Kinky Van Winkle awakes to a birthday

Being housebound -- especially with no television -- makes time often feel as warped as a fun house mirror. There are the short, fat moments bursting with life: listening to a spring downpour splatter against the balcony railing or smelling lavender oil amidst the silky texture of the warm bath drawn by my homecare worker or A. down on one knee next to my bed, ring in hand. There are also the moments stretched out agonizingly long like a rope of pulled silly putty: gritting my teeth through the jarring brightness of the overhead light turned on so my homecare worker or GP can see whatever it is I see with my cat eyes or a searing, inexplicable physics of pain reminding me that there are 84,600 seconds in a day and I've only made it through 57,952 of them.

Mostly, however, time is a naughty sprite who is mischievously always just beyond my grasp (and if I could catch it, I'd give it a damn good thrashing). Because I move and think slowly these days, I mindlessly assume that time moves at the same pace, despite the fact that I'm reminded of just how much faster time moves than I do every afternoon at 3 pm-ish when I finally sit down to breakfast (or "brunner" as I like to call it) and wonder where on earth the 2-3 hours since I got up have gone. Because I'm not out and about, I'm often far removed from the rhythms of normal life. Without the ubiquitous Muzak or store displays it only feels like Christmas for the actually day of Christmas. When I was asked who and what I voted for a few days after the 2012 presidential election, I found that my first thought was there was an election recently?

Then there are the moments when I'm made aware of just what a vicious little bitch time has been. Like the day -- was it a year ago or more already? -- when I was actually feeling randy and plunked myself down in the middle of the spankosphere to spend a few minutes reading my favorite spanking blogs only to find that many had folded. Relationships had broken up. The date on a post I'd swear I had just read a few months earlier said it was three years ago (er...probably four now). It was a very Rip Van Winkle sort of moment -- especially so as I'm literally asleep for up to 12-13 hours a day. The reality of how much time has passed, how much of my life has been squandered in this bedroom triggered a tsunami of grief and rage that quickly drowned whatever mojo I had.

This phenomenon is not limited to my reading other blogs. Amidst a stream of Nanny Bea and other spanking story plots running through my mind lately that had me digging through my archives, I discovered that I wrote my first Nanny Bea story in 2006 (I kept looking at the date stamp certain that I was misreading 2008 as 2006). I also realized that today would be the 10th birthday of Natty's Spanking Blog.  Imagine that. A whole fucking decade. That's a quarter of my entire life. And I'm not even spankable for the birthday spanking. ::pout::

I remember that night when I began this blog, sitting on a still bruised and abraised backside at my table-desk in the little dining area of my campus apartment. I had just attended my first BDSM event and was giddy as hell. The writer in me, of course, wanted to write about it, to attempt -- essayer a la Montaigne (albeit not nearly as articulately)* -- to put into words my thoughts and experiences of the subject matter that took up so much real estate in my brain. Not that that particular post had much essayer-ing going on. Skimming it now, it reads like a 21-year-old's diary entry. But the post before that -- "My Natty Moods" -- is closer to what I wanted to do with this blog (as well as take advantage of a free place to park the stories and essays I had already written at that point). What the blog became is a mixture of both. A place to do some essayer-ing and a journal where I dished the details of my kinky sex life to my kinky pals.

There's not much kinky left to my sex life these days -- or sex, for that matter. I wish I could say things were better. That I'm all better. But for the most part, 2014 has been a pretty shitty year. A few changes this summer have given me enough improvement to write this post (I'll find out at what cost over the next few days, though the sore throat I've already got does not bode well). Yet I'm hopeful (delusional?) that the improvement will stick so that I can hang around. After four years away (even if it feels like it's only been a few months), I am more than ready to wander back to into the spankosphere. But mostly as a reader at this point (although, yes, there are some potential Nanny Bea projects forthcoming along with some other posts). Except so many of the blogs I used to like to read have closed.

Which brings me to this question: what current spanking blogs would you recommend? Are there many thoughtful ones left? Given that this Kinky Van Winkle isn't able to spend a lot of time online, which blogs are the must-read ones and why? They don't necessarily have to be bloggers who post every day or even every week (in fact, the less they post, the better -- for me, at least) but rather writers (though they can be picture-based/Tumblers too) who make me think. Or wet. And you get a gold star if they do both.

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*I've always thought it was cool that Montaigne called his new writing style "essai" or "attempt" from the French verb essayer, to try or attempt. And he does read a bit like a late 16th-century blogger. 

What happened to Natty?

As it's my blog's birthday ("does that mean there are spankings?" A. asked hopefully when I mentioned it to him the other day), I figured it's as good a day as any to post a brief update since my last post was over a year and a half ago. Plus, it might be interesting to see how many of you dear readers still subscribe (I totally understand if you've dropped me; there's hotter and more frequent postings to be had elsewhere). Regular readers can probably guess rather easily as to what has caused the silence (and all the new visitors have had a big clue in the opening sentence of that last post from ever so long ago). Even in the giddy, Neurontin-fueled days of early 2005, I only had the energy to post once every week or two. With each passing year as I became sicker, the number of posts grew smaller (with the exception of 2008 when a hormonal treatment gave me a burst of energy that translated into a burst of posts that summer -- until I quickly used up all that extra energy). I managed to squeeze out a handful of posts in 2010 until finally I could no longer post after January 2011.

Not because I wasn't thinking about spanking anymore. When you spend a lot of time in bed not quite asleep but without enough energy to sit up, you spend a lot of time thinking. In addition to solving the Israel-Palestine conflict, considering ways to bridge the U.S political divide, and deciding how I want to decorate my apartment once I'm well enough, I've also spent my fair share of time thinking about our favorite subject. Mind you, there's been far less fantasizing about spanking than at probably any time in my life since I was, say, seven (instead I've fantasized about interior design and pajama fashion). On better days I have found myself thinking over just how I'm going to beat A. the next time he visits or trying to remember every detail of a typical over-the-knee spanking with A., beginning with his usual polite command of "bare bottom, please" to his sweet sigh of "Okay. All done." But most thoughts about spanking have been on the philosophical and theoretical side, some inspired by the thoughts of other spanko bloggers I read occasionally (and of whom I've felt an insane amount of envy -- not just because you were healthy enough to be spanked but because you could also write about it). For several months I kept a list of the posts I wanted to write when I was well enough. But as the months kept passing and the list required multiple pages, I quit keeping it. I suppose some amount of despair played a part in that decision. And some post-topics were no longer timely. 

As I began to improve this spring, I started the list again. Indeed last November, knowing that improvement was coming, I even started a similarly-titled post to this one that I worked on paragraph by paragraph to explain what had happened (believe it or not, you're reading the shorter version). I had just transferred care to a new GP who makes house calls, which meant I would be able to pay off a bit of my energy credit card that had been maxed out on my apartment building's renovation, my sister's wedding, and lots of trips to the clinic to get my INR checked each week because of so many medication changes. But as the balance came down and I finally had a little energy again, the temptation to charge activities to that energy credit card was too much. Now I'm maxed out once again and in the midst of a nasty relapse that I'm slowly climbing my way out of. The problem with this disease isn't so much that it necessarily leaves you physically unable to do things; it's that it beats the shit out of you afterwards. 

There's more to what has happened to Natty (that's actually spanking related, I swear!), not to mention, I'd love to hear about what's been happening in the spanking blogosphere over the last two years -- what do you think has been the biggest change or event?. But writing, believe it or not, is the equivalent of running a sprint for me, not to mention my heart rate monitor alarm (aka The Bossy Nurse On My Wrist) keeps going off.* Don't even get me started on what Nanny/Nurse Bea would be doing...you know, if she existed...

Thank you to all of you who have visited over this long dry spell. There will be future posts to this blog (and at the Punishment Book). I just can't say when that will be. But then, given my penchant for attention-whoring, it's not such a bad thing for me sit back and read what other people are writing rather than needing people to read my probably-not-as-profound-as-I-think ruminations. Since I'm easing my way back into the spanking blogosphere, maybe you can share your favorite blog or tumblr that you've come across in the last year and a half or so in the comments section. You know, in lieu of birthday spanks (at least for the time being).

One last thing: Reading the depressing ramblings of a sick woman can, at least for some people, feel like an exercise in helplessness (not to mention, is so un-hot and just plain boring). But you're not as helpless as you might think. There are things you can do for me and other people with ME/CFS (or other chronic illnesses, for that matter) -- plenty of whom are also spankos: 

1. Enjoy being healthy. There's a reason for the old cliche, I've still got my health. Once your health goes, everything else gets so much worse. And at some point, it probably will go since, according to a staff member at Independent Living Resources, 70% of people will be disabled at some point in their life (that is why we have programs for the disabled like Medicaid and Social Security, not because we're magnanimous people who care about the weakest among us). I know it's impossible to not take being healthy for granted. However at least, in this moment, be grateful if you can spank or be spanked. Leave your home. Take a shower every day. And not in the feeling-guilty-because-others-can't way. Simply really, truly treasure it. Every last sensual detail. 
2. Learn more about ME/CFS. Appreciate that this is not just a benign condition of mere tiredness (and anyone who says that it is, is being disingenuous at best).  I think it's fair to say that every ME/CFS patient hates the assholes who came up with the name "Chronic Fatigue Syndrome" in 1987 because it minimizes almost to the point of invalidating the horrible reality of this disease (it was a trans-governmental committee, which, you know, explains a lot). While I'm not sure if "Myalgic Encephalomyelitis" is the right name for this condition, I do know that this is a seriously painful, debilitating and, in some cases, potentially life-threatening (I've had blood clots in both lungs) multi-systemic disease that deserves not only better public awareness but also a moniker that better describes its severity. I mean, imagine calling Alzheimer's Disease "Chronic Forgetting Syndrome." And then hearing everybody say "oh, I think I have that" because they sometimes forget a name or misplace their keys.
3. You can donate money -- and/or your talents -- to organizations like Simmaron Research, the CFIDS Association of America, or IACFSME in the US or Invest in ME, the ME Association, or Action for ME  in the UK** that are working to understand this condition and develop treatments but are woefully underfunded. While ME/CFS is, symptom-wise, quite similar to Multiple Sclerosis and Congestive Heart Failure -- on which the National Institutes for Health spent  $121 million and $1.2 billion respectively in 2011 -- ME/CFS is routinely among the diseases the NIH spends the least on, coming in at $6 million that same year (and the year before and even less the year before that).*** Good research with double-blinded, randomized, placebo-controlled studies cost insane amounts of money (which is one of the reasons research about ME/CFS is often of such poor quality) and every last dollar helps. A letter to your congress-person or MP about the lack of funding couldn't hurt either.
4. I can guarantee there is a patient in your area who would think you are the incarnation of Mother Theresa herself should you offer any assistance to him or her (for instance, as someone who is completely housebound, I can also guarantee that housebound person in your area needs something from the store). Indeed you probably already have a friend with a chronic illness, and an ancient blog post, "50 ways to help a chronically ill friend" (originally posted at a blog called "Living with Fibromyalgia," which is now private, which is why I've linked to it on a blog about gastroparesis) is great in its specificity. Saying "let me know if you need anything" is almost certain to get you off the hook of ever helping him or her out. But if you actually do want to help, offer something specific like, say, oh...going to the store (am I being too passive aggressive? Should I just come out and say I need a list of shit from Ikea?). Seriously though, never being able to leave your home is incredibly isolating and just visiting will make their day. (Though I am serious about the Ikea list...you know, if you're in Portland and happen to be going...) Consider contacting a support group in your area, your local county government branch of Aging and Disability Services, or Meals on Wheels if you're looking for someone to help. 

Well, aren't I a wordy bitch? But then, sick people often are. Partly because we have trouble summarizing ourselves well. But also because being sick -- whether acutely or chronically -- makes you more self absorbed. Not because you mean to be. It's an evolutionary response to a threat. Consider what you're like the next time you're in the Emergency Room and that heart attack patient is seen before your tuberculosis-esque cough. Yep. I know. Those nurses are total bitches for seeing him before you!

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*A brief explanation (a 10-minute video) of why using a heart rate monitor can be helpful for ME/CFS can be found here, as well as in an article here at CFIDS & Fibromyalgia Self-Help. The CFIDS Association of America has a longer webinar about post-exertional malaise (or post-exertional neuro-immune exhaustion as it's called in the ICC diagnostic-criteria) and its relationship to significant metabolic impairment in ME/CFS. CAA also has a four-part series on post-exertional malaise that is loaded with helpful information for patients and non-patients alike.

**Some of these organizations are controversial in the ME/CFS patient community and, in many cases, the criticisms have some validity. However the politics are complicated and often pointless -- imho -- albeit fiercely contested by those who think otherwise.

***ME/CFS affects about 1 million patients in the U.S. compared to 250,000-300,000 with Multiple Sclerosis according to the National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Strokes. ME/CFS costs the US economy between $17-24 billion a year in health care, disability benefits, and lost wages and taxes according to a DePaul University study (though would be higher if many of those ME/CFS patients who applied for disability benefits didn't get turned down and, of course, if we actually had treatments for the disease). Congestive Heart Failure rates are similar at 1-2 million U.S. patients and, while I'm unsure of its cost to the national economy, I imagine it is significant. 

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.

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*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. 

Hang on

A few days ago I was reading the (non-kink) blog of a fellow Portlander with the title "Hanging Blog Syndrome." I immediately recognized the malady. Despite having my shiny new Macbook for almost a month now (thank you again, dear friends who donated it!), you can almost hear the creaking of this poor blog as it hangs forlornly in cyberspace.

My blogging is always rather meager when A. is here -- as is his productivity also. Two people sharing a 400sq foot studio for an uninterrupted two and a half months is not particularly conducive to introspective composition.

And, of course, that chronic illness I'm always whining about makes writing* difficult when my brain has turned to cream of wheat and I'm too weak to sit up in bed, drag my fingers across a keyboard and input all the thoughts I've had during the hour upon hour of laying in bed (as has been the case off and on these last few months).  You have no idea how jealous I am of those of you who can blog every day or even every week. And even more jealous of those of you who get to read all those brilliant blogs (like this new one from Queen of the commenters, Indy).

If I could write via mere thought, my hanging blog syndrome would be a thing of the past. Though the brevity and immediacy of Twitter has made reporting fresh spankings and random pervy thoughts less onerous than blogging. I suspect you will continue to find me Twittering my kinkiness more than I blog it.

But A. is leaving on Thursday. Bad for cuddles and spanking (among other things) yet more promising for blogging, as is the recent return of my writing head. Just in time to write about the birthday spanking that I'm sure to get later this evening.

My British A. is still adjusting to the whole concept of birthday spanking. He has suggested that because I didn't get my birthday spanking on my birthday last year, it didn't count and should be added to this year's spanking. But...but...hang on here. This could just get silly rather quickly. Do we add all the years I didn't get a birthday spanking? Er...maybe I shouldn't be giving him ideas.

So I appeal to you, oh sacred jury of the spankosphere, oh International Court of Correction.** Am I not right that a birthday spanking given -- regardless of whether it's on the actual birthday or not -- means I have fulfilled my birthday spanking debt to the universe?

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*Not to mention spanking and sex. We never have gotten to our Rules of the Lashes game. And I was chagrined to note last night after bathing that I think I've only been clean shaven down there twice the entire time A. has been here. So wrong.

**I have been warned that the Court of A. is a higher authority than the International Court of Correction. Though you all could help set precedent, no?

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...

The Sunday Switch

If anybody gets spanked around here on Sundays, it's supposed to be me.

But since A.'s arrival at the end of April, most Sundays have found me a bit too weak for a weekly schedule and spanking. Or, as was the case last Sunday, A. has had to work.

However, this Sunday my expectations regarding what I've often imagined becoming a comforting and familiar ritual were tempered both by my still-sore backside (exacerbated by the clothesbrush the day after that) as well as by the fact that, well, I wasn't feeling particularly submissive.

I can't remember now what exactly started it, but our conversation Sunday night shifted to A. feeling subby and me feeling, at the very least, not subby. Soon we began to discuss the possibility of him being my slave for the night. Both of us played with his swelling member as we considered what he might do for me and what might I do to him during his service and eventually agreed upon an enslavement of two hours.

The last few months I have been having the fantasy off and on of him naked and strapped to our wooden-planked futon frame while his pale, quivering cheeks glowed an ever deepening shade of red under my hand.


His birthday spanking in May was my first taste of this reverie in reality. And while I did give him a hearty introduction to our noble American tradition -- with the marks to prove it -- it was sans the restraints. I was still doing poorly at the time and not fully able to revel in my sadism. And forty-two strokes just didn't seem to satiate me.

His birthday, though, added another dimension to my dominant fantasies. Per his request, my present to him was a cock ring/leash. And I tell you dear reader, once he put it on, got down on his knees, and I took hold of the leash, I was positively wet.

The first twenty minutes of A.'s enslavement, however, were spent looking for the restraints. Three of the four were found, and I decided to make do with the cord that ties the curtains together as a substitute for the missing wrist restraint. Yet as A. bent over the futon frame, I realized I'd misjudged how tall he is and/or how diminutive the futon frame. My homemade restraints proved worthless as his arms and legs lay well past the bottom of the frame (unlike me, at eleven inches shorter, whose legs dangle).

No matter. I had the riding crop, right?

I surely did. After reddening his cheeks with the ping pong paddle (in which I gave him a whole new appreciation for an implement he once dismissed because it has a silly name), I laid into him with that riding crop. Watched with delight as brick red welts began to pepper his lower cheeks and thighs. Smiled with what was probably far too much pleasure as he cried out and wriggled about. And warned him that this was just the warm-up.

The first time I tried to top A. many years back, it was a complete disaster that ended with me in tears. After that my clever darling appealed to my competitiveness by setting up contests in which I had a set amount of time to get him to give in or I lost and would get thrashed. Needless to say, I generally ended up much more sore than he. Topping was hard work. It was acting. Playing a role that took a lot of research and with which at the end of the day I found little in common. Had illness not reduced me to a state of a semi-dependent child/prisoner craving control over something, I think my journey to domme-hood would have been much longer.

After a massage and a bath under the glow of candlelight, I ordered A. back over the futon for the main thrashing. A few months ago he and I talked about pushing my topping limits a bit more. While I've moved past the incessant mental apologies with each stroke, I still have a tendency to stop too soon. To see the marks beginning to accumulate and worry I'm going to break him, which is in fact what I should be doing. This time, with the soothing security of a safeword, I was going to let go of my hyper-empathy and push both of us further than we had gone before. And unlike any of the other beatings I've administered, he was going to feel this one the next day.

Several dozen strokes of the cane introduced several dozen crimson weals and welts to mingle with the earlier ones from the riding crop. Being an Anglo-American couple, I thought it appropriate to match such a British implement with a quintessential American one: a 16 inch oak paddle. I've only been on the business end of it a few times, but that is enough to know how truly sincere his howls of pain were. Especially as I kept having to tell him to move his legs apart and lay against the futon. Most understandable as many of those strokes were full force. I finished with our electric cord loopy whip, mostly because I love the violet loopy marks it makes on his pasty skin. Many of those strokes were also as near to full force as I could make them -- though not without some harm to myself. Whenever I pulled it back before slamming it down on A., the tips of the loops would snap back and hit my knuckles. Yet my bruised knuckle had nothing on his battered ass. Nothing.

Afterwards I led A. to the bed and awarded his suffering with my breasts, bulging out of my black-lace bra, as well as the ultimate prize: my soft, shaved cunt. I reclined against the pillows in awe yet again as he too seemed to handle me in a state of awe. Closed my eyes and squealed with glee as he skillfully pleasured me. Laid in his arms for a few moments afterwards before helping him climax.

A few years ago my beloved began to whisper over the phone to me about how much he wanted to worship my body. I replied with sheepish flirting even while my face became hot and my eyelids failed to hold back my tears. How could I demand -- even accept -- worship when the best I could give my fat, broken, diseased body was half-hearted forbearance?

Yet I've always been a big believer in the "fake it 'til you make it" adage, and the more I let A. caress and fondle my feet, my breasts, my belly, my ass, and my cunt, the more the idea of veneration moved from mere toleration to a service I could increasingly -- and truthfully -- insist upon from my slave even if a part of me remains amazed by it.

With the duration of his enslavement over, A. was more than ready to take his revenge. Unfortunately I haven't been quite ready to switch. Indeed my inner sadist has been enjoying watching the poor dear think up whatever silly and completely dubious pretexts he can think of to get me over his knee.

"That's it. This is going in the punishment book. This clock (pointing to the one by the bed) is not set to the same time as that one (pointing to the one on the wall)."

"I think we should play a spanking game. We haven't played Spanking Poker in a long time."

"Right. You've got five minutes to finish that post, or you're going over my knee."

And each time as I laughed and teasingly told him to fuck off, he feigned such shock and grief (even as he too was laughing). Perhaps, after responding to my concerned query yesterday about his ass that it felt fine, I'm lacking suitable sympathy.

Yet now that this tome of a meditation is coming to a close, I just might, just maybe, be ready to be his naughty little girl again...

...Or not.

It was me!

Whew! That last post kicked the crap out of me. And then the stomach flu kicked a whole lot more crap outta me. Literally. But I'm back to solid foods now. And I think I'm just about caught up on comments, though I still owe lots of email to both kinky and non-kinky alike. So much email...

At any rate, I thought I'd share a quicky with you about my appointment with Nurse K. on Tuesday. Awhile back A. asked regarding my relationship with Nurse K. "who will be the first one to use the S word?" Well, it turned out to be me. At one point, I was mentioning how I had been trying to get an appointment with her the week of the 17th.

"If I saw you that day I could have pinched you -- if you weren't wearing green, that is," she said with a grin.

"Apparently that's an American thing as A. had never heard of that custom until I mentioned it," I said, being the cultural anthropologist-wannabe nerd that I am. Then without really thinking too much and with a bit of a grin myself I followed up with, "And apparently they don't have birthday spankings in England either." Suddenly I realized I'd said the "S" word and quickly mumbled something about perhaps it shows that Americans are more violent.

Nurse K. smiled and then turned back to the computer to type in my Coumadin dose as she verbally went over it with me.

Needless to say, it was not one of my more articulate moments.

Speaking of birthday spankings, A.'s birthday will occur a little over a week after he gets here (a month from tomorrow!). It will be the first time we will have ever been together on his birthday and at that time I plan to painfully introduce him to the venerable American tradition of the birthday spanking.

I'm hoping his ass will be more sore than my arm.

Reaquainting my bottom with the belt and more

Despite the whole falling down the stairs thing, I had had a lot of pent up spanking energy the last couple of weeks. And what was really keeping us from playing much was hosting my dad for a few days as he's been having a particularly bad time of it lately. But once we had some time to ourselves last Tuesday night and our cuddling on the bed could lead to groping and petting, all sorts of things happened.

Like A.'s member swelling and myself getting a bit dewy. And me scraping the splint on my finger down his dick (which made it swell more). And my ass getting butt plug-fucked. And, of course, spanked.

At first I did the topping from the bottom bit. "Please don't spank me with your belt!" I begged.

"You so want to get spanked...Say it! I want to hear you tell me what you want," A. demanded.

Hmph! I hate asking!

But as I was naked on all fours with my ass high in the air hungry to feel that belt on my ass, I quickly gave in.

"I want you to spank me," I admitted just above a whisper. "I want you to whip me with your belt."

And, dear reader, he did. And oh did it hurt! Within a couple of strokes, I was swimming in nausea (the room spinning every time I turned my head didn't help matters any) and shocked at how much it stung. I thought about stopping the whole thing but kept thinking I would adjust to the pain. Instead I just kept thinking "oh God -- make it stop!" Thankfully A. sensed this from my yelping and moving about and lightened the strokes, then stopped completely and went about trying to increase my endorphines the old-fashioned vanilla way.

And I didn't even get a decent orgasm out of it. Even worse, I was soooo sore the next day (worse than falling down 23 stairs!). I mean, some of those muscles haven't been used for, like, eight months.

Needless to say, it kind of put me off spanking for a bit. At least any spankings with implements. I was still craving the odd hand spanking. But frankly, my friends, I was rather afraid of encountering that belt again. Or straps and ping pong paddles. And hairbrushes, canes and riding crops were too hideous to even contemplate.

So when A. announced the night before last that he wanted to finally break in our new futon-cum-spanking bench, I was a bit reticent. I mean, I was sorta in the mood for a spanking, but more of a little girl over the knee hand spanking sort. And I certainly wasn't in much of a submissive or sexual mood. I had been feeling annoyed with everything since the night before, though I didn't know why. As I watched A. get out just about every implement we own, I felt even more ambivalent and slightly sick.

Yet I think it was that fear that finally pushed me to go ahead with it. If I wussed out, the fear would just grow and it would be even harder to meet up with that belt again. Or any other implement for that matter.

So I stripped as ordered (except the cast boot on my left ankle that I sprained in September which the doctor said on Monday I have to wear all the time now, not just when I leave the house, because it's still not healed), though pouted a bit to myself as I did. Sat naked on the bed while he went out for a smoke. Contemplated my impending thrashing, still feeling petulant and afraid, yet also determined. When he returned, I timidly made my way to and over the new bench. As I rested my arms on the seat of futon and laid my ample bottom right on top as my feet dangled several inches above the carpet, my emotions felt like two weather fronts about to collide in the form of a nasty storm. My eyes were already slightly moist. This was it. This just might be the time I actually cried.

After giving me several smacks with his hand, A. decided he wanted my bottom a bit lower. I jiggled my hips down so that my toes touched the floor. He smacked me a few more times, then started softly with the strap. But the edge of the top of the futon was pressing against my pelvis -- you know, the pelvis that always hurts -- and the nausea started trickling back.

"I gotta move," I practically whined. A. fetched a couple of pillows to place under my pelvis as I scooted my bottom back up on top. This was bit more comfortable and after I took a deep breath, A. continued with the strapping.

"What's that like on a scale of 1-10?" he asked after a succession of progressively harder strokes.

I always find that a difficult question to answer in the midst of a spanking because at that moment it will feel a lot more painful than if I have time to compare it with other spankings. On the other hand, each spanking is unique and this one in particular had some very specific conditions attached to it making this a necessary question.

"Um...maybe a seven or so," I answered.

"Let's see if we can get it up to an eight or a nine."

Ugh.

"I'm going to give you 12 strokes. Count them, please."

I groaned aloud reflexively before I remembered that was serious transgression.

"Yes, Sir," I said as submissively as I could. But it was too late.

"Was that a groan I heard?" A. asked as he patted my head.

I stopped for a second to consider if somehow I could spin it as something else but quickly decided to just apologize and hope he had mercy.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

"Right. That will be an additional six."

D'oh! I almost groaned aloud again by accident but stopped it with a deep breath just in time.

A. brought the strap down with a reasonable amount of force. Certainly not full force, but definitely harder than he had been. After the first six strokes, he changed sides so my left cheek wouldn't feel left out. At nine and ten, I was getting close to my limit, especially as the strap kept landing just inside my cheeks. At twelve he rubbed my bottom and switched sides again.

"Now for the extra six. Continue counting, please."

I think it was during those six that my endorphine spigot finally turned on (in addition to another sort of spigot). When he finished with the extra six and groped my bottom, I eagerly pulled my legs apart. His fingers wandered a bit, just as I'd hoped they would.

But he wasn't done with that strap yet. And I wasn't quite finished pouting either. Indeed, a part of me was even just a little irritated that I was getting aroused. Yet I couldn't deny that I was hungry for that strap even as it hurt so much. When he switched to the ping pong paddle and it kept hitting me just inside where my thigh and cheek meet, I so wanted to plead and beg him to stop. And I also wanted more. More, more, more, more, more...

Of course he did stop -- with the spanking, that is -- and turned his attention to more intimate areas. I still didn't come (I'm not sure if I can in that position), but I did feel all nice, warm and fuzzy when I laid down a few minutes later (which I made sure to do earlier this time as I didn't want to get too sore again).

However I still felt like crying. As I got ready for bed I thought about asking A. to spank me more. To give me a hard spanking full force with the hairbrush until I bawled my eyes out. But when it really came down to it, I knew I probably wouldn't get the release I needed that way.

No, I needed to do it in a less kinky, less fun way -- sitting down with myself and being aware of my feelings. So I went to bed and A. went back to work at the desk in the kitchen and I pouted and cried my way through my frustration at having to spend so much time going to doctors appointments lately and being too tired to do much of anything else. And having a broken finger that makes typing hard. And a stupid ankle that STILL has to be in a cast boot. Yeah it was definitely wallowing. But somehow by letting myself wallow, I went to sleep feeling a lot better.

And by pushing myself over the back of that futon, I was able to feel a lot better about getting thrashed. Which is good because tomorrow is my birthday -- the most spankable day of the year.

How do you think I should get my 35 whacks?

When pervin' leads to thinkin'

Now that I lead a life of leisure, I've been working my way through my Netflix queue trying to catch up on cultural reference points, one of which was Midnight Cowboy. And not only did it helped me contextualize, "hey, I'm walkin' here!," but it even had something to feed my insatiable inner perv.

There's a dream sequence in which protagonist Joe (Jon Voight) is remembering a traumatic incident when he and his girlfriend are dragged naked from their car by a group of sneering, salivating men. Interspersed amid the haunting event are memories of Joe's grandma, including one in which she is giving him a spanking.




Half the men drag off his girlfriend and rape her, while the other half bend Joe over the front of the car and rape him (totally understand why this movie got an X rating back in 1969). As they pull his legs apart, there's another flash memory of his grandma preparing to give him an enema.




As you might imagine, the dream sequence was terrifically sexually charged for a pervert like me. Rape, spanking, anal rape over the hood of a car, an enema -- it's enough to get a girl rather hot and bothered.

But as I watched the dream sequence again to catch the spanking, it seemed like the boy was naked, which felt odd. I mean, it could have been that he had just gotten out of the bath or something. But the only children being stripped completely nekkid for a spanking I've ever heard of have been in spanking porn. And while it turns out that if you look at the picture closely there are pants scrunched up around his knees, it did make me wonder how much sexuality intermingles with the discipline of children, whether consciously or not.

I think about it a lot in terms of the environment in which I grew up. Not just in my family, but within the Evangelical community I was a part of throughout my youth. In first grade I went to a Fundamentalist Christian school where spankings were a daily occurrence. And on our birthdays the teacher would have us come to the front of the room, give us a traditional birthday spanking, as well as "a pinch for an inch" on our bottoms and "a hug to grow on." That's right, my first grade teacher pinched my ass. Now, I don't think she molested me or anything (though I doubt such a practice exists today at that school). She was a wonderful woman who would never have done anything to consciously harm a child.

Yet sexual awareness can be a lot like eating from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Though I think there are better ways to teach kids other than hitting them, I also know I couldn't possibly spank any children I'd have because sexuality is so attached to it for me. And I'd feel profoundly uncomfortable playing "spanking tag" with my nieces today, while I didn't at all many years ago before I began exploring my spanking fetish.

I wonder if that's why today pedophilia has become worse than mass murder. Now that we've eaten the fruit of knowledge, it's opened our eyes, but now we're banished from the paradise of ignorance. Don't get me wrong, I in no way condone pedophilia. Those who cross the line from ignorant, harmless bottom pinching to purposely hurting kids to get their jollies should indeed be locked up. Yet, what happens when the line isn't clear? When a person gets her jollies, but isn't always aware of it? Or gets his jollies from spanking young girls, but only spanks girls over the age of consent who look like they're not? I feel safe about where the line is regarding the later question, but not necessarily about the former.

The best birthday present of all

Yep. A. got in Wednesday night -- just in time to give me my birthday spanking yesterday. At the end of a quiet day with a lovely dinner and lovely, er...loving (let's just say it involved a spreader bar and ginger root), there were 33 solid handspanks before I drifted off to sleep.

::happy sigh::

Alas, there probably won't be too many spankings for a bit though. My UA today showed that I've got another UTI, which explains the back pain and extra fatigue this week. So, two weeks more on antibiotics, and then it'll be time for a cystoscopy and a biopsy.

::apprehensive sigh::

At least A. will be here to go to the hospital with me and look after me once I'm home.

Spankos-in-training

I've blogged a few times about my nieces, who appear to be spankos-in-training. Such as here, or here.

So, tonight one of my sisters and I took the oldest two out for their birthday. After watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (was a bit nervous, but I actually quite liked it) and eating pizza at Eatza Pizza (nasty pizza, but nice employees), my sister and I dropped them off at home. I went to give the oldest a hug and as she bent down to hug me, I gave her 11 soft smacks. The next oldest comes running over. "Give me my birthday spanking 'Chell!" And, well, I gave her a hug and 9 soft spanks. Their mother's boyfriend says that he hasn't given them their birthday spankings yet, to which the 9-year-old responds by running over to him and throwing herself over his lap, causing him to wince and complain about his hurt knee. And promise that he's going to give them their birthday spanking at their pool party in a couple of weeks.

Yep. That'll probably be their favorite part.