paddled on an average day. Or caned. Or tawsed. Or flogged. Or...well, whatever's a bit more consensual.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Blogging can be uncomfortable

I've had a rather uncomfortable blogging day today.

I was looking through my visitor info at StatCounter today and noticed that there were several visitors who came from a certain blog I've never seen before. So, being the curious individual that I am, I clicked on the link to that blog and discovered that her post for today was about my blog. Apparently, she discovered it randomly (the "next blog" feature on Blogger? "Randomly"?) and found it to be "the strangest damn thing." She actually went through the archives and found the picture of me with my spanked (yes, really Mija and Sugarpie!) behind at the Grand Canyon, then linked it in her post. There were several comments, most of which were about my derrierre and were not particularly kind.

She was making fun of me.

My first reaction was to feel ashamed. Both of my kink and my ass. Though, more about my ass. Then a bit angry and defensive. Especially when she felt it important to say she thought I was of Middle Eastern decent (I'm not, though my research field deals with the Middle East and my Arab friends tease me that I might as well be Arab, something I would not at all be ashamed to be counted as). And I may be fat, but my blood pressure, my lipids, and my blood sugar are all at normal, healthy levels reflecting the fact that I eat properly. Then the teacher part of me came out and wanted to post something about the fact that she is indeed sheltered if she doesn't know anything about spanking fetishes as it's something well known in the national popular culture, seen on shows from "Sex and the City" to "Friends." Then I thought of making a kind comment on her blog. Express empathy with her having a boyfriend in Iraq as I have a brother-in-law in Iraq and it's scary as hell. That I know how hard it is to have a boyfriend far, far away. That I'm glad she works at a wildlife refuge as protecting habitat as well as the planet is important to me.

Then I decided fuck it. Why the hell should I care what a self-described "freak" who lives 2500 miles away and brags about her fluent use of the word "fuck" thinks about me and/or my ass?

As my Pop, who served as a Navy cook in an aircraft carrier in the South Pacific during WWII told me, "you be your own person." This blog is part of being my own person. One who likes to be spanked for whatever strange, sick reason.

But it came on an interesting day for me as earlier I also happened to click on another link I hadn't seen before in an email this morning: Women's Global Connection. It looked really cool so I registered and began perusing the discussion boards and stumbled on a thread about honoring our bellies.

The last week or so I've been going through a new round of "I hate my body." Yeah, most women do it. It's not a particularly original thought, though it carries with it many levels for me. Recently it's been because I've been dealing with a number of pain issues. I pulled a muscle in my neck a couple of weeks ago when my hand slipped on my yoga mat as I went into downward dog position. Then the tendonitis in my right foot has worsened to the point I can hardly walk on it as a result of the orthotics I just got a few months ago (which are supposed to make my foot pain go away!). And the other night a pinched nerve in my right thigh that I've had for about 15 years suddenly got really really painful so that I couldn't be comfortable in any position. Thankfully an increase in Neurontin has helped lessen it enough to be bearable until I see my doctor on Friday (though every time I increase my Neurontin dose, it costs me another $20 a month -- from a Canadian pharmacy). I've felt angry. My body has taken so much from me: my career, my income, my social life, my ability to go hiking or spend time playing with my nieces and nephews. Now it must make me suffer in what feels like never ending cycles of pain (and not the good kind either). Not to mention the fact that it doesn't look the way I want it to look. Or fit into normal clothes. Or even let me do anything to really remedy that. It's like a prison. My own Abu Ghraib.

So, when I saw the thread about honoring our bellies, I smiled and clicked the link. And read the first post. "...I learned about hara, the Japanese word for "belly" as both our physical and spiritual center. Hara points to the belly as the source of our spiritual power." It reminded me of how a QiGong instructor I had once said to a man who made a self-deprecating joke about his belly that it meant he had lots of qi. I clicked on the woman's site and read:

"I am saying: Love your belly, lose the shame. Honor and exercise your belly as the source of your inner strength—that's the best way I know to claim your inner treasure."

What if being fat is my treasure? My source of strength? I couldn't help but think of Baby Suggs' sermon in Beloved:

" this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don't love your eyes; they'd just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them...You got to love it, you! And no, they ain't in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream from it they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give you leavins instead. No, they do not love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I'm talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms, strong arms I'm telling you..." (Toni Morrison, Beloved, New York: Penguin, 1988, p.89)

I thought a bit more about my picture from the Grand Canyon. When I posted it, it was because I thought how cool it was to be spanked at the Grand Canyon. I mean, how often do you get that chance? But I was hesitant to post it. Mostly because I was afraid of getting the kind of comments that people posted on that woman's blog. But I also didn't want to seem slutty. Indeed, I was not prepared for the emails I got in the next few weeks from men wanting pictures of me and my ass. The point wasn't to be pornographic, but to share my excitement. To share an experience that I knew other spankos could relate to and enjoy and share in.

I don't want my body to be objectified, regardless of the reason.

I do want it to be appreciated as one of the many aspects of me.

An aspect that, like Baby Suggs, holy, says, I got to love.

P.S. A bit of clarification for all you gentle readers out there. If a title of a post starts out with "Story" it is fiction. I have never been spanked by an angel or at Trader Joe's or by a nun in Jerusalem. They are all scenarios I've thought up in my head and reflect my over active imagination rather than real life.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Letting Natty get spanked

I was being quite naughty tonight as I'm not supposed to be online much this week except for the occasional blogging. But, alas, I ended up blog and websurfing, which I said I wasn't going to do, but I think ended up having the effect that staying off the Internet was supposed to have.

No, really. Honest. ;)

Okay, I ended up at Z's Mind Candy , where longtime SSS poster Zprymantis has all of her stories. I was reading one of her newer ones, "So You Want to Call Me Mommy" (I often think about being spanked by a "mommy" or "auntie"). While the way the story/essay goes isn't quite how ageplay works for me (and I suspect ageplay wasn't necessarily the intent), it did make me think of my own ageplay experiences.

I have a dress I sewed last spring that's cotton-candy pink with blue flowers and a white rounded collar. I have frilly white ankle socks. And, of course, white cotton panties. The age I usually imagine being (the "Natty" me) is ten -- just like in Z's story. As she described giving a bedtime story, I imagined being spanked in my dress, my white cotton knickers being pulled down my fat, pale white legs while my frilly-socked ankles kick slightly. Or being in my jammies, my hair in pigtails, my flowery jim-jam bottoms being slid down to my knees and a firm hand and hard hairbrush reddening my fleshy alabaster cheeks.

And during my ageplay spanking reveries, I'm usually crying. Which, of course, has not ever happened during our real life age playing. As I sort of meditated on this tonight, I thought about how what always happens during a spanking is that the adult-me -- "Michelle" -- always takes over.

I mean, that's how I've survived. How my siblings have survived.

Michelle is the one who helped/s her mother make sense of the world. Who took care of her infant sister during the summer when she was 10 and sometimes during the school year when the babysitter was sick. Who took care of her little brother when he came home from the hospital with a heart monitor when she was 13. Who fed him through a tube in his stomach. Who gave him CPR when he had an asthma attack that left him unconscious when he was 2 and she was 14 (though managed to call 911 in time for the other attacks). Who had to always keep her abusive stepfather happy. Who learned how to live with pain and frequent illness after a severe ankle fracture when she was 10 and debilitating pain and chronic illness after a surgery gone bad on that ankle when she was 26. (And then there's the whole mess with her biological father that she didn't know about until she was 11 and he didn't know about until she was 18 -- but that's for the novel I'm writing as even Michelle didn't quite known how to handle that one.)

Michelle gets through all the hard stuff. She's the survivor.

And it's all about getting through the spanking, right?

Maybe Michelle has become the over-protective parent of Natty. Who shelters her too much. Who pushes her out of what she thinks is harm's way when really it's just what she needs.

So, I was trying to limit my time on the Internet this week in order to focus on learning more about mindfulness and meditation, as well as connect more with my emotional self (something my therapist and acupuncturist have been clamoring for me to do and seemed a good Lenten activity).

Well, I think I did the latter a bit tonight.

Even if I started out being naughty and avoiding it.

And maybe when/if I ever get spanked for it, Michelle will stand back and make/let Natty get the spanking she so desperately needs.

Monday, February 14, 2005

Valentine's Day

The next best thing to having your boyfriend with you (rather than 8 time zones away) on Valentine's Day:

A nice dinner with candles and the flowers he bought you before he left
A cheesy CD you made of songs that remind you of him
His hairbrush, your vibrator and butt plug...oh and maybe a little ginger root
Ben and Jerry's Phish Food Frozen Yogurt and some chocolates (yeah it's Lent, but I think even the bishop would grant a dispensation)

Sunday, February 13, 2005

Spanking on the "Simpsons"

Ah yet another spanking reference on the Simpsons.

When Bart went to a rap concert after he was told he couldn't, Homer takes off his belt, slaps it against his hand and says Bart is going to be "NWA" -- Not Without Ass Welts.

Sigh...good times.

One of these days I'd like to either come across a list of all the spanking references in the Simpsons or compose one of my own. In the meantime, those of you reading this blog (and I just signed up with StatCounter and know there are quite a few of you) might share your favorite Simpsons spanking reference in a comment. :)

Saturday, February 12, 2005

Story: Window into Heaven [MM/f, child]

As it's Lent, this seems like a good story to post. Please note that while this story does contain some autobiographical elements, it is fiction. The angel part? All made up. Not real.


A Window Into Heaven [MM/f, child]

They are called “windows into heaven.” Depictions containing the energies of Christ, the Holy Mother of God, the saints, an event. As Julia stood in front of the rows of icons in that little shop, she could feel their power. St. George atop his white horse, lance stabbing at a dragon. St. John Maximovitch holding the Cathedral of San Francisco he helped build. The Theotokos of Vladimir, her head tilted toward the Christ Child, her smooth, maternal face up against his, her melancholy but caring eyes looking out. At Julia. She kissed her middle three fingers and pressed them against the Holy Mother. Crossed herself. Resumed her search. There. Between St. Michael the Archangel and the Annunciation

His hair was longer than she remembered it being. But the eyes were the same. He was holding the hand of a small girl. With eyes remarkably like hers. In the other hand, he held a scroll: “He shall give His angels charge over you to keep you in all your ways.”


The babysitter’s house was only a few blocks from school. Convenient for Julia to pick up the baby on the way home. Books on her back and baby in hand, she made her way the next several blocks to the house. Threw her backpack full of homework aside, put the baby in her walker and flopped onto the couch to watch cable reruns of Good Times and Little House on the Prairie. At 4:30 she shaked and baked the pork chops, heated the can of green beans, and mixed up the box of Stove Top stuffing. Her parents liked her to have dinner made by the time they got home. The parents who often forgot that Julia was only 11.

Dinner was done and dishes were safely in the dishwasher as Julia headed back to the living room to watch TV. Her stepfather stopped her at the doorway.

“Where’s your mother?” he growled. Julia’s eyes glazed with fear. He was mad. Dangerous.

“I…I don’t know,” she said with her most submissive voice.

“I wanna know where your mother is.” His eyes were wild. She gulped.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure…” She wanted to look around for her but she dared not look away from him. He asked again. And again. Frustrated, she raised her voice slightly. She didn’t know any other way to tell him that she really didn’t know.

“Don’t you talk back to me!” He grabbed her arm, yanked her toward his left side, and began delivering heavy, sharp blows to her bottom. Blows that did more than hurt her backside. That took something from her. That left a blackness in her soul.

“What’s going on?” Her mother asked as she walked in on Julia still in her stepfather’s grip.

“Where were you? I’ve been looking all over for you. The baby has a fever…”

“I was just in the attic – what’s the matter?” She stared at the two of them.

“Don’t interfere with my discipline.” His eyes were sharp. Narrow.

“I wasn’t. I was just asking what happened…” She glanced at Julia with a mixture of fear and irritation. Finally freed, Julia wandered toward the living room as her parents argued about whether or not to call the doctor.

Report cards came out the following week. Julia left hers on the kitchen table with anticipation tinged with guilt. She waited for her parents to scrutinize it. To ask her why she got an “A” in social studies (she liked social studies), but an “F” in math (she hadn’t done any of the homework). Two days later she found the report card in the garbage as she took the bag out to the can in the garage. They hadn’t said anything. Not about the “A.” Not about the “F.”

A strange, confusing feeling swam around in Julia’s stomach as she laid in bed that night. On the one hand, she was terrified of her stepfather and his spankings. Her whole body tensed as she heard him downstairs in the kitchen. What if she hadn’t wiped the counter right? He’d be mad…

Yet, she had really wanted her parents to be upset that she got an “F” in math. To scold her for not doing her homework. To tell her how she was capable of doing much better. To even spank her and tell her that she could not watch TV until her grades were better.

To be like real parents. To let her be a real kid.

“Dear God,” she began, her hands folded over her chest. “I wish so much I could have parents who didn’t make me scared. Who care about what I’m doing in school and all…I mean, I know these are my parents and you can’t just give me new ones or anything – not that I want them to go away. I love them. It’s just that…” She sighed. This prayer was turning into a rambling mess. “Well…maybe you could at least send me an angel to be with me or something. To sorta help me, you know?” Julia wasn’t even sure if she knew as she drifted to sleep.

Her homework had not left her backpack since arriving home with the baby the next afternoon. And it was the furthest thing from her mind as she slipped into her nightgown, brushed her teeth and headed down the hall to her bedroom. Upon crossing the threshold, she looked up to see a man sitting in a chair next to her bed.

“Do not be afraid, Julia,” he said with a soft smile as Julia opened her mouth to scream. “I am your guardian angel. The Lord has heard your prayer.” Her mouth snapped shut. Her eyes gaped. Then a smile slowly broke out across her chubby cheeks.

“You’re…really…an angel?”

“I am.” He chuckled yet maintained a distinct seriousness.

“How come you don’t have wings or anything?” Julia skimmed over his average looking khaki pants and white shirt.

“Well, you remember from Sunday School the story of the angels visiting Abraham?” Julia nodded. “Yes, I know you do,” he said. “I know how well you pay attention at Church.” She beamed. “So then you remember that the angels in that story looked just like men. When we take on human form, we look human. No wings.”

“So, what’s your name?” Julia asked as she sat down on the bed across from him.

“It would be unpronounceable to you, so you may call me Malachi.”

“Okay.” Julia glowed before him. A real angel. Her angel. He gazed back at her with that soft, gentle smile.

“The Lord knows you’ve been very lonely, Julia. And that sometimes you’re very afraid.” He lifted her from the bed and set her down on his lap. “He sent me to comfort you. To let you know that you are not really alone. Even when you’re scared.” For several minutes Malachi held Julia against his chest.

“How long will you stay?” She looked up at him.

“I’ve always been with you, Julia, even if you couldn’t see me. And I always will be with you. I’ve been given charge over you. To keep you in all your ways.” He picked her up off his lap and placed her back on the bed. “But, there are times when you really need me to be in the flesh and during those times I will take on human form so that you can see me and touch me.” He held her hands as he sat across from her. “Times like now when you really need someone to hold you. As well as to help you.”

“How are you going to help me?” Julia stared at Malachi.

“Well, what did you mean when you prayed last night for someone to help you?” He looked right inside of her. The intensity forced Julia to look at the floor.

“I dunno.”

“I think you meant someone to help raise you. That it’s hard trying to make sure you’re doing your homework all by yourself. Or being kind to the other kids at school. Or going to bed when you should.”

Julia blushed as she continued to analyze the carpet shag. Malachi cradled her hands.

“Though you’ve done such a good job so far. You’re obedient to your parents. You go to church every Sunday and listen quietly during Sunday School and the service. You even memorize all the Bible verses they give you and believe them with all your heart. You’re really a very good girl.”

Everything was still – the room, the house, the air outside – as Julia looked up at Malachi. With his warm smile. And gentle eyes.

“But, much of the reason you are good is because you are afraid. Of your stepfather. Afraid that people won’t like you. That God won’t like you. I’m here to help you not be afraid anymore. To help you be the person God created you to be – the smart, vivacious, playful, passionate person you hide away because you don’t know where the boundaries are. I’m going to help you by giving you boundaries.”

Boundaries. She had heard this word before. At Church probably. About how good parents set boundaries for their children. Rules…

“Yes, Julia. That does mean rules. With rules, you know where the boundaries are so you don’t have to be afraid you will cross them accidentally. You will know exactly where you are.”

Not like with her stepfather where she never knew where she was. When or what would make him mad.

“I will start with something you already have a good idea about: your schoolwork.” His smile faded into a stern, but not unkind look. “Your mind is a precious gift. And school is a wonderful way to grow that gift. But when you watch television after you get home from school instead of doing your homework, you are throwing away that gift.”

Malachi still held fast to Julia’s hands as she pulled her bottom lip into her mouth with her upper teeth and fixated once again upon the carpet shag.

“And so, another way I am going to help you is by disciplining you.”

It took a moment for Julia to really hear him say that. As it traveled along to the recognition circuit in her brain, she raised her gaze back to Malachi. With his firm stare.

“You mean, like…spank me?”

“Yes.” He paused as she searched his face. “It will be different than any spanking you’ve had before. For one thing, it will be on your bare skin. But the most important difference is this: it will not be done to take my anger out on you, but rather as a sign of my devotion to you. To help you.” The soft smile mixed with the firm stare.

Julia nodded. Stood. Malachi let go of her right hand and gently pulled her by her left arm to his right side. Then over his lap. Swept her nightgown up to her neck and her panties down to her knees. Set his left hand on the middle of her back. Slapped her unprotected bottom. Again. And again…

It stung terribly. Much more than her stepfather’s. But, it hurt less. Gave something to her. Brought a light to the blackness her stepfather had left.


“Ah, the icon of the Guardian Angel. It is a lovely one, isn’t it?” Father Demitri, in a long, black cassock with a beard that looked like St. Nicholas, studied the price on the back of the icon and punched it into the cash register.

“Yes it is,” said Julia with a smile as she pulled out some cash.

“You know, the little girl in the icon – her face looks a lot like yours.” He held it in white tissue paper in his hand. Julia blushed. Smiled again. Father Demitri grinned and finished wrapping the icon. “Don’t forget to have your priest bless it during Divine Liturgy on Sunday,” he called to Julia as she walked to the door.

“I won’t, Father.” Another smile and she walked outside to catch the bus coming up the street.

The key to her apartment had a habit of getting stuck in the lock. Julia jiggled it. Coaxed it. Pushed it.

“Damn this lock!” It came out of the keyhole then snapped back in, pinching her finger. “Son of a bitch!” Julia brought her finger to her mouth, winced, and then tried the key again. A click. A turn. She sighed and muttered as she opened the door. “Damn it I hate this lock…”

“Julia – what kind of language is this?” He was there. Sitting at her desk. Chair swiveled toward her. That soft smile with the stern eyes.

“Malachi…you’re here…” She gripped her bag holding the icon as she stood before him. Turned to look at the door, then turned and faced him again. “Oh, um…well, I was angry. The key…and the lock…it gets stuck…and…”

“You’ve developed a nasty habit of swearing lately. I thought I had helped you with that years ago.”

“Well, you had…” She fingered her keys as she looked him in the eyes. “I guess I fell back into it.”

“Apparently.” He nodded. The soft smile overtook his stern eyes for a moment. “You’re so passionate, expressive, confident – not at all like you were that first time I became visible to you. And I’m so glad.” Then he sighed. “But, part of my job has always been to guide that passion. To give it boundaries.”

Yes – those boundaries. Julia pursed her lips together and nodded. She knew where this was going.

It was during high school that Malachi started using the rod. A thin, swishy stick. Her freshman year. Julia had skipped school with her friends to go to a movie. Now as he stood up from the chair in front of her desk, he grasped the rod and motioned her toward the back of the chair. She set her bag and keys on the table, bent over the black cushioned back and grabbed the edges of the seat. He swept her skirt up to her neck and her panties down to her knees. Sliced her unprotected bottom with the rod. Again. And again…

It still stung terribly. But still gave something to her. Still left a light in her soul.

“The icon is a very nice one,” he said later as he stroked Julia’s hair while she lay on her tummy under the blankets in bed. “The icon writer did a lovely job letting you see into Heaven.” Julia almost giggled as she turned to him.

“Is your hair really that long in Heaven?”

Copyright 2002 by Natty.

Friday, February 11, 2005


So, my Mr. Stern (who isn't really all that stern but I haven't been able to think of a suitable nick name for him) went back to the UK on Tuesday morning.

He was supposed to leave on Monday. At least, that's what he thought. We got him all packed and off to the airport and up to the ticket counter. When the ticket agent couldn't find his name and looked at his itinerary, we discovered he had the date wrong. I was laughing like crazy, and quite happy to have him for another day. Can you believe he had the audacity to say he was going to spank me for him getting the date wrong because I'm the organized one? (He was kidding, just in case that's not clear.)

As we had an extra day, and we were both up, and the sun would be up in an hour or so, we went to the Oregon Coast. Drove to Cannon Beach and walked a bit along the shoreline. Though only a little bit as it was freekin' cold. Got some coffee/tea and cheesecake. Drove along the coastline to Tillamook and then back to Portland.

On the way into Portland we drove through Washington Park and walked around the Rose Garden a little (though it definitely didn't look like the picture in the link as it is winter). As we got into the car to stop by Trader Joe's on the way home, he looked through the glove compartment of the Flexcar and found the booklet with q & a about what to do if there is an accident.

"I've been speeding and my spanko boyfriend is giving me a stern look. What do I do?" "Pull over to the nearest secluded area, pull down panties and await punishment."

We both giggled.

"Hey," he said, changing from a stern voice to a lighter one. "We could be like spanko terrorists defacing different things with spanking references."

See. I'm not the only naughty one.

And you can bet this time on the way home from Trader Joe's when we got the car washed and the gas tank filled, I didn't rush at all.

Such a good girl.

Well...for a little bit. I was late to my doctor's appointment today. Normally a (very -- six strokes per minute) spankable offense.

"You're going to get so lax while I'm gone," he said when we finally got a chance to talk on the phone today.


Thursday, February 10, 2005

A little announcement: five articulate, strong, educated women have joined forces to write about disciplinary spanking at a brand, spanking new site called

Hmm...I make it sound like the Super Friends or something. Yeah, maybe you can say we're battling the forces of misogyny in the spanko world. ;)

Friday, February 04, 2005

Story: Cranky At Trader Joe's [M/F]

My last post reminded me of this story I wrote a few years back, and I've been meaning to post it. So, here it is. Enjoy. :)


Yeah, I admit it. I was pretty damn cranky by the time I got to Trader Joe’s. I had a cold, so my sinuses were practically swollen shut. The traffic around town had been about as congested as my head. And now they were out of the cereal I had been craving – Organic Wheat Squares. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! I cursed and whined under my breath as I stamped my foot. This always happens. They just had them the other day and now that I wanted them they were gone…

Within my peripheral vision I could see the solemn man, who I had earlier cut in front of to grab a cart, looking at me with one eyebrow raised. I saw him first in the parking lot. He had his hands in his pockets, sort of strolling along. Late thirties, maybe. Gray Dockers and a stripped, short sleeved shirt. Not too much like the Reedies, leftover hippies, or soccer moms who usually patronized Trader Joe’s. I huffed and slammed on my brakes while he sauntered out of the way.

You would have thought he’d have long been in the store already by the time I got to the entrance, but I could see him perusing the produce along the sidewalk into the store as I half staggered from fatigue and half marched with purpose from the car to the door. He was one step ahead of me to the pile of carts, but I darted into the corral, pulled out a cart, and whipped it around into the store. Now this same guy had caught me in a temper tantrum over breakfast cereal. I shook it off and shrugged. Whatever. I had cough drops and chicken noodle soup to get…

I noticed him a few more times around the store. I guess he stood out because he didn’t have a cart. Not even a basket. Didn’t even seem to be really there to buy anything. Just look. Weird. I shook my head again and closed my eyes to review my mental shopping list.

I was still revisiting that list when I got in the check out line and a tight voice pricked my ear.

“You know, if you were my girlfriend…” I turned around to find that same guy holding two bananas and a baguette. Then realized I’d just cut him off again. I bit my lip and blushed. “…I’d spank you.” That one eyebrow still reached for his scalp.

“Oh really?” I asked. Half guilty. Half amused. “And why’s that?”

“I think you know why, Miss…” His face was somber. Stern. Then a slight, wry smile twinkled his eyes. “You’ve acted like a perfect brat from the moment you got here.” I smiled too. And took my turn at the check out counter.

He was coming out the exit by the time I’d parked the cart and pulled out the sack of groceries. I blushed as he brushed past me.

“Hey, I’m, um, sorry I cut you off in the check out line. I’d never do that on purpose. I wasn’t really paying attention…I’ve got this cold and…” I stood gripping the paper handles of the bag, facing him but looking down at the pavement.

“Hmm, well, colds are rather nasty, I suppose.” His face softened. “Still you should pay more attention. And cold or no cold, you should never throw a temper tantrum in a grocery store. You’re not a two-year old.” I giggled and bit my lower lip.

“I know…” I still vacillated between the pavement and up at him. Then I smirked. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing for my backside I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Yes, well, just because you’re not doesn’t mean I can’t still take you over my knee.” More raised eyebrow action. “Tell you what, put your groceries in your car and meet me in the corner of the parking lot over there.” He pointed to the far southwest corner. A forlorn crook of pavement and fence over which the first branches of spring hovered.

“Huh?” This was a joke. Had to be. Right?

“You heard me. Now get going. My car’s in front of that produce store next door, so I’ll drive over and you meet me there.” With that he turned and headed off. I stood agape as I watched him walk several cars down to a black Volkswagen Passat, pull out keys from his pocket, open the door, get in, pull out the car from it’s space and then drive to the appointed meeting spot.

It’s funny, because at that point I could have just gotten in my car and driven off without a thought. But it didn’t even occur to me to do so. Instead, I put the groceries in the back of my beat up, white Chevy Sprint and headed for the Passat in that lonely corner.

He was moving the front seats forward by the time I tottered over. First the driver’s side, then the passenger side while I stood in front of the trunk, arms folded over my chest. Then he opened the back door on the passenger side and beckoned me. He slid in onto the backseat. Patted the black leather next to him. I sat down and closed the door.

“Now, young lady, we’ve already reviewed why you deserve a spanking, so let’s just get on with it, shall we? Take down your pants and panties and lay across my lap.” I looked up at him for the first time since the exit of the store. His face was severe, but not mean. No trace of a dirty guy looking forward to some free naked ass. Just very grave. Very focused. I did as I was told and soon had an intimate view of the leather grain.

I’m not sure which registered in my brain first. That smacking sound of his hand hitting the lower middle of my bare buttocks or the pain it produced. I blinked hard. Another spank came. And another. Fierce. Unrelenting. My squeaky whimpers competed with the clapping of his hand against my skin. I clasped my hands together underneath my forehead as he slapped with precision on that spot where my bottom and thighs meet. Curled my toes inside my shoes. Pushed my feet against the door.

After a solid several minutes, he stopped. Reached over me, opened the compartment between the front seats and pulled something out.

“You’re in luck, my dear. It just so happens that I have a good, sturdy hairbrush with me today.” My breathing stopped for a moment, then I gulped and lay my head on my hands.

This is luck?

“I suspect from your behavior today that nobody’s done much of this for you.” He laid the smooth, wooden side of the brush against my bottom, which instinctively clenched. “Indeed, if anyone had, you wouldn’t be throwing a fit in a grocery store at your age. Or rudely cutting people off in the check out line.”

He lifted the brush and crashed it down hard. I started screeching before I realized I was, but settled back down to loud whimpers punctuated with “oweeee” after every couple of whacks. My legs began to fly back and forth between my bottom and the door. My stomach tried to pull my backside out of range, without success.

It had probably only been a few minutes. He probably hadn’t smacked me more than 25 or 30 times. But it felt like I had been through time and back again. I wanted to cry. Wanted tears to release some hidden hurt that lay beyond my raw behind. But as they would not come, I simply liberated the dry sobs that came. It was probably just as well. Real tears would have made my sinuses throb even worse…

“There now, it’s over…” He gently patted the back of my head. My moans subsided into deep breaths and soon I lay relaxed. Sore as hell, but relaxed. “Well, now. I think that’s enough to make you think twice before you throw another fit.” I nodded. “And I trust you’ll be kind and considerate from now on to your fellow shoppers.” I nodded again. “Alright then, you can pull up your pants and go.” He tugged them up from my knees as far as he could. I turned, slid into an upright position -- but not without visible wincing – and pulled them up the rest of the way. Took another big breath.

“I really am sorry I cut you off. I hate it when people do that…” He smiled and put the hairbrush back into that front divider. I opened the door and climbed out. He followed. “Well, uh, hmm… well, I guess, uh, have a nice day.”

“You too.” He closed the back passenger door.

“And uh …” I looked down at the pavement. Bit my lower lip. The looked up and nodded slightly. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He winked.

I giggled and headed back to my car.