Coloring

I was 11 years old and Fred Meyer was having a coloring contest with a Thanksgiving theme. The first prize was a $15 gift certificate. For reasons that I cannot explain to this day, I knew I would win that gift certificate if I entered. With my pile of colored felt-tip markers, I carefully and skillfully colored in the black-outlined pilgrims holding their cornucopia of harvested squash, apples, and corn whilst standing next to the Indian friends blissfully unaware of their impending genocidal fate. But I didn't stop with just coloring the page. Being an aspiring writer, I gave them dialogue. Though what I wrote in the bubbles I drew over their heads like cartoonists do is now lost in the mists of time. 

But that little bit of creativity paid off to the tune of a $15 gift certificate, with which I bought a pair of black patent-leather pumps with black grossgrain bows at the toe line. They were the prettiest pair of shoes I've ever owned. Not that I got to wear them often as I was perpetually spraining my right ankle thanks to my genetically-defective collagen. The doctor insisted I wear my Nikes and ankle sock brace at all times to support my ankle, something I found humiliating as hell when I was wearing a dress. Whenever I did wear my patent-leather pumps, I felt beautiful. And talented. Could I not kick some coloring contest ass or what? 

oOo

One of the groups I follow (erratically) at FetLife is Ageplay Between Women, and today it is having a coloring contest. As a former award-winning colorist and someone who has an embarrassingly large coloring book library for a women in her 40s -- as well as an even more embarrassing and long-standing competitive streak -- I knew I had to enter it. But what to color? I quickly zeroed in on a choice between my Anne of Green Gables coloring book and my Mary Englebreit Something to Color the Whole Year Through. Both have a lot of detail in each page -- something I usually eschew as that requires more effort. Most days my cheap Hello Kitty coloring book is a better match for my energy level. But...did I mention my competitive streak? Plus the AoGG and Mary Englebreit books have far more scope for the imagination.

In the end, I went with a picture in the AofGG coloring book where Anne is about to break her slate over Gilbert Blythe's head. It's naughty and not too detailed. I used colored pencils, which are surprisingly muted when scanned and uploaded to my laptop. I don't know that it's my best coloring job. And I definitely do not have the same confidence in my chances of winning this coloring contest. But my inner 10-11 year old has needed an outlet of late. So while my grown-up self listened to Thomas Piketty's Capital in the 21st Century, my little self colored Anne Shirley and the students of Avonlea school. The two halves of me that are so often at odds with each other quieting to let each other just be. It was a rare moment of wholeness.

As always, I woefully underestimated how long it would take for me to color, scan, and post the picture (to say nothing of blogging which I never planned on doing to begin with). It's after 4:30am. Nanny Bea (who is almost always hovering in the back of my mind these days) would be appalled. And almost certainly reaching for her hairbrush. As she will expound upon in a forthcoming story, bedtimes are sacrosanct.

Except when I'm entering a coloring contest. Right?

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. 

That's punishmentbook.NET

Just a quick public service announcement regarding the recent domain change of The Punishment Book, which now ends in .net rather than .org. Some nasty, underhanded pornographers got their hands on the domain and immediately set about diverting traffic to their sites. I suspect most readers of this blog are probably already aware of the change as it happened almost a month ago. But I figure it's better late than never to do my part in spreading the word about the url change.

I would also highly recommend Dyke Grrl's recent PB post about potches and how nice a nightly smack can be for a disciplinary relationship.

Also note that I've done a bit of updating of the right side bar (I hope to continue updating various parts of the blog in the coming months). To the list of my stories aways down the right sidebar I've include my two Nanny Bea stories, Natty Gets a Nanny (which I recently found posted to another site without my consent or even a link back here -- so not cool), and Natty and the Confiscated MacBook, as well as one quick link to all of my Vibe-Review Fantasies (to be broken up into separate links at some future point) since there's a lot of smutty fiction to be had in those old moments of commercial whoriness.  I also added my post Why Domestic Discipline is Not Domestic Violence to the greatest hits list (also to be updated at a later time) as I think it was one of my better essays. One of these days just maybe I'll finally have the whole blog -- stories and all -- available in ebook format.

At any rate, back to radio silence. And wishing Nanny Bea were real.

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. 

Spanked to tears, but...

Okay, another picture post while I'm too sick to do much writing.

Usually when you see someone post about "Daddy" and "spanked to tears," it doesn't conjure up the following image:

A. (who found it) and I have been trying to guess what's going on in this picture. Angry son who has had just about enough of his tyrannical father? Father's fantasy? Mother's fantasy?

Have you got a guess?

If you're interested in purchasing the postcard print, it's for sale on eBay here. 

Jinkies you're naughty, Shaggy!

Click the pic to make Velma spank Shaggy!

A. and I happened upon the above GIF during some research for our discussion deconstructing the class narrative of the Gang and their Mystery Machine vis a vis the -- Nah, just kidding. We were googling Scooby Doo p0rn. And we were quite enjoying it too, thank you very much. I've made this one -- which you can find here -- my new screen saver! Other hot pics included this one, this one, this one and this one (love her sweater and skirt hung neatly up on the side - nice touch!). 

One question, though, with regard to cartoon p0rn: what the fuck is with all the giant balloon boobs? Do guys really think that's hot?

It is blessed to give AND receive

At one point during my phone conversation today with A., the phone line became crackly.

“I’ll call you back and see if that makes it better.”

I hung up the phone and dialed the zillions of numbers that calling an international phone number entails.* Given my proclivity for transposing numbers thanks to my ME/CFS riddled brain, I have ended up calling the wrong number a couple of times this week -- particularly distressing given how late we talk (tonight it was after 1am UK time). So far, the two blokes to answer a call from me have been kindly night owls.

“Hello,” said A. in an even deeper voice than normal and a slightly posher accent.

“Oh dear, have I got the wrong number?” I played along with feigned concern.

“I believe you have.”

“I hope it’s not one of those strict English gentlemen.”

“I’m afraid it is, you naughty girl. Calling at such a late hour. I know what you American girls are like. In need of a good spanking.”

At which point, I giggled nervously but quickly began laughing. A. too began to laugh.

Eventually we returned to our spontaneous roleplay.

“I think what you need is a butt plug,” A. said, in a mixture of his normal voice and the one with which he answered the phone. “I know you American girls have them in your under-the-bed play place.”

“Oh dear!” I exclaimed in the playacting tone of before.

“I’m serious. You need to get a butt plug.” He was now in quintessential A. toppy voice.

“Really?” I pouted.

“Don’t moan. It’s only going to make it worse.”

I dug around in my naughty drawer.

“Is it okay if it’s the vibrating one? I can’t find anything else.” Plus, I much prefer that one as it actually does something (something yummy, I might add) other than just sit there.

“I guess so if that’s all we have. But don’t you dare turn it on until I say so.”

“Yes, Sir.”

All of the sparse phone play of the last few months has been with me topping, as has most of the play planning for when he returns.

“You do know,” he began, “that the universe inside that apartment will have to be evened out. You will pay for all the topping you do. It will be very Buddhist. Very Yin and Yang.”

“Would it be a very smart-ass thing to point out that Yin and Yang isn’t really Buddhist but Confucian?” I said as respectfully as I could (and incorrectly; I meant to say “Taoist” but said Confucian as that was the first word in my head after “Chinese”).

He laughed, but in that completely shocked at such impudence sort of way.

“Yes, it would be a VERY smart-ass thing to say!”

Which, of course, made me laugh.

“You are so out of practice at subbing.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am.”

“Is your butt plug in?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” Then with as cooly a dominant a voice as he could muster said, “Now, I want you to tell me the password to your eBay account.”

I gasped.

I bought part of his Christmas present on eBay last week but changed the password to my account so he wouldn’t see it before he got it. And indeed he was -- or at least acted -- a tad hurt. But he did acknowledge without an ounce of shame that the first thing he would do is look to see what I bought. So. You know. It was for his own good. Tough Christmas Love.

“That is a TOTAL violation of your dom privileges!” I exclaimed.

“Well...you’re in...total violation of...my eBay privileges!”

I divulged nothing.

“I hate surprises,” he muttered. The same way he has almost every day since he found out I’d suspended his access to my eBay account. I, however, love them and find the old adage that it is more blessed to give than to receive even more accurate in this situation.

The switch in roles had been rather precarious up to this point, but A. then shifted into full top gear, telling me when to turn the dial up on my anal vibe, how he was going to turn Sunday afternoons into Punishment Day, what he was going to do to me on said Punishment Day.

When A. first started sharing more about his subby fantasies a few years ago, I worried that I would have a hard time being able to think of him in a dominant sort of way again. But I quickly found out that would not be a problem. Once he’s in top mode and I’m in Natty mode, it’s hard to believe I could have ever doubted his ability to be the same dominant A. I fell in love with eight years ago.

To everything there is a time. A time to top. A time to bottom. A time to give. A time to receive. Tonight was my time to receive. And while I enjoy giving more and more as time goes by, it sure is a blessing to receive.

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*Yes, I know. I need to familiarize myself with the speed dial function on my phone.

Thank you, dear reader

Since I'm too sick to really get spanked much anymore and can't blog all the stuff I think about laying in bed (though I hope there will be a few posts forthcoming in the months ahead), there aren't as many lurkers here as there were in the giddy days of 2005. But there are still a couple of hundred of you who stop by each day. Some of you are new readers who have managed to stumble upon an old post. Some of you are dear, old friends who I've never had the pleasure of learning your name. But to all of you who come by, whether old or new, thank you. 

There's not much to write for Love our Lurkers this year except that I miss you, dear reader. Enjoy your anonymous reading and if you feel like it, give a wave in the comments section here and/or at any of the fine spanking blogs you peruse today.

Dom Lord Something-o-ruther

I've decided that ME/CFS -- actually, ANY chronic illness -- is like a really jealous, demanding top. Not the sweet but strict sort like my beloved A., but rather like those doms who call themselves Lord Something-o-ruther and refuse to use safewords and say something is for your own good but really it's just to satisfy their own abusive sociopathology. The illness dom gives you an impossible list of rules (that he may or may not share with you) and if you fuck up in any way -- or even if you don't -- the Illness Dom will punish you. Savagely. And before you know it, you're never allowed to see your friends or spend time online because you belong to Lord Something-o-ruther and he jealously takes every moment of your time, every ounce of your energy, every breath of your being. The Illness Dom locks you in and takes the key with it, leaving you to watch as the life you could have drives off in a red pick up truck.

Okay that last metaphor I lifted from an old, haunting story Mija wrote about a girl who suffered this fate at the hand of her abusive top. I reread the story the other day after thinking how much I was starting to feel like a ghost-girl, albeit one who has had even less choice in choosing my circumstances. It's not just that the illness makes me feel like shit all the time, but illness also includes a never ending list of bureaucratic issues - appointments to make, transportation to schedule, prescriptions to order and manage, Medicaid, Food Stamp, and Housing re-certifications with receipts and letters and bank statements to sort through, Home Care Worker to hire, Home Care Worker benefits cut due to the state budget shortage, state officials to lobby, medical clinic's narcotic pain management policy changes to adjust to, decreases in opioid meds -- even though my pain has not decreased -- to adjust to as well, other meds with varying effectiveness to try, surgery to have, surgery to recuperate from (successful on both accounts), Home Care Worker benefits restored (yay!) meaning now a Home Care Worker to hire (but now without A.'s help), medical clinic refusing to relent on pain meds to despair over, more tinkering with meds (sleepy, nauseous), new Home Care Worker  (yay!) to train (oh please work out this time!), letters to be written to medical director and state pain commission, fewer pain meds to take, more and more pain to manage...

For the last month and a half, the bureaucracy has been like climbing a vertical face.*

Kink and any energy to write about it jumped right out the window after I posted that first of a two part post that I thought I would quickly follow with a second (I just knew that was going to happen if I posted the first part without having the second definitely done!). Lord Something-o-ruther didn't even let me post anything when the six year anniversary of this blog (August 10th) came and went (can you believe it's been six years already? can you believe it's only been six years given all that's happened?). A couple of weeks ago it did let me take my post-surgical pelvis/abdomen for a spin (like any dom, it only allows me to masturbate with its permission). I wanked and came with little pain - certainly none of that horrible, feels-like-I'm-ripping-something pain I had pre-laparoscopy. So, you know, very cool! But as the horrible, feels-like-someone-is-burning-me-from-the-inside-out pain that I live with every second of every moment of every hour of every day throughout my body (especially in my arms and legs) was increasing because my doctor was required to reduce my opioid medication, Lord Something-o-ruther had tied me up and locked me in the closet again.

Until this weekend. Natty came back. Mostly because my doctor was able to switch me back to my earlier narcotic dose -- but start tapering down again -- as well as try an increase in an anti-seizure medicine I also take for pain so that my pain has been back to being quite manageable for a couple of weeks. Sure, I also wanted to sleep more. But laying in bed in a drug-induced reverie was the first moment of freedom from Dom Lord Something-o-ruther I've had for awhile. I could actually think about something besides it. I could be little again. At first Michelle was having none of it. My grown up self was still climbing the vertical face -- which is clearly not an activity for kids.

Or is it?

I've been wanting to write about the dominance of my grown-up self (the real Lord Something-o-ruther?) versus my Natty self (along with the legion of other topics I've thought about while laying in bed -- alas, the dearth of posts is never because I don't have anything to say). And I don't know that I'll get into the full analysis I've been pondering over the last few months tonight. But as I've been vomiting out all my white-knuckled frustration of the last month and a half onto this Blogger compose interface, it wasn't until I wrote the above paragraph that I remembered how much I need Natty. Many years ago my therapist told me to treasure her. But lately I've wondered how to do that. Or even if I should do that. I mean, isn't she just this way I escape reality when I can't handle it? Isn't it healthier to just learn to live with life the way it is rather than hide away in some overactive part of my imagination? You know, embrace the present, yada yada yada (which is also what that therapist said)?

And then I remembered the last bit in that first post with which I began this here blog those six years ago about rediscovering Allie (proto-Natty) when I was first getting sick and disabled ten years ago.

I realized how much I needed her back. Her emotional energy. Her willfulness. Her playfulness. Her immature selfishness. I need her to feel the feelings my intellect has long ago explained away. To temper my endless caregiving with the demands of my own needs. To stamp her foot and say, “it’s time to play.”

I actually (with tongue somewhere in cheek) list as my occupation "personal care coordinator" as that really is what I do all day when I'm not sleeping or trying to eek out a social life online. And Personal Care Coordinator Michelle needs a break. She needs Natty to help her play. Especially as the coming weeks are going to be hard. Distraction is an important pain management tool and after next Saturday I'm going to need to use every non-narcotic tool even more than I already do (meditation, yoga, qigong, physical therapy, massage therapy, acupuncture, heat/cold, supplements, non-narcotic prescriptions, warm baths, guided imagery...). My doctor has me on a list to have my case reviewed by an Opiate Review Board, but I have no idea when that will be or if it will be successful. I feel hopeful that at some point we'll get me back to an adequate narcotic dose or find some other medication to help (not that we haven't already gone through just about every anti-seizure or anti-depressant that's also used for pain that my insurance will cover) for no other reason than I can't imagine being in that much pain for an extended period of time.

So Natty plays. A. gave me my first tele-spanking in months the day before last. It was just a handful of quick strokes and yeah, my shoulder was quite sore the next day (that's why a quarter of my freezer is devoted to ice packs!) but I'm hoping we'll be able to play some more over the phone this week. And, of course, A. and my illusory Nanny are already helping me manage my activity levels since overexertion exacerbates my pain and gives Lord Something-o-ruther an excuse to lock me away in a dungeon that's anything but a playground.

Hmm...Maybe that's another way Natty helps me with illness....Oh dear, speaking of managing my activity level, I've just got so carried away with my de-facto journaling here that I totally lost track of the time. Like, wandered away from the track and the field and have been following a butterfly so far into the woods that the roads no longer have those green street signs but wooden posts with numbers... 


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*And just to make life even more fun than it already is, I found out last Friday my apartment building is being remodeled in November requiring us all to move out for a week. They are hiring third party movers to pack and move our stuff (which is good cuz I can't do shit!), but I'll have to unpack everything once they're done. All 1200 books, etc. that took months to unpack... ::sigh::

Note: September is Pain Awareness Month. If there is anything I've realized from this experience with the change in narcotic pain management policy at my clinic is that nobody with chronic pain in this country is safe from interference with their narcotic pain medication. I always thought that because I did everything right and I had a caring, competent doctor, I was fine. But not only is the War on Drugs locking away people who don't need to be and crippling us economically, but it's also keeping sick people from getting the treatment they need. Yes, pain builds character but chronic pain also atrophies the brain and may increase your risk of death from any cause by as much 49% - up to 68% if just looking at cardiovascular-associated mortality. (I keep meaning to do a post(s) on the science of pain and spanking...) The next time you see a story about prescription narcotic addiction, remember all the people who are are not getting their pain adequately treated (or treated at all) because of the overhyped fear of narcotic addiction. Yes, addiction happens (though to less than 1-2% of those using it for pain). Yes, narcotics will kill you if you don't use them right - as does my Coumadin. But like my Coumadin, the benefit for those in pain outweighs the risk and certainly the disingenuous moralization.

::stepping off soapbox and into bed::

VibeReview Fantasy: Under-the-Bed Restraints, Pt. 1 - The Fantasy

Normally with my review of VibeReview products I begin or end with a fantasy in which the product plays a starring role -- mostly to assuage my guilt over my commercial whoring by making the review as hot as possible. However, after this fantasy spent several months in my subconscious lulling me to sleep over many nights, it became so damn long I've got to post it as a story all on its own.

Please note that this is my first attempt at debporn and is a story involving the touching and punishing of genitalia of a teenage girl by her parents. If you get squicked by that sort of thing (and god knows, it is disturbing) you might want to skip this story. I want to be very clear that no real children were harmed in this story. This is a fantasy in which I imagine me - who is very much an adult - in this situation. The only possible connection to reality this might ever have would be in roleplay between me (again, an adult) and another consenting adult. I do not support the spanking of real children, and I sure as hell do not condone in any way behavior such as this from real parents.

oOo

The Fantasy: Restraints of Biblical Proportions

I suppose I’ve always known they’re a bit strange in the bedroom of a teenage girl. Whenever my friends come over, I always stuff them in between my mattress and boxsprings. Most of the time, I hardly notice them. Except at bedtime, of course.

Every night after I brush my teeth and wash my face, I lay down on my bed over a pile of fluffy pillows and Mother uses them, the Under-the-Bed Restraints, to tie me down. She pulls my nightgown up and my panties down so that I’m ready for Father and my Purity Inspection. He’s been doing them every night since I started my period. He says this way he’ll know if I’ve been thinking unclean thoughts or worse.

Most nights he inspects me by poking his gloved finger into my womanhood. Tracing his finger up to my rosebud. Back down to my womanhood. And my bottom hole.

If I’m moist, I get the strop.

And I’m always moist.

Father takes off the rubber glove and Mother hands him the coffee-brown razor strop. He always tells me how disappointed he is that I’m not keeping my mind on “whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report...” He slaps the strop down on my quivering cheeks while he continues quoting Philippians 4:8. “If there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”

Of course, the only thing I can think on at that moment is how much I hate that strop. And how helpless I am pinned to the bed in the restraints.

When he finishes with that verse, he moves on to I Corinthians 6 while whipping the well-oiled leather against my increasingly angry red bottom and thighs. “Flee fornication,” he’ll call out like he does from the pulpit. “Every sin that a man doeth is without the body; but he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body. What? know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own? For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's..”

Because of the restraints, I can’t even squirm and wiggle like I can when I’m over his or Mother’s knee. Mother always cinches them as tight as she can without pulling out a limb. The most I can manage is to rock my pelvis a bit.  And cry into my pillows until it’s over.

But I’m always glad Father never inspects me afterward. I don’t understand it. I hate the strop but for some reason I’m always even more moist after my punishment. And I always want to touch myself. Touch my womanhood.

On Saturday night, after Mother has strapped me down to the bed, she holds my cheeks apart while Father more thoroughly inspects my bottom hole with his fingers to make certain I have not allowed it to be violated. When he is sure that I haven’t, he takes the tip of his belt and lashes my bottom hole. “Mortify therefore your members which are upon the earth; fornication, uncleanness, inordinate affection, evil concupiscence...”

It’s agonizing. I used to beg Father for mercy, but he only reminded me that to do so would show that he does not love me for “he that spareth his rod hateth his son...” And Father never spares the rod. Ever.

After the belt, Mother hands him the red hot water bottle connected to a long white tube and nozzle. She spreads my cheeks again and puts some Vaseline on my raw, throbbing bottom hole. Father pushes the nozzle inside my bottom and fills me up with warm, soapy water. When all the water is inside me, he plugs me up with a large rubber plug. If I have been particularly willful during the week -- talked back to Mother or was sloppy with my chores -- he plugs me with a large chunk of ginger root, its burn reminding me of the eternal fires of Hell.

While I hold the enema, Father gives me his Saturday evening sermon. Sometimes the topic is a shorter version of the sermon he’ll give on Sunday at church. Other times it’s a spontaneous one on a topic specifically for me, like resisting temptation, honoring my parents, or remaining clean and pure.

Sunday night is slightly different. Mother uses the Under-the-Bed Restraints to fasten me down on my back, my knees bent and spread apart. She holds my legs down while Father shaves my womanhood. Not only does this keep it clean, he says, but it more readily exposes any sexual immorality. Father reminds me of what a precious jewel my womanhood is, a gift from God that I will give my future husband and lord -- but only if I carefully guard my purity. “Always remember the words of Paul in first Thessalonians four, three through five:  ‘For this is the will of God, even your sanctification, that ye should abstain from fornication: That every one of you should know how to possess his vessel in sanctification and honour; Not in the lust of concupiscence...”

To remind me of the eternal hellfire awaiting whores and fornicators, Father whips my freshly shorn jewel with the wooden yardstick we use during Home School. Better for me to feel a little burn now than the all consuming burn of eternal damnation. Though I can’t imagine a worse burn than this. When Father first began to discipline my womanhood, Mother had a hard time holding my legs down. But over the years she’s gotten very strong. Between her arms and the Under-the-Bed Restraints, I’m practically paralyzed. Except I can feel everything, of course.

I used to hate the restraints. I hated feeling so helpless. Vulnerable. Dependent. I hated being completely laid bare and exposed and unable to hide anything. After a while, though, the Under-the-Bed restraints began to feel...right. Almost comfortable. I mean, my parents only do this because they love me and don’t want me to go to Hell, right? In a way, it’s like the restraints make me feel loved and protected. Even safe, in a way.

Except they also make me feel...wicked. Just thinking about them or the strop makes me...moist. Clearly you can see why Father has to do Purity Inspections. Why my parents need those Under-the-Bed Restraints, along with the strop and the washing outs and the shavings. I must learn to possess my vessel “in sanctification and honour; Not in the lust of concupiscence.” It’s what good, Christian parents do, right?

oOo

I'll have Part 2, the actual review, posted by Monday.

Push-button spanking

From the February 14, 1898 edition of the New York Times:

I always though spanking chairs were for sitting on while turning a miscreant over your knee -- or bending them over to spank. And talk about lazy-ass wardens. Can't even spank their naughty charges themselves!

Though I must admit, I do want to know what ever happened to this spanking chair.

Kindergarten was the first time I had ever heard of spankings at the push of a button. My teacher, Mrs. W. always threatened us with time in her mysterious, unseen spanking machine. Except she was so sweet her threats only made me slightly concerned rather than fearful. And very, very curious. Oddly enough, I always imagined it being similar to the above spanking chair, except inside a machine that looked like a hollowed-out R2-D2/over-sized vacuum cleaner.

Will be posting the first part of my newest VibeReview Fantasy tomorrow, which will be of particular interest for fans of debporn*. I say first part because the short fantasy I usually write to go with my review became a bona-fide story after spending months in my subconscious. So I'll post the story first and then the review the next day (or two...ish).

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*The old FAQ for the soc.sexuality.spanking Usenet group defines debporn as "a particular type of story post featuring severe, family setting discipline and/or humiliation including very raw anal/crotch spankings. May or may not include sex. Very intense." Based on the stories of Debbie Ann.

Putting Natty to bed

A. was just putting me to bed.

Except after he had tucked me in, I realized I hadn't taken any Melatonin. As I got up to get a new Melatonin bottle in the hallway cupboard (I finished the last bottle yesterday), I found the new bottle of NyQuil and box of Sudafed I got for A. in my last drugstore.com order. Since I knew he needed them, I pointed them out and handed them to him before throwing away the wrapper around the lid to my Melatonin bottle along with some bits of trash on the table by my bed. While walking back into the bedroom, I noticed A. had left his beer on the other bed table. So I took it out to him in the living room.

"You could have asked me to come get it," A. said after thanking me.

I shrugged and made my way back to the bedroom. Except I noticed A. following close behind.

"Making sure I get to bed this time?" I joked.

"Yes, actually." A. stated.

"Oh." With a sheepish bite of my lower lip upon suddenly feeling like a five-year-old.

After taking the Melatonin, I grinned mischievously as I slipped under the covers. Again.

"Okay, I'm really in bed."

A. bent down and kissed me good night. Again.

"You need some serious discipline," he said, shaking his head before closing my bedroom door.

Except spanking has been unavailable as a method of serious discipline for almost two weeks now because of some serious sciatica that started in my left leg but has now settled so badly in my right leg I can barely walk -- another reason I shouldn't have been wandering about. It seems like it's a tad bit better today, so hopefully by the end of the week A. will be able to fulfill my apparent need for serious discipline.

D'oh! I just remembered: I forgot to take my probiotic before bed. Wonder what A. will do if I get up to take it?

Who's on top?

By pinching my nipple A. could read my thoughts. I was laying against his chest last night, shirt up to give him access. He was fondling the creamy, abundant breasts bulging inside my black bra. Tenderly -- at first. Then he pinched my nipple, gradually crushing it between his thumb and forefinger. Instead of protesting or retaliating (his boys are much more sensitive than my girls), I simply whimpered.

"Somebody's in a subby mood," he announced.

I hadn't intended to show my cards so soon.

He had just been telling me that he was in a mood more amenable to subbing if I still wanted to top. We were going to play the night before, but he had been feeling under the weather with the cold that won't go away. And I had been far too groggy from an epic four and half hour nap (despite my normal twelve-hour slumber that night), even though I had fallen asleep while planning a night of sadistic delight.

Suddenly he was suggesting all sorts of nasty things to do to my ass: ginger, the cane, a hard punitive ass fucking (it's what dirty sluts get for being, well, dirty sluts, right?). All of which was making my cunt gush.

As is so often the case however, my cunt and the rest of my body were at total odds with each other. The sciatica in my left buttock kept throbbing, despite much icing. The muscle spasm in my right foot would not stop pulsating. My bummy hole has been rather tender of late with, um, ::cough:: hemorrhoids ::cough:: (I hate the stuff my doctor gave me to treat them). And the lower right abdominal pain that I've finally agreed to let a surgeon take a look at was as distressing as ever. Indeed for the last few months I haven't even been able to come without a sharp, violent pain there at the moment of orgasm -- hence the reason I've finally agreed to the laparoscopy after dragging my feet for three years with multiple bouts of physical therapy and every other kind of therapy you can think of.

Even as I dreamed of punishment during my rest period, of being vulnerable and violated, I knew it was not to be. Perhaps A. began the evening with the right idea in the first place. My legs could use a good massage -- and maybe even my foot and glutes.

"I'll have a bowl ice cream, please," I ordered A. after handing him the creams and oil I wanted him to use for my massage.

When he returned with my ice cream, he shook his head.

"How did we end up here tonight? What happened to me fucking you up the ass?"

You know, the question I was asking in my last post. The funny thing about switching is, you never know who's going to end up on top.

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.