From top to bottom

So, I was going to top last night.

But then A. found out his favorite sweater had been shrunk in the dryer -- the second favorite sweater to suffer such a fate -- and he was in no mood to be ordered about. So he came in, sat down on the bed next to me and suggested a nice Daddy/little girl incest scene. All while stroking my hair and calling me his little girl.

Bastard.

I tried to resist, dear reader. But...but...I really like being his little girl. Especially if there's a bath and ice cream involved -- the ice cream my reward for being such a good girl in the bath. Though, truth be told, I was too wiped out to splash him even if I really really wanted to (which I did).

There wasn't meant to be any spanking necessarily. Just lots of heavy petting sweet, innocent cuddling. Except at one point when he had me lay over his lap to rub my bottom (and my soaked clit), he started asking me questions about how I was doing with my schedule.

Don't ask me about how long I've been on the computer. Don't ask me how long I've been on the computer... I mouthed to the bedspread.

"And how long were you on the computer today?"

D'oh!

See, this was the deal. I woke up too early and couldn't get back to sleep. I decided to try and fix the ending of a (non-kink) story but when I became tired enough to sleep again, the next door neighbor started hammering away on the other side of my bedroom wall. I was too tired to actually do something productive, but couldn't sleep because of the hammering. So I started websurfing and reading more about the Israeli raid on the Free Gaza flotilla and before I knew it four hours had passed (in my pre-illness life I was a specialist in the Israel/Palestine conflict). This is supposed to be a light computer week for me meaning that I'm not supposed to spend more than three hours in total on my Mac.

When A. isn't here, it's been very easy in that sort of situation to simply not count those hours. And I initially intended to do that even with him here. But as the day wore on, a moral tug-of-war between me and my conscience ensued. And when he actually asked me point blank, it became a lot harder to lie than it is if I simply write a number on a piece of paper or Numbers spread sheet and, with the cushion of several days, quote that back to him.

So, I told him the truth: 4 hours before I got up, 2 1/2 intermittently afterward.

"But you told me a minute ago that you were doing fine with your schedule?"

And then I confessed how initially I wasn't going to tell him.

"Now I have to spank you," he said almost dejectedly. "And that's a stroke per minute."

Which, of course, I had completely forgotten about while I was ignoring my time limit.

Gulp.

"Well there were extenuating circumstances..." he said contemplating.

Yes! Very extenuating!

"And I wasn't actually intending to spank you tonight..."

In the end I got far short of 210 strokes -- 12 with the despised ruler and many more with his hand. A very stern warning followed: next time he would most certainly enforce the stroke-per-minute penalty, even if it was 210 strokes.

Such a merciful Daddy.

I did wake up today a bit disappointed that I'd let him bamboozle me out of my Princess Natalie night and determined that I would reassert my dominance again soon.

Of course, I also determined to be a good girl on the computer. At least for the rest of the week.

Why does it have to hurt so much?

Do you ever find yourself, the night after a spanking, thinking that spanking really hurt. Can I have more please?

Last night I got spanked at bedtime. It was the first day of my new schedule, and I failed pretty appallingly. Instead of only being on the computer for three hours, I think it was well over five (I blame the Israeli government for that too!). Instead of taking breaks after every one of those hours, I completely disregarded them. I totally forgot to lay down for one rest period, much less for the three 15-minute periods I was supposed to. I did remember to do some yoga and physical therapy, but forgot my meditation and QiGong. And, of course, I was late to bed -- seven minutes past the grace period.

In short, I blew it.

So A. administered the ruler* after pulling down my jammie bottoms while I buried my face in my pillows. Quite severely too. At one point I thought he was going to break it. Needless to say, it hurt. A lot.

But upon waking up this morning (yes, it was really in the AM too - 11:30!), all I could think of was how much I really want a good, long spell over his knee. I just wish it didn't have to hurt so much. Except, of course, if it didn't hurt, I wouldn't feel very satisfied.

Why does it have to work like that?
_____________________________________
*This ruler is no namby-pamby love-pat stick. It's 24-inches and stings like a motherfucker.

Crashing into Natty

Crashing has a way of putting me in a very Natty mood. And last Wednesday, after a long Mother's Day, a longer ME/CFS Awareness Day, and a trip to the acupuncturist, I crashed. Every noise became too loud. Every light too bright. Television was painful. My cells felt like they were shaking as their vitality drained into oblivion.

All my haughtiness and dominance of the day before melted into dependency and submission. I wanted to be taken care of. Petted. Told what to do, especially as I was too exhausted to figure it out for myself.

Obviously I needed to rest, which I did without protest that night. I woke up the next day promising to continue resting rather than pushing through the exhaustion as I usually do....just after I checked my email. But with the bed adjusted to near zero-gravity and the Mac agreeably on my lap, the temptation to check a few more things was too much. Before I knew it,  A. had gone out and returned again two hours later to find me still on the computer.

He didn't say anything until bedtime when he asked if I could manage a spanking -- something I had not yet been able to tolerate since his arrival because of pain in my sacro-iliac joint and lower right abdomen.

"As long as it's a surface-y implement," I replied. "Like the belt."

"What about the ruler?" Twenty-four inches of deceptively light but terribly stingy wood.

"Yes." I swallowed a scowl. "The ruler would be okay." Even though I much prefer the feel of the belt.

I pulled down my jammie bottoms and laid down on the bed.

"I'm sorry I didn't rest this afternoon," I said as penitently as possible, hoping my apology might reduce my impending punishment.

"I'm sorry too. You needed that rest," was A.'s quiet, grave reply.

That stung almost as much as the ruler. 

When I'm irritated with the limitations illness imposes, I've come to find refuge in my "Princess Natalie" mood, as A. and I have begun calling it. Relishing every wet, bawdy moment of dictating my will and dishing out pain. Feeling imperious and demanding obeisance.

But when I crash and I'm too weak to be irritated, it's all Natty. Meek. Dependent. Child-like. Craving absolution from the guilt I feel for being feeble and useless. Desperate for structure to guide me through my fatigue-induced disorientation and forgetfulness. Hungry for cuddles and sometimes even a spanking to reinforce for me that there is no shame -- and much to be gained -- in resting.

2010: No More Mr. Nice A.

I got my first spanking of the decade this afternoon. Laying across my bed with the phone on speaker, A. had me consider some New Year's Resolutions with a ping pong paddle and clothesbrush handy.

None of my resolutions were particularly original: take an hour-long rest each day, get to bed on time, do a better job of taking breaks from the computer.

What was novel, however, was A. setting specific and severe punishments should I forsake my resolutions. Like 60 (!) strokes with the clothesbrush for each time I neglect my daily rest period. And one stroke for each minute I'm late to bed (it's not unheard for my tardiness to exceed two hours). He has yet to decide about the computer time, but I'm expecting it to be perfectly dreadful.

Of course, he had to remind me what those strokes would feel like should (when?) I merit them. After making me warm up with the ping pong paddle, I got multiple rounds of 12 strokes with the clothesbrush, not to mention periods of simply whacking until he told me to stop. I assure you, dear reader, there was much pouting on this side of the phone line. And both my arm and bottom remain a bit tender.

With this new get-tough-on-Natty policy, I foresee a year of grave suffering for my backside. A year of arduous sitting, sojourns to the corner, and maybe even lines or worse. (I'm too embarrassed to think about A. attempting anything of a colonic nature...) 

And a year for more stories. I've got a new Nanny Bea story scheduled for Monday. Fingers-crossed, my writing head will stick around for a more productive literary spell.

HNT: Birthday spanking

Or all nekkid, as the case may be.

In the end, it was 37 strokes of the cane. No uniform or dress. Just rattan and my naked flesh -- which I can't believe I'm showing here -- after a warm up with the rubber paddle and his hand.

It was far more serious than I expected it to be. And I was a total baby throughout. If I ever figure out how to edit with iMovie, I'll try and post all 3:04 minutes of it.

After the spanking, my wicked A. tied me to the bed with the Under the Bed Restraints* -- though I did give him a bit of a fight. Upon subduing me, he affixed my ankles to our spreader bar with the ankle restraints, lifted my legs up and wide, and violated me with the Anal Vibe, the Silver Bullet, and the Miracle Massager.

It was one of the nicest, stingiest birthday spankings I've had and the best birthday orgasm ever.

______________________

*The Under-the-Bed Restraints will be reviewed in an upcoming post. Note that VibeReview is having their Winter Sale at the moment and gives me a little kickback if you purchase items at their site by clicking on a link from my blog. 

Lurk out loud 4.0

Last year I promised a picture of my beaten ass had the number of lurkers commenting reached a certain number (which sadly, it did not). However this year I decided to go ahead and just post the picture first. So here is my freshly spanked bottom (a mere 30 minutes ago) along with the implements A. used.



If you look closely, you will notice that the wooden spoon is broken. I believe that is the forth wooden spoon A. has broken on my backside (and I really liked cooking with that one!). You will also note the lack of welts from the cane. Since I'm on Coumadin, A. uses the cane with light but rapid fire strokes that accumulate pain quickly (sheer agony, I tell ya!) but don't leave the deep bruises for which canes are notorious. Similar to the way Nurse Bea uses a nursery willow switch in this story that my dear friend Casey wrote just for Natty.

So dear friend, thank you for reading. Whether you leave a comment (good or bad) for this feedback whore or just lurk, I always appreciate your time and interest.

When play is work

Sometimes play is just...hard work. An ordeal in which the forces of the Erotic and Encumbrance battle throughout. You know, the sort hyped by some over-the-top announcer. "Tonight on the Michelle's Sorry Life channel, watch a special Kink versus Illness smackdown! One horny girl. One debilitating illness. Who will win?" Except at the end of the whole thing, both sides are usually able to claim some amount of victory.

Such was the result of a phone spanking a couple of weeks ago. I had awaken even later than my normal mid-afternoon reveille and was just finishing up breakfast at 4:30 pm (yes, that's really PM) when A. called.

"Heya dear," I answered blithely.

"Oh. Did you get my email with your instructions?" he replied with a mixture of restrained formality and genuine uncertainty.

Instructions, eh? There was a familiar -- and pleasurable -- tightening of my pelvic muscles at this most obvious declaration of impending tele-erotic activity, even as the rest of my body whined with weariness.

"Actually I was just turning on my computer," I explained as I hastened to open my inbox, still a little disoriented given that I had only waken up an hour earlier and was feeling the inevitable crash following a rare day of jittery, almost euphoric energy.

"Well, then, I think you better open your email."

My face flushed not only from excitement, but also embarrassment that I wasn't prepared. He had ended our conversation the day before noting that he might be sending me instructions -- not to mention I had emailed him a fragment from my journal before going to sleep detailing my kinky fantasies of late. I also felt a twinge of annoyance at how what was going to be my first phone spanking since May was starting out rather awkwardly.

"I said in the email that I was going to call you at 4:30, but how about I give you a call at 5pm?

"Okay --er, Yes, Sir."

This, dear reader, is what I found in my inbox:

I want you to put on a little girl's dress, flowery knickers and white socks as soon as you have finished reading this email. Nothing else will be worn until I grant permission. The following items will be laid out on the bed:

1. a wooden spoon
2. a table tennis paddle
3. the long brush
4. a razor
5. shaving gel / foam
6. a box containing sex toys,* butt plugs and a nipple clamp.

At 4.30pm (your time) you will stand in the corner of the room and await my phone call.

My pelvic muscles tightened further, along with those of my abdomen. My bottom tingled with anticipation. And I couldn't help but gulp. However I quickly swallowed that anxious lump in my throat along with my giddiness and set about attending to his instructions, as well as letting those following me on Twitter know I was about to get spanked.

Except as I got up to fetch the various items and dress myself accordingly, I quickly realized there was more to my elevated heart rate than mere excitement. One of the peculiar quirks of my illness is that the more weary I am, the higher my heart rate gets both during activity and at rest. Pulling on my dress and arranging my bra-less breasts, sorting through my sock drawer, grabbing my razor, digging out implements from under the bed -- all of it, of course, was shooting my heart rate higher and higher, making me feel dizzy and icky.

Should I tell A. I can't do this? It wasn't so much that I was worried about disappointing him, but rather Natty. My alter ego had obligingly endured months of setbacks and downright neglect as a result of my ill health and A.'s work. I sighed. I am going to get spanked, goddamnit.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I did some diaphragmatic breathing, bringing my heart rate down a bit. Once the dizziness wore off, I stood and made my way to the corner where I was to await A.'s impending phone call.

How bad would the spanking hurt? It had been such a long time since my last one. The high ceilings of my apartment, which drew my gaze after I became bored with a fragment of chipped paint, made me feel particularly small and childish.

But the little feeling did not last long. My heart rate was creeping up again. I tried some more diaphragmatic breathing as I stood facing the corner -- so very un-childish -- but it just would not drop down below 120.** I absolutely had to lay down. I made my way to the bed, where I lay with the full skirt of my bubble-gum pink dress draped over my belly and legs in a less-than flattering spread when A. finally called.

"Hello, Sir."

"Hello, there. Where you standing in the corner as you were told?"

"I did stand in the corner after I was ready, Sir. But I had to lay down after a few minutes."

There was a pause as we both sought to figure out how to proceed. Should I tell him I could manage a spanking but no shaving? Was I even in any condition to consider orgasming? Would I be okay so long as I was laying down?

"Are you still laying on the bed?"

"Yes, Sir."

Please don't break the spell. Don't ask me if I'm alright. Let's just keep going. Let Natty keep going...

"What sort of knickers are you wearing?" A. asked after another moment of silence.

"Pink flowery knickers," Natty declared with vigor.

"Well, let's get them off."

With pleasure. Even if I did feel a bit dizzy standing up to take them down as well as rearrange the cord to my headset so it wouldn't interfere with spanking.

He had me start out with the ping pong paddle. It's a good thing it makes a lot of noise even when I'm not whacking that hard because I don't know that I could have made myself hit any harder given how tired I was and how much it stung.

"What's that on the pain scale?"

It was a momentary lull in the magic. Given the circumstances, I figured A. probably needed some reassurance that I wasn't dying on the other end of the phone, even if I always find giving a number to my pain level a difficult thing to do in a Natty frame of mind.

"Um...about an 8 -- 8 1/2."

While the whacking was draining me a bit, my heart rate was staying down. I just had to stay flat.

"I think it's about time you got that butt plug in. Have you got your Naughty Box there?"

"Yes ::gulp:: Sir."

Just typing the word butt plug makes me blush. Saying it out loud makes me blush even more. Hearing A. order me to take it out of its box and put it in my hole with a deep, imperious, British-accented voice not only makes me blush but gives me that piquant constriction of shame in my belly. If he ever moves on to enema bags (another word I can barely utter), I tell you, dear reader, the embarrassment alone will be both painful and orgasmic.

"We're going to have to get your bottom warmed up before I get there."

"Yes, Sir." I bit my bottom lip. Grinned demurely into the phone even as my cheeks continued to flush.

"Pick up the wooden spoon. Give yourself twelve on each cheek."

Oddly enough, the spoon didn't hurt nearly as much as it usually does. Probably because the handle is narrow and thin, making it difficult for me to grasp with ease. So A. switched me to the clothesbrush (long brush), with a nice thick handle. It made a much more satisfying sound across the trans-Atlantic phone line when it smacked against my bare skin. After a dozen or so strokes, endorphines began to take the edge off the sting. But they did not keep my arm from wearing out.

"Tell me about your cunt. Is it shaved?"

"No, Sir." I swallowed hard.

"Pick up the razor and shaving gel. I want you to shave yourself, but I only want you to shave one strip down the middle..."

The razor was cold as it scraped against the stubble covering my labia. But it did not feel as laborious to shave as it felt like it would just fifteen minutes earlier.

"I expect your cunt to be completely bald when I arrive in three weeks."

"Yes, Sir." I finished shaving my swathe smooth and patted my cunt dry.

"You may finger yourself now."

"Can I use my vibrator?" I can be such a greedy girl.

"Not yet. Just swirl your finger around first."

I led my index finger back and forth between my increasingly saturated cunt and my increasingly swelling clitoris. Around and around the slicked, sensitive tissue. Awakening nerves from their hibernation with each revolution around my rosebud.

"Now you may use your vibrator."

With giddy delight I burrowed the Silver Bullet into my vulva and set the plastic black heart knob at medium speed. After several minutes of rocking my pelvis gently, I turned the vibrator up to full speed. After several minutes more produced no orgasm, I placed it directly onto my clitoris, then pulled it off again when the stimulation was too much. After a few more minutes, after all the weariness and worry, all the whacking and whirling, all the work, there were, finally, those familiar contractions pushing endorphines, blood, and happiness out into my ear lobes and fingernails and toes. Only then did my heart rate momentarily surge again. And after that...a uniquely benevolent fatigue.

True, within half an hour the fatigue returned to its customary tyranny. The following day my muscles -- particularly my pelvic muscles -- were more cantankerous than usual. And I can't help but look back with a little bitterness that a mere spank and wank over the phone was so damn arduous.

Yet I also can't help but just be grateful that I did it. That I made it through and Natty got her spanking. Illness and poverty do that to a person. Make you appreciate every little bit of life you can grab hold of. Especially the hard bits.

_______________________
*Aka, "The Naughty Box." A wooden, rattan-covered box A. bought for me initially for its ostensible decorative value. However its size rendered it the perfect container for butt plugs, particularly as it also fits so nicely under the bed.

**One of the primary means of treating ME/CFS is pacing, including using a heart rate monitor to help patients stay below their remarkably low anaerobic thresholds (generally between 110-90 bpm). For a longer explanation of how this works, see this video (requires Quicktime; about 30 minutes) from exercise physiologists at the Pacific Fatigue Lab.

Horror vacui

I'm trying to remember when A. first used the term vacuum to describe the absence of kink in this studio apartment. Sometime last month I think. After my birthday when the spanking that should have been wasn't.

It is natural to abhor vacuums, or so Aristotle said. Never mind that later physicists from Ibn al Haytham and al Jazari to Torricelli and Pascal concluded that nature was rather comfortable with her vacuums. And that since then we have found all sorts of ways to put nature's vacuums to good use cleaning carpets and lighting homes and sealing food and providing television.

Aristotle was merely wrong about the subject. It is not nature that abhors a vacuum but us. We cannot tolerate vacuums of power or money. Empty is almost always bad. Our very bodies will bloat and die after mere minutes in a vacuum. We need oxygen. Stuff. Someone. Spanking.

For weeks the libidinal pressure in this space dropped while the outside atmosphere remained saturated in sex, sucking up my nocturnal spanking fantasies -- the sedatives that put me to sleep each night. I had to switch my guided imagery techniques from imagining I'm a naughty girl having my pajama bottoms taken down and my bottom soundly spanked to imagining I'm releasing spent qi out of my fingers and feet. Low pressure indeed.

There is, of course, no such thing as a perfect vacuum, spanking or otherwise. A few weeks back I bent A. over the futon and filled our ephemeral vacuum with a cane and a riding crop and a strap and purples welts and red skin.

Apparently I did not fill it enough.

"Maybe next time you'll give me a proper beating," A. sneered later adding a handful of other smart-ass comments that I can't remember now. I never knew how adept he is at bratting for it. Like the bird in Boyle's airpump losing oxygen in the vacuum, he was losing the good sense to shut the hell up. A week or so later when I beat him again, he had to safeword out.

There was also the belated birthday spanking that I thought I was ready for. A. used the strap lightly and told me to tell him when the pain level got to 8 ½ or above. Except that once the strapping started, the pain clogged my brain to the point that I couldn't even think to say "stop!" I spent 36 strokes trying to evaluate whether my pain, or the strokes, or this pain compared to past strokes was at 8 ½ and if the strap would become more tolerable or if I could just bear a few more strokes or...

"Why didn't you tell me to stop?" he asked with the sort of worry that is both caring and cross as I sobbed and shivered in his arms.

The week before last I made it through a brief spanking with the ruler. On the bed over lots of pillows. With just enough sting to make me feel a little bit naughty and punished.

And last night he used the ruler on my backside again. Softly at first. Slowly building the sting so that I was soon squeaking and yelping. With his free hand he dipped his finger in my cunt. Circled my clit with it. Shoved his thumb up my ass.

"I think your ass is over due being violated," he whispered with a leer. "In fact, I think what you need is a giant piece of ginger up your ass."

"Like the ginger I bought a Limbo's last week?"

I gave him that look. The Do Me Now look.

A. made off to the kitchen. Returned a few minutes later and pulled my cheeks apart. Shoved a large chunk of peeled ginger into my hole and twisted it around inside. Left it there while the juices seeped into my sensitive tissues. Grabbed the ruler and spanked me several more times. Turned on the Miracle Massager and thrust the vibrating head against my cunt.

In vacuo gave way to in plenum. Lovely, wonderful plenum.

The most spankable day of the year

That morning when Pa came in to breakfast he caught Laura and said he must give her a spanking.

First he explained that today was her birthday, and she would not grow properly next year unless she had a spanking. And then he spanked so gently and carefully that it did not hurt a bit.

"One-two-three-four-five-six," he counted and spanked, slowly. One spank for each year, and at the last one big spank to grow on.

-- Little House in the Big Woods

The first time I mentioned birthday spankings to A., I think he thought I was making them up even as he was willing to oblige me thirty-some spanks. Or rather, believed that in my spanking-dominated way of thinking, I was exaggerating the practice. Or confusing what happened in my pervy family with what happens in mainstream America. A quick Google search producing story after story of American co-workers suing after being spanked at work on their birthday or birthday spankings at American schools resulting in arrest persuaded him that perhaps they were real. Though I think he still views birthday spankings right up there with Santa Claus.

But, of course, birthday spankings are real. Here in America, birthdays are the most spankable day of the year. A day when even the most ardent vanilla will go for a scoop of chocolate. And for spankos, they are a high holy day to be approached with all the reverence and gaiety of a Pagan-cum Christian holiday.

While I'm sure I probably received a birthday spanking earlier -- especially given my maternal grandfather's generous distribution of them at any and every occasion -- the first one that I can really remember happened on my seventh birthday. I was in first grade at a private, fundamentalist Christian school where spanking was standard. It was customary for our teacher, before handing out the cupcakes the birthday girl or boy brought for the event, to beckon the little girl or boy to the front of the class, hold him or her by the arm and smack his or her bottom for each year of life. She would add a "pinch for an inch" in which she pinched the bottom and completed the ritual with a "hug to grow on."

As my birthday approached, I feigned apprehension about my impending spanking to my friends and family. I talked about what I should wear that would best protect my bottom. Apparently my birthday landed on a Friday because I remember settling on a pair of polyester red, white, and blue checked pants (it was the 70s) and girls at my school were only allowed to wear pants on Fridays. At one point, I even considered wearing some sort of padding.

It was all a ruse to hide the fact that the imminent spanking excited the hell out of me. I had recently discovered while reading The Story About Ping that spanking held an inexplicable appeal for me. Over the last few months I had been fantasizing about getting a spanking from my teacher, but I wasn't willing to risk my good girl status to get one. Birthday spankings were like a freebie. No getting into trouble. No looks of disappointment and guilt-ridden angst. Yet I still got the savory embarrassment of being summoned to the front of the room, bent over, and smacked like a naughty little girl.

December 8th finally arrived. My mom made yellow Betty Crocker cupcakes with chocolate frosting, placed them in a Tupperware container and dropped them off with me at the babysitter's before heading to work in the early morning darkness. As I sat on the couch before the bus came, watching Ramblin' Rod next to my plastic box filled with flour-and-egg festivity, the smell of the chocolate frosting had me craving sugar and spankings.

Class birthday parties were always in the afternoon. The long morning passed and it was time to break out the cupcakes, as well as the construction paper, crayons, and paste for birthday cards. But not before the spanking. Blushing, I made my way to the front of the class and stood next to Mrs. Leiser. She smiled, held onto my arm softly, and delivered seven gentle, careful smacks to my backside, along with the "pinch for an inch." Before I knew it, the birthday spanking was over and I was enveloped in her arms for a hug that was sure to keep me growing for years to come.

I only remember one other childhood birthday spanking after that. At my tenth birthday party, one of my friends (who were mostly boys by this point) mentioned that I hadn't had my birthday spanking yet and before I knew it, the lot of them started wrestling me down to give me my ten smacks. Laughing and blushing, I fought back without much success, especially as my stepfather decided to lend a hand. Those smacks were definitely not the "gentle, careful" smacks Pa Ingalls and Mrs. Leiser handed out. But they were not exactly disagreeable either.

A. is slowly becoming accustomed to our fine American tradition. After a painful lesson on his birthday earlier this year, he gained a better understanding of how it works and how central it is to the birthday of any spanko. Not that I have to wait until my birthday for a decent spanking anymore, but I still look forward to a drawn out, ritualized spanking each December 8th as it just wouldn't be a proper birthday without one.

Though this year the birthday spanking -- and even my birthday luvin' -- will have to wait a bit as my pelvic/abdominal pain is as bad as ever (and quite possibly exacerbated by an infection...um...down there). And A. may have to take a few pointers from Pa Ingalls and Mrs. Leiser on delivering a birthday spanking as my appointment with the urogynecologist isn't until January 9th. But in a few days, once I'm feeling a little better, I think we just might be able to work something out with a pile of pillows and a belt...

"Can Michelle's ass come out to play?"

It's been very hit or miss these days on the spanking front.

The mojo has been there. It's just that about two and a half weeks ago the pain directly below and to the right of my navel became markedly worse. Which has made me a bit squeamish about getting spanked. The pain isn't very bad if there is no pressure on my belly -- which is most of the time. So it hasn't really stopped me from thinking and even talking about spanking.

As A. and I lay cuddling on the bed the other night, he asked if I was up to being spanked, mimicking a neighbor kid politely seeking the permission of his friend's mom for an afternoon of youthful frolics.

"Can Michelle's ass come out to play?"

Michelle's ass -- as most kids do -- wanted desperately to go out and play. But Michelle's body, being the cranky, over-protective old woman that she is, balked at the thought. She'd even of late been shooing away A.'s perfunctory smacks on the ass in the kitchen.

My ass, however, was undeterred. After thinking it over for a day or two, I decided that maybe the ruler would be okay. And the tip of the belt. Both are very surface-y implements without a lot of impact.

Thanksgiving night, after a day of massive carbohydrate-loaded sustenance at my mother's house (including my famous pumpkin pie and cranberry-orange relish -- though my cornbread-sausage stuffing didn't quite turn out right), A. treated me to a nice spanking and wanking with his belt and the Miracle Massager. I love the belt because it stings, but it's a sting I can get on top of. A., though, isn't as fond of this implement as he finds it a bit unwieldy -- something I've heard other tops say as well.

I seemed to handle that spanking okay. My body pissed and moaned a bit in the form of achiness the next day, though I suspect that had more to do with the wanking than the spanking. Because, you know, God forbid I have an orgasm anymore and not suffer for it...

But I digress.

Sunday is my traditional review and spanking day. When I came home from Mass, A. had my school uniform all laid out along with the ruler. And I must admit, dear reader, it did give me that delicious sense of foreboding mixed with excitement. The foreboding part took over, however, as the review ran into a problem. Namely, I hadn't even been keeping track of my bedtimes, much less actually gone to bed on time. That wasn't completely my fault. It had been a bit of a chaotic week with late night movies, as well as pie and stuffing making. Yet I had been very good about doing my daily yoga/physical therapy exercises and meditation. Indeed I had even done my meditation two days more than I had scheduled.

It had been awhile since I'd been spanked with the wooden ruler. I had forgotten just how much it stings! The spanking was only partly punitive, as well as partly a sampling of what would come should I fail to get back on track in getting to bed on time. One good side to the wooden ruler is that the sting is very temporary. At least, generally speaking, that is.

There is one way that the wooden ruler produces a sting that keeps on giving. Our wooden ruler has a little hole on one end with which to hang it up on a wall, should one so choose. On Monday night before bed, my ass was in a particularly provocative mood. Frankly, all I remember were a few pouty looks directed at A. I suspect he has another version of events. Needless to say, A. took the wooden ruler out again, with vigorous results.

It stung terribly, especially as my sadistic dear kept whacking me on the same spot. I couldn't help but squirm and jerk about. Okay, yes, there may have been the odd glare and complaint here and there. Perfectly reasonable, right? Well, A. didn't think so either. And since I seemed to be feeling well enough to brat, A. took out the evil clothesbrush and...gasp!...the rubber paddle.

To be fair, he didn't use either of them very hard. But my pain threshold was shit and they had me wailing and wriggling about in no time flat, which never bothers A. as he always says it saves his arm. He also accused me of playing up how much it hurt with all my writhing around on the bed. Which might have had some merit. Sorta. But...but...it really hurt, I tell ya.

What was odd was that it hurt a lot more on my left cheek than on the right cheek. As I rubbed my bottom afterward, I noticed a spot that was particularly stingy and sort of wet with some sort of fluid. Being on Coumadin, my first thought was that I was bleeding. A. examined it carefully and quickly concluded that there was no blood.

The next morning when I appraised my ass in the mirror, there was a particularly raw spot on my left cheek that hurt a lot more than all the bruising on my right cheek. Like, say, a popped blister. And that's when I connected it with the mysterious stingy fluid from the night before. Yes, that's right. A. actually blistered my ass. I always thought it was just a saying -- I'm going to blister your ass. I didn't think it actually happened.

It made me think of the "spank his ass raw" line from this old post.

Alas my grouchy gestapo of a body has cracked down on any further play. That pain at the base of my belly got a lot worse after that spanking, most likely from the pressure on my abdomen while laying on the bed. Two weeks earlier my doctor made me cry when he palpated the area during my pelvic exam and told me to call him back if it didn't get better. So yesterday I finally gave in and called. And he ordered another ultrasound (I had one a year ago when I fell down the stairs). Which sucked because any sort of palpation of the area hurts, so you can imagine what it felt like with a gooey joystick rolling around on it.

The lady who did mine this morning was very sweet and tried to be as gentle as possible. After she finished, I dressed while she reviewed the images.

"And I did get the spot that hurts?" she asked before I left.

"Oh yeah," I said with a rueful chuckle.

Radiology techs are generally cryptic when it comes to telling you what they see on your pictures. But I'm kinda thinking that's as close to "I didn't see nuthin'" as it gets. At least I won't have to wait too long to find out if I'm right as I see my doctor again tomorrow.

So, I guess you can say my ass is grounded for the moment. And I can't help but wonder, will Michelle's ass be able to come out to play on Monday for my birthday?

When Nerd Night gets nasty

I must confess that one of my favorite things to do on a Friday night is to pop some popcorn and watch PBS's public affairs line-up, including Washington Week, Bill Moyers Journal, NOW, and, yes, The McLaughlin Group (though even I have to admit that Foreign Exchange is boring as hell). So loyal a viewer am I, and so geeky the topic, that A. has dubbed it "Nerd Night."

For the most part, he's fairly ambivalent (or possibly silently annoyed) about my Nerd Night television hegemony, with the exception of one show that he has long despised: The McLaughlin Group. With Eleanor Clift screeching to be heard. Pat Buchanan cutting everyone off. And the asinine addition of conservative radio talk show host and Ann-Coulter-wannabe, Monica Crowley, replacing Washington Times columnist Tony Blankley, or "Tiny Tony" as I like to call him. "Would they just stop yelling?!" A. will frequently complain. And it's true, the yelling and screeching gets old fast.

My favorite part has always been McLaughlin himself. The curmudgeon with the outrageous ties. With his questions about metaphysical possibilities. And the way he cuts off a speaker with "the answer is (whatever)! Issue two..."

However over this election I've found myself disappointed in McLaughlin. While I wasn't a big Obama fan myself (I voted for Green Party candidate Cynthia McKinney since I was in a safe state), it was disturbing that McLaughlin was so egregiously anti-Obama. During the primaries, I chalked it up to him being close with Hilary. But in the general election campaign, almost every show was devoted to the faults of Obama, to the point where it almost had a sort of racist tinge -- especially when he called Obama an "oreo." To make matters worse, most of the guest commentators who joined the main three each week had a conservative slant as well (Mort Zuckerman, Michelle Bernard) leaving poor, screeching Eleanor Clift on her own to offer a left-of-center view.

A. decided it was time to act.

Now some have used the McLaughlin Group as the basis for a drinking game. But A. decided that a spanking game would be more appropriate. And rather than make complicated rules about drinking or spanking whenever someone did or said something specific, he decided to keep it simple: whenever someone said or did something stupid, I got spanked. The choice of implement would be up to his discretion.

The Friday after A. arrived was the night we played our McLaughlin Group spanking game. I was to be laying on the bed naked, facing the television when the show started. All of the implements were lined up to the left side of me. As the multi-colored title appeared on the screen, accompanied by the dramatic drum and horn music, I tell you dear reader, my bottom had goose-bumps.

For some reason, A. decided to go out to smoke when the show began. I was completely mystified by this (he's just informed me that the thought of watching the full 30-minute show was too much for him to bear). Yet as the group descended into a yelling match rather early, I was also a bit relieved as this surely would have provoked a serious beating. About ten minutes in, A. returned, sat down on the bed next to me with all the implements at this disposal.

While we watched, he started warming me up with some hand spanks. I brought him up to speed on the discussion they were having about how Obama's press plane replaced three reporters from conservative papers with three reporters from Ebony, Essence, and Jet magazines.

I can't remember at exactly which point the spanking started (the full transcript is here). Was it during poor Joe the Plumber? I do know there was a lot of spanking -- with the riding crop, I think -- when McLaughlin mistakenly said,

"Of those 16 times [that the Democrats have sought the presidency since Harry Truman], the number of Democrats who have won the popular vote is two -- Lyndon Johnson against Barry Goldwater in '64; Jimmy Carter against Jerry Ford in '76."

While Clinton did not win more than 50% of the popular vote in 92 and 96, he did win the popular vote.

Then there was the next stupid thing McLaughlin said (and which was a perfect example of his anti-Obama bias):

"So whom do the Democrats put to break the losing streak? Answer: The number one liberal in the United States Senate, a black American whose middle name is Hussein."

Mind you, this is four days before the election when the polls were showing that Obama was going to win a decisive victory.

I think I got the clothesbrush for that.

There was a lull in the spanking for a bit while the group discussed which poll was best and how all of them had Obama ahead.

But then McLaughlin said this:

"In fact, Americans feel off-put if they think anyone is buying their vote. Obama has set a new all-time record for fund-raising, a total of $605 million in his campaign war chest. That's compared to McCain's $359 million."

That was slightly silly (where's the research suggesting one, that Americans "feel off-put if they think anyone is buying their vote" and two, that that was what Obama was doing and Americans felt that he was?), so I think I just got A.'s hand for that.

Oh but it got so much worse.

"Fifth, the company he keeps. One, Reverend Jeremiah Wright...[cut to video of Rev. Wright]."

So old news. Plus, frankly both A. and I thought Reverend Wright had a point. And even Mike Huckabee came to Obama's and Reverend Wright's defense on some level.

I think A. returned to using the riding crop. Or maybe it was the cane. And continued using it through Tony Rezko and William Ayers. When McLaughlin mentioned Rashid Khalidi, my heart sunk as A. really went at it on my ass.

"Four, Rashid Khalidi, professor of Arab studies at Columbia University, friend of Obama's from Khalidi's teaching days at the University of Chicago; former spokesman for the PLO in the '80s and '90s, when the Palestine Liberation Organization was in militant exchange with Israel's Urgun."

Ugh! The Khalidi issue was a tad bit personal for me and not only was McLaughlin participating in the Republican smear campaign, about the only thing he got right was that Khalidi and Obama were indeed friends when Khalidi was still teaching at the University of Chicago. Which meant, of course, that this merited severe punishment. Again, I think it was either the cane or the riding crop A. was beating me mercilessly with. I was kicking and screaming too much at that point to notice.

Thankfully the group began talking about the Bradley Effect and I was able to catch my breath. That is until Monica Crowley opened her big, stupid mouth.

"The 2003 tape of Rashid Khalidi's farewell party, where Barack Obama attended along with Bill Ayers and Bernadine Dohrn, is being suppressed by the Los Angeles Times. If, in fact, it wasn't a Jew-bashing event and Barack Obama has nothing to hide, then he should clear the air and demand that the Los Angeles Times release this tape. He could make this go away like that."

Oh. Dear. God. I put my head in my hands knowing what was coming next.

"I think you will agree that the "Jew-bashing" comment deserves the wooden spoon, don't you think?"

True, it was an incredibly puerile thing for Crowley to say. It did deserve some sort of chastisement. I just didn't want anymore chastisement on my ass! Especially as my ass was so so so out of practice. Yet A. slapped that wooden spoon down on each cheek over and over. Sure, he wasn't really slapping that hard. I am on anti-coagulants and have to be careful of bruising too much. Not to mention I could barely lay still enough for him to spank me.

And Crowley, along with Pat Buchanan, kept talking. Kept saying inane things like how the problems Obama has had with his associations would have sunk a Republican (yes, because George Bush had so many problems with "Kenny-boy" Lay). And how Obama couldn't close the deal because people were afraid of him (apparently they got over their fear four days later).

"Stop talking!" I cried to the television.

Yet McLaughlin then went on to Issue Three.

"If Barack Obama does win the presidency, it means total Democratic rule -- a Democratic White House, a Democratic Senate and a Democratic House of Representatives. Government unification -- good public policy? The scholars say no. Good public policy flows far more out of a disunified government than a unified government. A disunified government would mean Republican John McCain wins and the Senate and House stay Democratic. If Obama wins, it is bad for public policy.

...There's also the problem of unchecked liberalism. If Democrats gain control, they will need essentially every vote in their party to get anything passed in Congress, which means running the country from the left, with a national population that is fundamentally right of center."

I think A. went back to the cane for that one.

Yet God bless Pat Buchanan. Yep, you read that right. He does make brilliant points from time to time.

"Well, first off, say, Jack Kennedy got through the great tax cut of Kennedy with a unified government, whereas Reagan had a divided government. Lyndon Johnson's Civil Rights Act was a unified government; New Deal, unified command; Medicare, unified government; Social Security, unified government.

Divided government has done good things; I think Taft-Hartley, 1947, I believe, over Truman's veto, excellent legislation. You can have good government both ways, John. Frankly, I do believe in government responsibility and accountability. So if Barack Obama wins, maybe they ought to have the right to run the thing the way they want to, and then we can pass judgment on them."

And the spanking stop. My poor, battered ass finally had some relief. There were a few hand smacks here and there, especially with Monica Crowley's wishful thinking about split-ticket voters voting down a "liberal trifecta" or McCain winning by half a point (those poor, deluded Republicans). But with John McLaughlin's hearty "Bye BYE!" it was time to cuddle.

Don't think for a minute that A.'s itchy palm was satisfied. On Election Day, he made me bend over the bed while he quizzed me on the polls for each state to see if I had been paying attention. Despite pleas that my answers were much closer to the right answer if he used the data at fivethirtyeight.com, he used the polls at Real Clear Politics instead.

Anyway, with the election over, A. has assured me that my ass is safe from politically-motivated spankings. Though after reading this piece about the causes of the credit crunch, he's come up with a new game.

He's calling it Stock Market Correction.

***
P.S: I promise to get to all those wonderful comments for LOL day tomorrow!

HNT: A phone spanking

I've never felt brave enough to participate in Half-Nekkid Thursday. But after reading Curvaceous Dee's blog for awhile now, I've decided to give it a try. Though I warn you, it will most likely be a very irregular event.

I took these pics for A. to show him the damage from the phone spanking he gave me on Tuesday (I managed to miss my bedtime 6 out of 7 nights last week). I guess one good thing about being on Coumadin (and just about the only thing) is that I can mark even from self-spanking. Especially if it involves a clothesbrush and a wooden spoon.




It's not the most I've ever marked -- not by a long shot. But then, usually the strokes come from a much better angle.

And considering how late it is that I'm posting this, there will be more phone spankings to come, methinks.

A top ten most unconventional spanking implements list

Watching Rachel Kramer Bussel's video trailer for her new anthology, Spanked, inspired me to make a list of the top ten most unusual implements with which I've been spanked. For the comprehensive list of what I've been spanked with, see this post.

1. Leek. This one definitely gets the first prize. I mean, how many spanking stories have you read with a bratty girl or boy on the business end of a leek? It was so unusual it even inspired poetry.
   
2. The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Vol. 2: Histories. The power of words took on a whole new meaning when a spanko friend years back looked up to my book shelf, saw this and decided to use it on my backside. Very thuddy, as you might imagine.
   
3. Frying pan. For awhile there, my post about A. spanking me with a frying pan was routinely ranked among the top ten sites on Google about Domestic Discipline. Go figure.
   
4. Dog lead/leash. Ah, when young (or not so young) spanko lovers first meet, they have a tendency to start viewing just about anything as a possible implement. Like A. and I during our very first time together in England. While walking his brother's dogs one day at the park, A. got bored with throwing the ball to the dogs and decided to see what their rope leashes would be like on my bottom. You know, out in public. Shameless, I tell ya.
   
5. Sjambok. You can buy them at Adam and Gillian's so they are actual bona fide spanking implements. But even they list them under "unusual."
   
6. Fly swatter. The business end of a fly swatter makes some spanking sense, but many years ago a friend also decided to try the wire handle. Ouch! It left me with some nice black and blue welts. More recently, A. also tried out a completely plastic one I bought at the grocery store on my ass. Pieces broke off the top of it with the very first swat.
   
7. Wire hanger. Joan Crawford made them a famous, albeit unorthodox spanking implement and my bottom has not been spared their use. The first spanko guy I dated gave me a dose of wire when I started laughing after he fell out of his chair. Alas, it didn't stop the giggles in me.
8. Remote Control. I've heard of other spankos experimenting with remote controls also. I mean, you're on the couch with your naughty boy or girl. The remote is on the table in front of you. It's sorta flat... Though having been spanked with one, I can't say they're all that impressive as implements go.
9. Sandal. The British have a long tradition of hitting kids with slippers or gym shoes (A. would know). So why not a sandal? They're flat and whippy...
10. Cutting board. What can I say? It was paddle-shaped. A. had to spank me with it. Unfortunately it wasn't exactly made to strike nice big bottoms and broke after a swat or two. It comes in at number ten because it's probably been the first spanking implement bought at Wal-Mart by many a spanko, just behind electrical cords -- which I've also been spanked with.
    

I imagine you, dear reader, might have a few unconventional spanking implements to add to the list. And you know how much I love comments...

The night before

So, he's leaving tomorrow.

I've been mentally preparing myself for it during the last couple of weeks but it still doesn't seem easier than last time. My mind is heavy with the knowledge of how quiet it will be. The dearth of cuddling that will ensue. The forthcoming woefully inadequate phone spankings. The return to me and I instead of we and us.

I despise nationalism. With its border fetish. Its obsession with visas. Its fixation on citizenship requirements that even lawyers find dizzying. And don't even get me started on the bureaucracy that surrounds being ill. Policy and purse have long conspired to keep our relationship revolving around these quarterly sojourns, even as I know that someday -- really, truly -- the sojourns will turn into permanent togetherness. I've kept the faith this long, I can continue on.

We spent the day looking at furniture porn (me) or the implements of porn (him) but soon settled down to sorting out our less than meager finances utilizing one card with a bit of money to pay one bill, and a penny jar and another card with a bit less to pay for groceries. While my mind was still fretting over how to make that stretch until August 1st, A. was putting away the wallet.

"It's time to attend to your ass," he said with a grin.

I bit my lower lip. Half-smiled with a quick dash of demure. But my brow remained furrowed.

"I'm going into the bathroom to finish washing my sweater," he began, "and while I'm in there I want you to clear away these catalogues, please. Get out the ping pong paddle, both brushes, and...the rubber paddle. Oh and the riding crop....And the strap. I haven't decided what I'm going to use yet."

I closed up my laptop and began picking up the catalogues, trying to put myself into a kinky frame of mind.

"Is there a particular sort of dress you want for me?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said with gleaming eyes.

Upon his return, attending to my ass began with me draped naked over his lap. His hand preparing with gusto my fat cheeks for the as yet undecided upon implements to come. When he grabbed the ping pong paddle, he began to question me about the schedule I had agreed to the week before, the memory of which was rather hazy at that moment. I had successfully done the reading I agreed to. Done the exercises and yoga when I felt well enough. Bedtime was a mixed bag because we'd been fooling around a lot more at night due to his impending departure. But meditation, which I'm normally very good at doing daily, was a complete miss as A.'s and my bedtime and waking schedules had totally switched, leaving me floundering as to when to do it since I usually do it in the morning while he's still asleep (it's a small studio apartment).

"You could have simply asked me to leave you alone for a bit to do it," he so helpfully pointed out.

True. But I didn't think of that. I'd get distracted when I woke up and then, since I had not done it at the usual time, I didn't think about it. Except one night before bed. But meditation is hard to do when you're sleepy.

I felt like I had, if not a good excuse, then at least extenuating circumstances. A. was less convinced. And the thing was, even if I disagreed with him about the severity of the crime, there have been a zillion other times before where life for both of us would have been a lot easier had I just opened my mouth and talked to him. So I figured that on the larger point, he, um, well, had a point. I just didn't want to admit that while he had the ping pong paddle in his hand.

My lack of external contrition (or perhaps, because of) did not stop him from using that ping pong paddle over just about every square inch of my ass, as well as repeatedly on certain square inches. With my mind still not quite in a kinky or punishment frame of mind, and still somewhat indifferent about my meditation misdeed, and still grief-stricken about being alone for (hopefully only) the next three months, I thought I just might cry. I could feel that familiar lump coming to rest near the spot my tonsils once were.

Before I could cry, the punishment part was over and the kinky/for-your -own-good-while-I'm-away spanking began. There was the clothesbrush. And the rubber paddle, which, mixed with my mental state brought me once more to the brink of crying. After a lot of kicking and squirming, he switched to the cane. It's really a deceitful implement, that cane. To avoid bruising me too deeply, A. will often use it lighter than it would be otherwise. And that will seem, at first, not that painful. But it's the cumulative effect that gets me clenching and jerking about, to the point that he had to hold my legs down. He then ended this beating with a half dozen strokes of the riding crop.

It was after the spanking that I started to cry. When I was laying on my stomach against his chest, and the wind was caressing the marks on my naked ass.

I just want to stay here. Naked. On my belly. In the temperate summer afternoon with the wind cooling the sting on my left cheek. With A. here in his blue striped shirt that still smells faintly of the sweat he worked up walking to Trader Joe's.

But forever ended a half an hour later when a friend of my mom's arrived to cut our hair. As I stood watching while she snipped A.'s hair ever so delicately, I realized that even if my mind had been grasping for its kinky frame, my body had been in full blown kink mode.

"I'm wet," I said sheepishly to A. after my mom's friend left.

"I bet you are after that spray bottle."

"No, I'm wet," I stated again.

"Oh, that wet."

At first I thought of switching and having him service my cunt. But he was still all top. In the end, we played a pseudo rape scene.

"Let's sleep together tonight," he said as we both lay back in that yummy, lethargic post-fucking way. After a few years of awkward nights together in my double bed, we finally broke down and got a separate futon last year and have slept separately every since.

"Yeah," I said dreamily after making certain he'd want to risk a poor night's sleep before such a long flight.

I'm going to love every minute of those gawky five hours before he has to go.

My inner pain slut makes an appearance

I have a new hypothesis about what has been causing my pathetic spanking pain thresholds of late: Coumadin.

As those of you who read this blog regularly may know, I take this anticoagulant (or "blood thinner") after inexplicably developing blood clots in my lungs two years ago. However last Sunday night I had to stop taking it for a few days in preparation for a colonoscopy to see why I keep getting the "stomach flu." The colonoscopy didn't really solve that puzzle, but the lack of Coumadin means I clot a bit faster than I have been and bruise less. Even though I resumed Coumadin on Tuesday after the colonoscopy, my INR (a measure of how quickly or slowly my blood is clotting) is still quite low. When my nurse checked it today, it was 1.2 whereas it's supposed to be -- and normally is -- between 2 and 3.

Prior to leaving for my appointment this afternoon, A. decided to take me over his knee. After a few smacks, he asked how I did on my schedule of goals for last week. Alas, I had missed a few bedtimes and forgotten about some reading I had planned to do. And we all know the remedy for missed bedtimes and forgotten tasks is a good spanking. So he started in on my poor bottom with his hand. I tensed up expecting the scalding pain of the last few spankings. Except it didn't really scald. Hurt? Sure. But I wasn't squirming and whimpering like I have been.

My lack of noise and movement prompted A. to fish out the ping pong paddle in the box beneath the bed. Then, my dear friends, there was scalding. Especially when he kept hitting my right thigh with the damn thing. When he finally finished, I made the mistake of noting this with what was probably just a tad bit of annoyance.

"You don't look very contrite," A. said to me as he brushed back my hair.

"Oh I'm contrite," I offered up enthusiastically. "Very contrite. I'm penitent. Repentant." Though it was true that I wasn't very broken. While there had indeed been scalding, it wasn't necessarily unbearable scalding.

"No, you have a defiant look in your eye."

"Nooo, not defiant. I'm penitent," I pleaded. But to no avail. A. reached back down into the toy box and took out the black rubber paddle.

If I wasn't feeling contrite before, I was certainly feeling so when I saw that black rubber evil. I tensed up once more expecting intolerable pain.

Yet again it hurt. I whimpered more. And squirmed more. But it was like I finally had endorphines where before I had none. However after a few minutes A. decided to stop because I was really starting to mark, even though I still had a tiny hankering for the cane.

I should note, though, now that the endorphines are gone, I'm blogging on a very sore bottom.

It makes me wonder if having a lower INR so that I bruise less easily makes spanking a lot more bearable. Then again, my INR has been at its normal therapeutic level when my inner pain slut has made appearances in the past, so maybe it's just a fluke.

Oh and speaking of bruising and colonoscopies, I was very worried earlier this week when my ass was deeply bruised while I had an impending medical procedure in which my ass was going to be most prominent. However after a lot of arnica gel, ice, and then heat 48 hours after my spanking on Friday, I managed to make most of the bruising disappear by Tuesday morning. Just thought I'd share that with you, dear friends, in case you ever find yourself in a similar position.

An all natural spanking

Lately my pain threshold has been very low, perhaps due to daily morphine causing a bit of opioid-induced hyperalgesia. What it means in spanking terms is that even the lowliest hand spanking hurts.

After my spanking last night for staying up past my bedtime a few nights in a row (PB post forthcoming) -- a spanking which only involved A.'s hand -- A. grinned and called it an "all natural spanking" containing no implements or knickers. Just hand on bare ass, like nature intended. Or something like that.

And while there weren't any implements, it still felt like he scalded my poor cheeks. I was laying over his lap, yelping and kicking, knowing that he wasn't really spanking me all that hard. And I must say, it's rather disappointing on a couple of levels. Disappointing because I feel like I should be less of a wuss and take a lot more. Disappointing because the sting wears off about the time my endorphines kick in, meaning by that point I actually sorta wish I was getting more.

A., however, doesn't mind at all. "It's just less work for me."

Sexy Sadist

The apartment is littered with spanking implements at the moment. Leftovers from my spanking earlier this evening.

It started innocently enough. As I was snipping herbs at the kitchen counter for the chicken we were about to roast, I stated that I was going to take a bath. A. responded that he was going to take one first.

"I'm gonna to beat you to it," he said with a smack to my backside. And then another smack. And another. "I'm going to beat ya :::smack:: beat ya."

"You call that a beating?" I sneered.

Oh boy.

"Are you challenging me?" A. asked as he grabbed me by the shoulders, marched me to the bed, and bent me over the side. Down came my flannel jammie bottoms, as well as my flowery white knickers. Out came the spanking implements. The ping pong paddles. The riding crop. The rubber paddle. "I think I'm going to have to warm you up."

Several dozen hard, hard hand spanks ensued, which were even more stingy because I had worked up a bit of a sweat in the kitchen (thanks in part to the hormone fluctuations from the morphine). Then my glistening skin was subject to the ping pong paddle. Again they were hard spanks that had me writhing in pain (needless to say, my ass is soooo out of practice these days).

You'd think my beloved would have had mercy on his sweet, dear girl kicking and wriggling about in pain. But, alas, no. The big meanie started in on me with the rubber paddle! Lemme tell ya, rubber paddles hurt. A deep, burning hurt. Thud and sting.

But it didn't stop there. Oh no.

"I'm going to give you 24 strokes with the riding crop. Count them, please."

I almost cried out in protest at this gratuitous cruelty but remembered in time that such protest would result in additional strokes. So instead I looked back at A. with a look of shock and horror (and, okay, maybe a tiny bit of defiance). But not an ounce of sympathy. I could barely keep up with counting those agonizing strokes. And I wriggled so much I got threatened with more strokes. Eeek!

Was it over yet? Nope.

"I'm going to get the cane." As A. fetched the cane in the bathroom, I laid on the bed pouting and biting my lower lip. "How many strokes do you think would be appropriate?" he asked upon his return.

I was silent. Did he really want me to answer that question?

"Seriously, I'd like you to give me a number."

"Um...two." I thought about zero, but since he actually had the cane in hand, I figured he would insist on using it. So, ya know, two seemed like a nice, round number.

"Two? Two? Is that your answer?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You really think two is a good answer?"

"Yes, Sir," I nodded.

"Well, I was going to give you sixteen strokes, but now it's going to be twenty-four for giving such a bad answer."

See what I mean, dear reader? I gave a thoughtful reply only to have it not only disregarded but told I'm getting 12 times as many strokes just because he didn't like it!

Despite what I expected, the cane didn't hurt as much as the riding crop or rubber paddle did. I was actually able to lay on the bed during my twenty-four strokes without squirming too much. However the cane did a lot more damage. Especially as it kept landing on the exact same spot where my ass, thigh and hip meet -- right in the path of my panty line.

So now you'd think it would be over. But, sigh, no. There were still some more hard, stingy smacks with the ping pong paddle. And a handful of hand spanks.

And then, then it was over.

"You sick sadist," I jeered as A. turned his attention to his swelling member.

"Getting aroused at someone else's pain -- yep, I think that makes me a sadist alright," he said with a grin.

You see, dear reader? He's not even the least bit ashamed of his heartless behavior.

Which, okay, I have to admit, is pretty damn hot, even if a bit...um...painful.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to put some ice and arnica gel on those welts from the cane with which my beloved so wickedly beat me. And put away all the spanking implements strewn about. Especially as my caregiver comes tomorrow and it could be awfully awkward trying to explain why I have a couple of ping pong paddles but no ping pong table. Or a riding crop but no horse...

I'm still alive and still getting spanked

I just got spanked. In the kitchen in front of the large window overlooking the street. And A. wouldn't even let me put the blinds down! Granted the counter goes up past my waist so any pervs in the apartment across the street wouldn't be able to see that he'd pull down my jammy bottoms and was reddening my bottom with many hard smacks. Instead they'd just see me wincing and moving about in an effort to move my ass out of the way of A.'s oncoming right hand.

What, you ask, merited such punishment? A. claims I was being snippy. Not that I would own up to it while I was getting spanked, but looking back I concede that maybe I was being a wee bit snippy. But just a wee bit, mind you.

Today has been the first day that I've felt halfway normal for the last month and a half so I thought I'd post and let you know I'm still alive. A. has been here for a full two weeks now and Sunday I finally got my first spanking. Though it was nothing like the spanking he got last week on his birthday. Perhaps I'll write more about that later.

On an off-topic note, yesterday was ME/CFS Awareness Day. Last year I posted a bit about it, and I thought I'd post a link to the CFIDS Association Virtual Lobby Day where you can send emails to government officials in an effort to increase money for research, earning my eternal gratitude.

Update 1:20 am: In response to my bratting for it at bedtime, A. just gave me a taste of our new rubber paddle -- ouch! My favorite line from this spanking had to be him ordering me to "shut up and be submissive for once in your life!"

The way back on top

I was reading an old post at Femdom Romance this afternoon (yes, I know I said I was feeling subby yesterday but I felt toppy when I woke up today though ended up subby and spanked by tonight when I was on the phone with A. -- it's dizzying the way I switch anymore...) about how to introduce the reticent wife or girlfriend to dominating her partner. Note the quote is originally from Ms. Rika, but the link was no longer working.

You may dislike the imagery of the words ‘dominance’ and ‘submission’, ‘Mistress’ and ‘slave’. However, you might like the idea of your partner doting on you, alert to your needs, totally turned on by you, giving you massages, pulling his weight around the house (and then some), focusing on your thoughts and ideas, in short, treating you like a Queen.

This really was the way I was able to embrace the idea of topping A. I mean, I'm five feet tall. I couldn't wear stiletto heels if my life depended on it. And leather is something I may use to whip A. with (or he may use to whip me), but I certainly don't wear it.

However the idea of being doted on, being treated like a queen (or princess as we usually construct it) was indeed very appealing. I can get a clean house and not have to hold back any criticism if it's not up to my standards. I can get a lovely foot massage. My body is worshiped (a nice antidote to always hearing what's wrong with it). Not to mention I can get a damn fine orgasm without any effort. How could anyone not like this?

It occurred to me recently that what made topping hard at first was the fear I would lose A. as a top. Would I still be able to look at him as that authoritative, stern disciplinarian I fell in love with? At its core, spanking has always been about connecting with my inner little girl. Would he still be her strict, loving daddy?

The answer was a definitive yes. I found out quickly that A. becomes more dominant than ever after being submissive. It doesn't matter how much I may have just been abasing him, the minute he gets that no-nonsense tone of voice, I'm back into sheepish little girl mode.

I suppose tonight was a good example. When he called I had just finished reading the above post and was in a domme-y disposition. As it turned out, he was in a subby mood and I took the opportunity to taunt him about his upcoming birthday spanking, as well as a domestic-sort of task I was going to make him do during his next subby session. Now the day before we had actually talked about doing some phone spanking -- on my backside, that is. But I was exhausted from acupuncture yesterday and had a throbbing headache and so we decided to put it off until tomorrow.

Something happened as we went about our conversation. Like a switch flipping (that term works on so many levels). Before I knew it, I was taunting him, but as a true brat. "You just watch your step," he told me solemnly. And I watched my step alright -- right into trouble. When the conversation shifted from Top Gear to polar bears and then to the burgeoning black bear population here in Oregon -- a problem A. believes doesn't receive nearly the attention it merits -- I couldn't keep quiet.

"You're just a 'fraidy girly bear boy,"I sneered.

"You are sorely overdue." There was that no-nonsense tone.

"Well you are!"

"But what implement to use?" A. asked himself. "The rubber paddle? The ping pong bat?"

"Bat?" I laughed heartily.

"Yes. The ping pong bat will do," he decided.

"It's not a bat, it's a ping pong paddle. You Brits use the silliest words."

"Right. You're getting five more for general defiance."

"But it's true!"

"Go ahead and keep talking..."

I stopped.

"I'm done talking now," I said softly.

"I'm going to go out for a smoke and before I call back, I want you to get the ping pong bat out and take your pants down."

"Yes, Sir."

It was a long spanking, partly because my pain threshold was at an astronomical level today. (It varies wildly. Some days you can barely tap me with a hairbrush and it's unbearable and other days you can't hit me hard enough with a riding crop.) After several rounds of eight on each cheek and one of twenty-four fast, hard strokes, he was going to have me switch to the wooden spoon. But being the very very good girl that I am, I offered (timidly) that the heavy wooden paddle is probably more severe for self-spanking (and, oddly enough, bruises less). So the wooden paddle it was. One round of eight on each cheek and a round of four on each cheek. By the end he definitely got me whimpering.

"Good. Had to get at least a wince out of you."

I smiled and suspect he was too on the other end of the line.

We lingered on the phone, aching to cuddle. Reminding ourselves that there is now less than a month until he will be here again.

"Next week we'll sit down and discuss the areas where you need some discipline," he said. Before I knew it, I was confessing that I had been neglecting my physical therapy for my finger and how I kept meaning to tell him but also kept thinking that somehow I would do better without needing his help.

We also talked about having a regular day for my discipline.

"Well, Sunday is traditional," I said.

"Yeah, Sunday..."

Before heading off to bed, he reminded me that I was to finish some restraints I've been meaning to make.

"I'm setting Friday as your deadline."

"Yes, Sir."

I lay there on the bed for a long time after we hung up. I hadn't realized how much discipline had been missing from our relationship for a good month or so. And being reminded, I realized how desperately I missed it. How much I've missed being his little girl.

And oh how much I love him.

No matter what we do and where our relationship takes us, he always finds his way back on top.

Playin' (slightly slutty) school

Sigh. My last post before A. leaves. ::pout::

Not sure if we'll get a chance to play tonight before he leaves, especially as I've got a chest cold. (Though who says you can't get caned if you've got a cold? That's what NyQuil is for, right?) But now that I've caught up on my sleep and the Super Bowl is over (of which we shall no longer speak...grrr) and house guests are back home, I figured it was time to catch up on blogging. Especially as I promised a post in my last post about playing school.

Yes, last week A. set me some schoolwork: I was to learn about the seventeenth-century British monarchy (prompted by a discussion regarding the chronology of that period which was prompted by...er, I can't really remember now). He went out to the shops and I was to get dressed into my school uniform. By the time he got back I was dressed except my tie (the very tie A. wore to school when he was a lad -- something I think is most cool, but got no attention when I mentioned it at the Punishment Book). It had been so long since I had to tie a tie that I had forgotten.

"Here we go." He towered over me and held the tie around my neck. "The thin side goes over here..."

"Ohhh, right. I forgot."

"Don't worry. I'll make sure you remember."

I didn't doubt it.

I settled down with Wikipedia on my laptop. As well as Yahoo Messenger. New PB friend, Bridget, and I chatted when A. had his back turned or went out to smoke. Not to mention, I read her delightful blog and chatted with another spanko friend.

But it was not my lack of studying that caused me to get spanked.

No, it was a surprise inspection that got me in trouble. I was wearing an official white shirt. My tie was clearly on and tied correctly. I had my blazer with correct school badge (also from A.'s childhood uniform). White knee socks. Black shoes. White bra.

"What are these?"

"Um, my red lace panties..."

That's right. I was wearing red lace cheeky panties. What can I say? I wanted to be at least a little slutty. ::grin::

Well, the headmaster was not pleased. Without a word A. closed my laptop and set it on the floor. Moved my over-the-bed table. Ordered me to take off my blazer, then lay myself over his knee. Needless to say, I was quickly stripped of my forbidden panties.

"Right," said A. after a number of increasingly stingy smacks. "Twelves strokes on each cheek. Count them please."

"Yes, Sir."

It wasn't the hardest spanking I've ever received, but his hand sure does hurt.

There was some groping after my spanking. Some practice tying a tie. And a more intimate inspection which revealed that I wasn't, um, shaved.

"Very, very naughty," A. said before fetching the razor and shaving gel.

That's right. I had to lay down on my back on the bed, pull up my skirt, spread my legs and present my cunt to be shaved.

What can I say? This school has very strict rules about grooming.

And not only was my cunt shaved, but then I had to turn over onto my belly and present my ass to be shaved.

It was embarrassing to say the least. But not half as embarrassing as it would have been had it been atop a large oak desk with a large stern school matron doing the shaving. (One of these days we hope to have both the large oak desk and the large stern school matron. ::grin::)

If all that wasn't embarrassing enough, A. got out the medical tape. My ass cheeks were spread far apart and a small butt plug inserted. It was time to punish my bummy hole.

Now, I've always fantasized about having my bummy hole spanked. Lemme tell ya, it HURTS. And A. was only softly spanking me.

After my butt plug fucking and bummy hole spanking, A. began to play with my newly shaved cunt. Between all the anal play and being on my tummy (as opposed to my back), I managed to come. It wasn't the best orgasm ever, but hey, it's better than what I've been getting.

Oh, um, right. We never did get around to my test on the seventeenth-century British Monarchy. Who knows? Maybe we'll get to it in the next four hours before he leaves. If not, I'll certainly have plenty of time to study.