It's been a slow blogging month due to a combination of factors: spending time with my boyfriend, illness (yeah, I was back in the ER with another UTI the very day we left for the Grand Canyon), traveling and the fatigue it brings even though it's been way fun, sharing computer time with my boyfriend, and, of course, Christmas and all the work that brings. Can you believe I didn't even get a switch in my stocking? Hmm...I'm not sure if that's a good thing or bad...
Though, while a switch in the theoretical sense sounds exciting, on a practical level, it makes me tense up. My pain threshold is still quite low. After a spanking last week, I began to wonder if I used up all my endorphines in September with that kidney infection. Usually when I get spanked, the 6th or 8th stroke or so is the worse and I'll feel like I just can't bear another smack. But then the endorphines kick in and the spanking becomes more bearable. It still hurts a lot, but I know I can tolerate it to the end. However, when I get spanked now, I never seem to get over that hump. The endorphines never seem to come like they used to and every single smack feels absolutely unbearable, even though I know they are not nearly as hard as they usually are. It feels rather frustrating, though I suppose I'm just being impatient.
What feels really annoying is that even though it seems more painful and unbearable, I still don't cry. Granted, I'm not quite as stoic as I normally am. I do make a lot more noise (you know, a lot more "owees") and I squirm a bit more. A part of me wants to be spanked until I cry, but mostly the thought of that much pain terrifies me.
Yesterday's spanking was nice though. It was sorta spontaneous. We were cuddling on the bed and inevitably his hand was caressing my bottom. Then gently smacking it. Eventually I laid over his lap and he spanked me over my PJ bottoms. Then my bare bottom. With harder smacks. And this time, I tried not to tense up like I have been. To breathe deeply. To be aware of the sting. The thud of his hand reverberating in my cheeks. To remember the pleasure I usually feel to be over his lap. That mixture of happy, contented, well-spanked little girl and aroused, sexy, voluptuously-curved woman.
Call it my own form of spanking zen.
Monday, December 27, 2004
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Grand Canyon Spanking
Grand Canyon at Lipan Point
I feel so exhibitionist here, which is totally not me usually. But, it IS a cool pic. Unfortunately you can't see any marks from my spanking.
We just got back yesterday from a trip to the Grand Canyon. The weather was brilliant. During the day it was mild -- 50 degrees or so -- and cold at night so that the snow from the week before was still on the ground. But the roads were all clear and the sun was out and bright.
There were a lot of people at the main viewpoints but the smaller ones were almost deserted. "Right," my boyfriend said with a grin, "if nobody's at this next stop, you're getting spanked." As we got out of the car, a few other cars pulled in and I thought I was safe. But after a few pictures, they left and we were all alone. After taking a few more pics of our own and making sure everyone was truly gone, I bent over the rail. My coat was pulled up, my jeans and panties down. The sun was starting to set so the temperature was dropping. And in the chilly mountain air I got a good 20 or so stingy smacks on my cold backside. Ouch! ;)
And since we were taking pictures of everything else (255 pics altogether! God bless digital cameras and big old flashcards), we had to get a few pics of this.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Disorder in the Spanko Universe
Not to be outdone by political blogger wonkette, who had two BDSM related posts today, my boyfriend and I have also been doing some spanko related political analysis of our own. See, we figure that the reason the world is completely out of whack at the moment (er...pun probably intended) is that the Dom(me)/sub, Top/bottom, Spanker/Spankee -- whatever label you prefer -- order is also not right.
My boyfriend's theory is that the more public power one holds, the more likely one is to be spanked in the bedroom (please note for all those who take things way too seriously, this is a bit tongue and cheek and gross generalization). Hence, Ronald Reagan had Nancy, George H.W. had Barbara, Bill had Hillary, etc. However, I remember seeing a clip on the news a few years back (either during the 2000 election or just after, I think) where when Laura met George up on the stage for some event, he kissed her and smacked her on the bottom, suggesting that perhaps he's the spanker and she the spankee. But, alas, how could George be both the leader of the free world AND spanker in the bedroom? Clearly the cosmic order of the universe has been turned on its head!
Yet, George has gotta be hankering for someone to spank him. And considering the way he over does the whole macho thing, we think he's probably got latent homoerotic fantasies about Dick Cheney. Except, Dick is probably spanked by Lynn Cheney. So, maybe Lynn is spanking BOTH of them. Bending them both over the desk in the Oval Office, her crop in hand. That'd be appropriate for two cowboys. And who knows, maybe there's even a little strapon action. I mean, how rich would that be to know that the two fucking over the world are being fucked up the ass themselves? Though the only way that would give me the smallest amount of comfort would be if that were without lube...
And probably bent over next to them is Tony Blair. My boyfriend thinks that Tony and Cherie are both spankees, which is why British politics are so mad at the moment. But Cherie has her various gurus to go to. So, who the hell does Tony go to? Well, clearly the answer is America, as seen in current British-American relations. Yep, British troops are in Iraq all because Tony needs a good spanking (where IS Maggie Thatcher when you need her?? Though, actually she was clearly the spankee and Dennis the spanker).
Right. Enough spanko-political analysis for tonight. It's my birthday tomorrow and I got a big spanking day ahead of me. ;)
My boyfriend's theory is that the more public power one holds, the more likely one is to be spanked in the bedroom (please note for all those who take things way too seriously, this is a bit tongue and cheek and gross generalization). Hence, Ronald Reagan had Nancy, George H.W. had Barbara, Bill had Hillary, etc. However, I remember seeing a clip on the news a few years back (either during the 2000 election or just after, I think) where when Laura met George up on the stage for some event, he kissed her and smacked her on the bottom, suggesting that perhaps he's the spanker and she the spankee. But, alas, how could George be both the leader of the free world AND spanker in the bedroom? Clearly the cosmic order of the universe has been turned on its head!
Yet, George has gotta be hankering for someone to spank him. And considering the way he over does the whole macho thing, we think he's probably got latent homoerotic fantasies about Dick Cheney. Except, Dick is probably spanked by Lynn Cheney. So, maybe Lynn is spanking BOTH of them. Bending them both over the desk in the Oval Office, her crop in hand. That'd be appropriate for two cowboys. And who knows, maybe there's even a little strapon action. I mean, how rich would that be to know that the two fucking over the world are being fucked up the ass themselves? Though the only way that would give me the smallest amount of comfort would be if that were without lube...
And probably bent over next to them is Tony Blair. My boyfriend thinks that Tony and Cherie are both spankees, which is why British politics are so mad at the moment. But Cherie has her various gurus to go to. So, who the hell does Tony go to? Well, clearly the answer is America, as seen in current British-American relations. Yep, British troops are in Iraq all because Tony needs a good spanking (where IS Maggie Thatcher when you need her?? Though, actually she was clearly the spankee and Dennis the spanker).
Right. Enough spanko-political analysis for tonight. It's my birthday tomorrow and I got a big spanking day ahead of me. ;)
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Finding That Spot
So, I'm sitting on a very sore bottom as I type this post. Yes, my boyfriend arrived three days ago, and I've been spanked everyday since. What a meanie... ;)
Actually, he's really not. He's quite sweet, slowly breaking me back in. My pain threshold is the lowest it's ever been in the four and a half years since I started exploring my spanking kink and getting my backside spanked. Even hand spankings are enough to make me yelp and kick my legs a bit.
It's not like the pain I went through this summer/fall is the only time I've been in tremendous physical pain. Six years ago when I was on blood thinners to treat blood clots in my calf and lungs that developed after surgery on my knee and ankle, my knee started hemorraghing internally. The paramedics said that it looked like there was a soccer ball on my knee. Even though they were giving me morphine by IV every 20 minutes, it felt like someone had kicked my kneecap out of place and then with all of the nerves and ligaments still attached, jumped on top of it. And since I was post-operative, they couldn't drain it because I could have bled to death. So, they just wrapped it up really tight. They don't make narcotics yet that are strong enough for that kind of pain. It used to be when I heard stories about the IRA shooting out the kneecaps of people, I'd think "omg -- that's gotta be like, the worse pain ever." Now I just sorta shrug and think, "I could take it. Wouldn't be pleasant, but I'd manage."
September wasn't quite that bad, but it was bad enough and for a much longer period of time. When I think back to when my knee bled, I feel a mixture of anger (I was released from the hospital with the blood clots far too soon by some very condescending doctors and against what my nurse thought was wise) as well as a sick sort of pride. I survived. I know what real pain is like. I'm tough. But when I think about that horrible kidney pain of September, all I feel is trauma and helplessness. I didn't have to be in that much pain for so long, but nobody understood what was wrong. In this case, it wasn't negligence but my body not giving my doctors the right information.
And now it's like I'm still in this sort of post-traumatic stress, which is, as I've talked about in another post, a result of having Fibromyalgia where my "pain amplifier" is turned up too far. Which is why it's nice having my boyfriend here at last. To curl up with in bed. To stroke my hair. To kiss my head. To cuddle me in between stingy smacks that are lighter than normal as I find that spot where my spanko imagination and my traumatized physical sensation can meet.
Actually, he's really not. He's quite sweet, slowly breaking me back in. My pain threshold is the lowest it's ever been in the four and a half years since I started exploring my spanking kink and getting my backside spanked. Even hand spankings are enough to make me yelp and kick my legs a bit.
It's not like the pain I went through this summer/fall is the only time I've been in tremendous physical pain. Six years ago when I was on blood thinners to treat blood clots in my calf and lungs that developed after surgery on my knee and ankle, my knee started hemorraghing internally. The paramedics said that it looked like there was a soccer ball on my knee. Even though they were giving me morphine by IV every 20 minutes, it felt like someone had kicked my kneecap out of place and then with all of the nerves and ligaments still attached, jumped on top of it. And since I was post-operative, they couldn't drain it because I could have bled to death. So, they just wrapped it up really tight. They don't make narcotics yet that are strong enough for that kind of pain. It used to be when I heard stories about the IRA shooting out the kneecaps of people, I'd think "omg -- that's gotta be like, the worse pain ever." Now I just sorta shrug and think, "I could take it. Wouldn't be pleasant, but I'd manage."
September wasn't quite that bad, but it was bad enough and for a much longer period of time. When I think back to when my knee bled, I feel a mixture of anger (I was released from the hospital with the blood clots far too soon by some very condescending doctors and against what my nurse thought was wise) as well as a sick sort of pride. I survived. I know what real pain is like. I'm tough. But when I think about that horrible kidney pain of September, all I feel is trauma and helplessness. I didn't have to be in that much pain for so long, but nobody understood what was wrong. In this case, it wasn't negligence but my body not giving my doctors the right information.
And now it's like I'm still in this sort of post-traumatic stress, which is, as I've talked about in another post, a result of having Fibromyalgia where my "pain amplifier" is turned up too far. Which is why it's nice having my boyfriend here at last. To curl up with in bed. To stroke my hair. To kiss my head. To cuddle me in between stingy smacks that are lighter than normal as I find that spot where my spanko imagination and my traumatized physical sensation can meet.
Sunday, November 21, 2004
Pics from Jerusalem
The Notre Dame Center in Jerusalem.
The door at the end of the hallway was my room.
My convent-like room with an icon of the Holy Mother above my bed.
The wall across from my bed with yet another icon of the Theotokos.Made me afraid to even say any bad words.
Story: The Old City [F/F]
I started writing this story in April when I was staying at the Notre Dame Center, the Vatican's guesthouse in Jerusalem where I was attending a conference. See accompanying pictures (needless to say, my room didn't look at all like the one on their website, but aside from the room description, the rest of this story is entirely fictional). Oh, and shukran jazeelan to Youssef who helped me with some of the Arabic as mine is a bit rusty at the moment. ;)
The Old City [F/F]
I found the St. Joseph’s hostel in one of those travel books. Lonely Planet or something like that. It seemed cheap and in a good location. Just inside the New Gate of the Old City. Run by some Italian nuns.
“You are pilgrim, si?” asked Sister Maria, the short, plump nun in her dark blue habit who gave me the key to my room.
“Si…well, sorta. And to study.” I did want to be near the Holy Places. But I also hoped to expand my Arabic a bit. My priest had put me in touch with a friend of a friend who lived in a monastery in the Old City and could use a few extra shekels in income tutoring me.
“Bueno.” She gave a curt smile and pointed me to my room. A small cell at the end of the dark, stone hallway. With a crucifix over the bed and an icon of the Holy Mother on the opposite wall. I set my backpack on the bed and examined the card on the desk with instructions in English and Italian.
“Please label all food left in the kitchen.”
“There is a launderette near the Post Office on Jaffa Road outside of the New Gate.”
“Note that the gate to the hostel closes at 10:30 pm and you must be in your room by the beginning of quiet hours at 11 pm.”
Good, I thought. I like to go to bed early.
I began my Arabic lessons with Brother Elias the next day in the lobby of the hostel. We trudged through lesson 8 in Al-Kitab, which is where my Arabic class left off at the end of the year. Brother Elias continuously corrected the slight Egyptian accent I’d begun to pick up from characters used in the audio cassettes with the book.
“La! Do not say ‘gaamiah,’ say ‘Jaamiah.” He would always point is finger up into the air when he’d say ‘la!’
After my lessons, I roamed through the Old City. Down the winding alleys of stone where the smell of incense and urine mingled in the hot summer sun. Through the souqs where I learned quickly to ignore the offers of tea that were really the prelude to a high pressure sales pitch. Ate my share of falafel and hummus and shwerma. Managed to meet people from all over. Ethiopian pilgrims. New York Hassidim. French imams. British students attending BirZeit University in the West Bank.
It was that last group that got me into trouble. Not anything political, which is usually the case in these parts. No, trouble at the hostel.
With Sister Maria.
Who pretended not to listen in on my Arabic lessons, which I, more often than not, had failed to study for the night before.
Who would only speak to me in Arabic, particularly with vocabulary she knew I was supposed to know.
Who tutted every night as I barely made it through the gate at 10:30 upon returning from a night of frivolity with my new friends.
And of course, it had to happen. I left Ramallah one night a bit late. My taxi got held up at a checkpoint. By the time I reached the hostel, Sister Maria was walking up the stairs, having just locked the gate.
“Oh, Sister. Please let me in. I’m soooo sorry I’m late.”
“Marrat-thani, min fdlik?” I knew what her request to repeat again meant.
“Uh…er, um,” I hunted around for my Arabic. “Min fdlik, iftari al bab, ya ukht? It was probably wrong grammatically, but I think it got across the idea.
She grunted. Came down the stairs. Took out the key and opened the metal bars. Then grabbed my ear.
I gasped.
“Ohh! Ow. Please. I mean, min fdlik…” I kept trying to pull away, which just made her grab hold even tighter.
All the way to her office behind the front desk.
She finally let go and then let out a torrid of Arabic. I picked up words here and there. Tdruse – study. ‘Asdeq’aek – friends. Strained to figure out more. Though I didn’t really need to.
Then she pulled out a chair, placing the back of it toward me.
“Enhany ‘ala-lkoorsee.” She pointed to the chair. I blinked at her. What the hell did ‘enhany’ mean?
“EnHany ‘ala-lkoorsee.”
Damnit…what the hell was she saying?
“Over…chair…” She motioned with her hand. When I continued looking puzzled, she briefly bent over the back of the chair.
“Enhany ‘ala-lkoorsee,” she said as she stood back up.
She wanted me to what? Bend over the chair? Like she was going to spank me or something?
That’s when I remembered those first few nights. Before I met my friends and would be in my room by ten. When it was 11:00, Sister Maria would roam the hallways, smacking the bottoms of people still not in their rooms. Everyone giggled as they headed to bed.
Oh my god! She was going to spank me!
“Uh,…um…laaa…I mean, c’mon…”
“Enhany ‘ala-lkoorsee.” With dark eyes and a stern mouth pressed tight between her pudgy cheeks. And strong fingers that reached out and grabbed my ear again and pushed me over the chair.
Well, okay, how bad could it really be?
Next thing I know, she’s lifting my skirt up over my bottom. I tried to stand up to push it back down, but she held me firm. Along with the hem of my skirt.
Then came a big splat and a hot pain beneath my panties.
It was something wooden. A ruler I think. That stung like hell.
Again I started to stand up. And again, she held me firmly over that chair.
And rained down splat after hot, painful splat. Echoing amid the stone walls.
I curled my toes. Gripped the seat of the chair. Tried to twist my bottom away from that vicious ruler. Especially when she smacked the under side of my cheeks where my panties didn’t quite reach.
My eyes began to mist. “Min fdlik…Please…oh please stop.”
And she did stop. Began lecturing me again in Arabic. With her arm pinning me to the chair.
Then more splats with the ruler.
When I kicked my right leg up, she smacked my calf so hard I howled. Then smacked my bottom harder and faster.
“I’m sorry…I’m sorry – Aasifa…” I blubbered.
She scolded me more in Arabic. More about studying and my friends. Smacked me a few more times.
“Qefi.” She removed her arm from my back. Patted my bottom softly. Lowered my skirt. I wiped my eyes and stood up.
Sister Maria smiled at me. “You…good girl.” Nodding. With a smile that glowed and warmed my insides as much as she had warmed my bottom.
I sniffled and smiled back. “Shukran.”
She said something about my room and motioned her head toward the door. I nodded.
“Okay…taiib.”
And you know, I made it back to the hostel every night after that spanking well before the gate closed. Which, of course, left me with plenty of time to study for my sessions with Brother Elias.
Wa atikilm al-lugha al-‘arabiyye tamaman ‘endaman amshee fi’lmadina al-qadeema. (And I speak the Arabic language perfectly when I walk in the Old City.)
A point I made certain to thank Sister Maria for when it was time to leave the Old City, to which she responded by patting my bottom with a smile.
“La shukr ‘ala wajib.” (There is no thank you for doing what is a duty.)
The Old City [F/F]
I found the St. Joseph’s hostel in one of those travel books. Lonely Planet or something like that. It seemed cheap and in a good location. Just inside the New Gate of the Old City. Run by some Italian nuns.
“You are pilgrim, si?” asked Sister Maria, the short, plump nun in her dark blue habit who gave me the key to my room.
“Si…well, sorta. And to study.” I did want to be near the Holy Places. But I also hoped to expand my Arabic a bit. My priest had put me in touch with a friend of a friend who lived in a monastery in the Old City and could use a few extra shekels in income tutoring me.
“Bueno.” She gave a curt smile and pointed me to my room. A small cell at the end of the dark, stone hallway. With a crucifix over the bed and an icon of the Holy Mother on the opposite wall. I set my backpack on the bed and examined the card on the desk with instructions in English and Italian.
“Please label all food left in the kitchen.”
“There is a launderette near the Post Office on Jaffa Road outside of the New Gate.”
“Note that the gate to the hostel closes at 10:30 pm and you must be in your room by the beginning of quiet hours at 11 pm.”
Good, I thought. I like to go to bed early.
I began my Arabic lessons with Brother Elias the next day in the lobby of the hostel. We trudged through lesson 8 in Al-Kitab, which is where my Arabic class left off at the end of the year. Brother Elias continuously corrected the slight Egyptian accent I’d begun to pick up from characters used in the audio cassettes with the book.
“La! Do not say ‘gaamiah,’ say ‘Jaamiah.” He would always point is finger up into the air when he’d say ‘la!’
After my lessons, I roamed through the Old City. Down the winding alleys of stone where the smell of incense and urine mingled in the hot summer sun. Through the souqs where I learned quickly to ignore the offers of tea that were really the prelude to a high pressure sales pitch. Ate my share of falafel and hummus and shwerma. Managed to meet people from all over. Ethiopian pilgrims. New York Hassidim. French imams. British students attending BirZeit University in the West Bank.
It was that last group that got me into trouble. Not anything political, which is usually the case in these parts. No, trouble at the hostel.
With Sister Maria.
Who pretended not to listen in on my Arabic lessons, which I, more often than not, had failed to study for the night before.
Who would only speak to me in Arabic, particularly with vocabulary she knew I was supposed to know.
Who tutted every night as I barely made it through the gate at 10:30 upon returning from a night of frivolity with my new friends.
And of course, it had to happen. I left Ramallah one night a bit late. My taxi got held up at a checkpoint. By the time I reached the hostel, Sister Maria was walking up the stairs, having just locked the gate.
“Oh, Sister. Please let me in. I’m soooo sorry I’m late.”
“Marrat-thani, min fdlik?” I knew what her request to repeat again meant.
“Uh…er, um,” I hunted around for my Arabic. “Min fdlik, iftari al bab, ya ukht? It was probably wrong grammatically, but I think it got across the idea.
She grunted. Came down the stairs. Took out the key and opened the metal bars. Then grabbed my ear.
I gasped.
“Ohh! Ow. Please. I mean, min fdlik…” I kept trying to pull away, which just made her grab hold even tighter.
All the way to her office behind the front desk.
She finally let go and then let out a torrid of Arabic. I picked up words here and there. Tdruse – study. ‘Asdeq’aek – friends. Strained to figure out more. Though I didn’t really need to.
Then she pulled out a chair, placing the back of it toward me.
“Enhany ‘ala-lkoorsee.” She pointed to the chair. I blinked at her. What the hell did ‘enhany’ mean?
“EnHany ‘ala-lkoorsee.”
Damnit…what the hell was she saying?
“Over…chair…” She motioned with her hand. When I continued looking puzzled, she briefly bent over the back of the chair.
“Enhany ‘ala-lkoorsee,” she said as she stood back up.
She wanted me to what? Bend over the chair? Like she was going to spank me or something?
That’s when I remembered those first few nights. Before I met my friends and would be in my room by ten. When it was 11:00, Sister Maria would roam the hallways, smacking the bottoms of people still not in their rooms. Everyone giggled as they headed to bed.
Oh my god! She was going to spank me!
“Uh,…um…laaa…I mean, c’mon…”
“Enhany ‘ala-lkoorsee.” With dark eyes and a stern mouth pressed tight between her pudgy cheeks. And strong fingers that reached out and grabbed my ear again and pushed me over the chair.
Well, okay, how bad could it really be?
Next thing I know, she’s lifting my skirt up over my bottom. I tried to stand up to push it back down, but she held me firm. Along with the hem of my skirt.
Then came a big splat and a hot pain beneath my panties.
It was something wooden. A ruler I think. That stung like hell.
Again I started to stand up. And again, she held me firmly over that chair.
And rained down splat after hot, painful splat. Echoing amid the stone walls.
I curled my toes. Gripped the seat of the chair. Tried to twist my bottom away from that vicious ruler. Especially when she smacked the under side of my cheeks where my panties didn’t quite reach.
My eyes began to mist. “Min fdlik…Please…oh please stop.”
And she did stop. Began lecturing me again in Arabic. With her arm pinning me to the chair.
Then more splats with the ruler.
When I kicked my right leg up, she smacked my calf so hard I howled. Then smacked my bottom harder and faster.
“I’m sorry…I’m sorry – Aasifa…” I blubbered.
She scolded me more in Arabic. More about studying and my friends. Smacked me a few more times.
“Qefi.” She removed her arm from my back. Patted my bottom softly. Lowered my skirt. I wiped my eyes and stood up.
Sister Maria smiled at me. “You…good girl.” Nodding. With a smile that glowed and warmed my insides as much as she had warmed my bottom.
I sniffled and smiled back. “Shukran.”
She said something about my room and motioned her head toward the door. I nodded.
“Okay…taiib.”
And you know, I made it back to the hostel every night after that spanking well before the gate closed. Which, of course, left me with plenty of time to study for my sessions with Brother Elias.
Wa atikilm al-lugha al-‘arabiyye tamaman ‘endaman amshee fi’lmadina al-qadeema. (And I speak the Arabic language perfectly when I walk in the Old City.)
A point I made certain to thank Sister Maria for when it was time to leave the Old City, to which she responded by patting my bottom with a smile.
“La shukr ‘ala wajib.” (There is no thank you for doing what is a duty.)
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Out...
Well, I'm so out to my sister and brother-in-law.
As promised, babysitting for my sister left me with plenty of spanko anecdotes to share. That same niece who talked about getting spanked when she was born spent all night telling me about when she got spanked by her other aunt when over at her cousin's. I can't remember what I was doing (it was sometime around the point where we were making gingerbread men) when she said "don't do that unless you want my dad to spank you." With a giggle. Now, for a second, of course, I sorta giggled to myself as I thought that might be kinda fun. "So your dad spanks the babysitters?" I asked. She giggled again. "Yup." I know that's not true as my brother-in-law is fairly obsessive about acting appropriately. And I know my niece knows I know that's not true. Especially with that mischievous grin and giggle. So, very gently I say, "you sure like to talk about spanking a lot." Another giggle. "Yup." Then her eyes narrow, though still with that grin. "But no one is ever gonna spank me again!"
Yeah, give her a few more years and she'll have her own spanking blog just like her Auntie. Though, I suspect at the rate she's going, she's gonna be a top.
Not that her spanking penchant is all that comfortable for me. When she and her older sister were a few years younger, I once playfully swatted her. She suddenly exclaimed, "oh spank me, spank me, 'Chell!" To which her older sister cut in front of her and laid herself over my lap. "No, spank me!" I sat there frozen. I wasn't sure how to respond. I mean, when they get older and find out I have a spanking kink, are they going to think their aunt sexually assaulted them? My sister sitting on the couch said dryly, "yeah, for some reason they really like getting spanked. We're thinking about getting them whips and handcuffs for Christmas."
At any rate, when my brother-in-law got home Saturday night, we were waiting for my sister to get back so he could take me home. Maybe it was the wine he poured for me while we waited. Maybe I'm just feeling more comfortable with my kink. But as he talked about how his sister has this rubber ruler-like implement that she uses to spank her kids called The Instrument (as disturbing as I find it that she uses this on her kids) that he and his brother were playing around with once and left welts on their arms, I chime up, "mmm...maybe my boyfriend and I should get one of those." He jokingly replies, "oh I think they have it at Spartacus'"(the sex shop that specializes in fetish gear down the street from me here in Portland). To which I come back with, "oh I've looked there. They don't have it." So he tells me about some riding crops he was using to decorate an apartment at one point. So I tell him about the riding crop I got Spartacus' that doesn't really hurt that much while the one my boyfriend got at the charity shop in England hurts like hell. By the time I get to "the one my boyfriend got..." he is looking at me wide-eyed. "Oh my god, you're totally in to S&M." My sister had returned home by this point and was in the bedroom. He stumbles into the bedroom going, "Michelle's totally into S&M." My sister simply says that her hand, which she had burned earlier that evening, hurt. "I'm telling you that Michelle's into S&M and all you can say is that your hand hurts??!"
Before I know it, I'll be giving him the url for this blog.
As promised, babysitting for my sister left me with plenty of spanko anecdotes to share. That same niece who talked about getting spanked when she was born spent all night telling me about when she got spanked by her other aunt when over at her cousin's. I can't remember what I was doing (it was sometime around the point where we were making gingerbread men) when she said "don't do that unless you want my dad to spank you." With a giggle. Now, for a second, of course, I sorta giggled to myself as I thought that might be kinda fun. "So your dad spanks the babysitters?" I asked. She giggled again. "Yup." I know that's not true as my brother-in-law is fairly obsessive about acting appropriately. And I know my niece knows I know that's not true. Especially with that mischievous grin and giggle. So, very gently I say, "you sure like to talk about spanking a lot." Another giggle. "Yup." Then her eyes narrow, though still with that grin. "But no one is ever gonna spank me again!"
Yeah, give her a few more years and she'll have her own spanking blog just like her Auntie. Though, I suspect at the rate she's going, she's gonna be a top.
Not that her spanking penchant is all that comfortable for me. When she and her older sister were a few years younger, I once playfully swatted her. She suddenly exclaimed, "oh spank me, spank me, 'Chell!" To which her older sister cut in front of her and laid herself over my lap. "No, spank me!" I sat there frozen. I wasn't sure how to respond. I mean, when they get older and find out I have a spanking kink, are they going to think their aunt sexually assaulted them? My sister sitting on the couch said dryly, "yeah, for some reason they really like getting spanked. We're thinking about getting them whips and handcuffs for Christmas."
At any rate, when my brother-in-law got home Saturday night, we were waiting for my sister to get back so he could take me home. Maybe it was the wine he poured for me while we waited. Maybe I'm just feeling more comfortable with my kink. But as he talked about how his sister has this rubber ruler-like implement that she uses to spank her kids called The Instrument (as disturbing as I find it that she uses this on her kids) that he and his brother were playing around with once and left welts on their arms, I chime up, "mmm...maybe my boyfriend and I should get one of those." He jokingly replies, "oh I think they have it at Spartacus'"(the sex shop that specializes in fetish gear down the street from me here in Portland). To which I come back with, "oh I've looked there. They don't have it." So he tells me about some riding crops he was using to decorate an apartment at one point. So I tell him about the riding crop I got Spartacus' that doesn't really hurt that much while the one my boyfriend got at the charity shop in England hurts like hell. By the time I get to "the one my boyfriend got..." he is looking at me wide-eyed. "Oh my god, you're totally in to S&M." My sister had returned home by this point and was in the bedroom. He stumbles into the bedroom going, "Michelle's totally into S&M." My sister simply says that her hand, which she had burned earlier that evening, hurt. "I'm telling you that Michelle's into S&M and all you can say is that your hand hurts??!"
Before I know it, I'll be giving him the url for this blog.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Off to babysit...
...and when I called my sister really quick before she comes to pick me up, my 8 year old niece gets on the phone and informs me that she had been thinking about when she was born. "The doctor has to spank you or you won't breathe and you'll die." My sister's kids are already incorrigible spankos at such tender ages. I'll share more anecdotes about that when I have more time. At any rate, I reply, "ah so the doctor has to spank you huh?" "Yep. But now I'm going to find him and spank HIM!"
I'm sure Auntie Natty will have more spanking vignettes from my nieces and nephew to share when I get back, as uncomfortable as the whole thing makes me...
In the meantime, I highly recommend a story that was recently posted at the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup about a spanko stuck in a nursing home who reminded me of my great-grandmother. Very cute. :)
Hmm...gosh I have such a warped family...
I'm sure Auntie Natty will have more spanking vignettes from my nieces and nephew to share when I get back, as uncomfortable as the whole thing makes me...
In the meantime, I highly recommend a story that was recently posted at the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup about a spanko stuck in a nursing home who reminded me of my great-grandmother. Very cute. :)
Hmm...gosh I have such a warped family...
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Looking Up
I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom, for me and you
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world...
Ah, well, the sky isn't exactly blue here in Portland today, but I feel so good! This latest round of antibiotics seems to be finally killing whatever has been left of the urinary tract/kidney infection I've had. My kidneys hardly hurt at all. I can actually twirl my hips around as if I was hula-hooping. That burning pain that's always been sorta on like background music for years has disappeared thanks to the Neurontin. And my boyfriend is coming three weeks from today. I'm practically bouncing off the walls. :)
And oh boy, is that desire for a spanking back.
Last night I was looking at the photo galleries of the movies over at RGE films and thought, mmm...I want marks like hers. And I made a most naughty discovery this morning when I reached for my vibrator: the batteries were dead.
I could even handle getting that nasty riding crop my boyfriend has, even though I know I'll hate it again as soon as it hits my ass. ;)
Whenever I'm in a run of bad health, I always have to tell myself that I will feel good again. The good days will come back. And I hold on to that with everything I have.
Likewise, whenever I start to feel better after a bad spell, even though I've had CFIDS/ME for almost 6 years now, I somehow think that, this is it: I'm finally all better and life is going to go back to the way it was before the surgery and blood clots in my lungs and hemorrhaging and all. But I've had to learn to do the opposite of the bad days. To tell myself that yes, today I feel good, but that doesn't mean I don't have CFIDS/ME anymore. That I don't know how I will feel next week. I only know that today I feel good. And if I want a chance at feeling good for more than today, I have to make sure and not overdo it too much.
The other day when I was looking through my old Arabic textbooks, I could see where I had written in the answers to various drills. Remembered how I used to sit in class, figure out which sentence I was going to have to translate or figure out the cognitive accusative for, or whatever one of the five zillion grammar concepts we were studying that day, and do it there in class before it was my turn because I hadn't done it the night before. Remembered how I used to think that if I just had the threat of a good, hard spanking looming over me, I'd not only have done my one sentence, but the entire drill, as well as the other few pages of drills that were homework that night. Looking back now, I realize I had Fibromyalgia that whole time and with the schedule I had, it's amazing I got any work done at all. My only salvation was that I was smart, so my half-assed work was still excellent work by most academic standards (got accepted to Harvard, Chicago and Georgetown for grad school).
God, I wish so much I could have that back! Could still study two languages (as half-assed as it was), take other coursework, do homework, work (10-12 hours a week) and still go to church and hang out with my friends (though admittedly, my social life was fairly limited because of my fatigue). Yes, I struggled with it all, but compared to now where I'm lucky if I can leave the house, it seems like the pinnacle of health.
And it feels silly that every time I have the good days after a lot of the bad, even after all these years, I still think that pinnacle is just around the corner.
I see them bloom, for me and you
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world...
Ah, well, the sky isn't exactly blue here in Portland today, but I feel so good! This latest round of antibiotics seems to be finally killing whatever has been left of the urinary tract/kidney infection I've had. My kidneys hardly hurt at all. I can actually twirl my hips around as if I was hula-hooping. That burning pain that's always been sorta on like background music for years has disappeared thanks to the Neurontin. And my boyfriend is coming three weeks from today. I'm practically bouncing off the walls. :)
And oh boy, is that desire for a spanking back.
Last night I was looking at the photo galleries of the movies over at RGE films and thought, mmm...I want marks like hers. And I made a most naughty discovery this morning when I reached for my vibrator: the batteries were dead.
I could even handle getting that nasty riding crop my boyfriend has, even though I know I'll hate it again as soon as it hits my ass. ;)
Whenever I'm in a run of bad health, I always have to tell myself that I will feel good again. The good days will come back. And I hold on to that with everything I have.
Likewise, whenever I start to feel better after a bad spell, even though I've had CFIDS/ME for almost 6 years now, I somehow think that, this is it: I'm finally all better and life is going to go back to the way it was before the surgery and blood clots in my lungs and hemorrhaging and all. But I've had to learn to do the opposite of the bad days. To tell myself that yes, today I feel good, but that doesn't mean I don't have CFIDS/ME anymore. That I don't know how I will feel next week. I only know that today I feel good. And if I want a chance at feeling good for more than today, I have to make sure and not overdo it too much.
The other day when I was looking through my old Arabic textbooks, I could see where I had written in the answers to various drills. Remembered how I used to sit in class, figure out which sentence I was going to have to translate or figure out the cognitive accusative for, or whatever one of the five zillion grammar concepts we were studying that day, and do it there in class before it was my turn because I hadn't done it the night before. Remembered how I used to think that if I just had the threat of a good, hard spanking looming over me, I'd not only have done my one sentence, but the entire drill, as well as the other few pages of drills that were homework that night. Looking back now, I realize I had Fibromyalgia that whole time and with the schedule I had, it's amazing I got any work done at all. My only salvation was that I was smart, so my half-assed work was still excellent work by most academic standards (got accepted to Harvard, Chicago and Georgetown for grad school).
God, I wish so much I could have that back! Could still study two languages (as half-assed as it was), take other coursework, do homework, work (10-12 hours a week) and still go to church and hang out with my friends (though admittedly, my social life was fairly limited because of my fatigue). Yes, I struggled with it all, but compared to now where I'm lucky if I can leave the house, it seems like the pinnacle of health.
And it feels silly that every time I have the good days after a lot of the bad, even after all these years, I still think that pinnacle is just around the corner.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
My Stars and Stripes Knickers
It started as a reflection on the office of the whipping boy. Or how it might be turned in to a whipping girl. Then it occurred to us that perhaps such a whipping girl might be utilized to balance the karmic order in the universe. Soon we were listing various evil doers and miscreants and what would be the appropriate implement to use on their backsides -- or the whipping girl's.
The list was as follows:
Condoleeza Rice -- Hairbrush
A smart girl who is either being too naive or too incompetent (though also someone my boyfriend fantasizes about spanking).
Ken Lay -- Ruler
He should probably get something much worse as he ruined the lives of thousands, but now at least he's finally going to face trial.
Tony Blair -- Cane
That implement was a given. Wonder how many times he got the cane as a public school boy?
Marvin Olasky -- Leather Belt and Riding Crop
He's a professor of journalism at the University of Texas and the guy who founded the philosophy of "compassionate" conservativism with his book The Tragedy of American Compassion in 1993. He started out as a communist but while doing doctoral work was born again and became obsessed with John Wayne. He has his own website should you desire to read more.
Richard Perle -- All of the Above
The (former) chairman of the Defense Policy Board who orchestrated the Iraq War and pisses on international law even to the point of suggesting that the U.S. take over Saudi oil fields.
Now, each of these names is written on a piece of paper and put into a bowl, hat, etc. After they have been properly shaken up, I pick out a name and receive whatever punishment that person has been assigned.
And the karmic order is put back into balance (well, a little bit).
As all but Tony Blair are Americans (and he might as well be anyway), we thought it might be appropriate if such punishments were over knickers with the American flag. I looked online for some panties with the Stars and Stripes, and while I found a number of sites with thongs that had the flag on it (and in sizes that didn't accommodate my... er... voluptuous figure), no panties. Since I know how to sew, I decided I would make some. Couldn't find any stretchy knit fabric with the flag, but did find a heavy cotton fabric (a bit heavier than poplin but not as heavy as canvas) with flags all over and made what look sorta like bloomers (it occurred to me later that I could have simply hand sewn a flag on the back of some white cotton panties, and I may yet do that). I felt like a kinky Martha Stewart.
Sewing is great for thinking, even meditating. As I cut out pattern pieces and fed fabric beneath the needle, I kept thinking about how my grandfather who fought in the South Pacific during WWII must be spinning in his grave. I even wondered for a moment if spanking the flag is against the law. It's funny how Americans are about our flag. Almost pagan, like it's an idol or something. Veterans often talk about how they risked their lives for the flag, which is something I have a hard time understanding. Dying for freedom, democracy, principle, protecting your family -- those I understand. But a piece of cloth? Yes, I know it's a symbol of our country. But a symbol, not the country or its supposed ideals themselves. I guess the only thing I can think of that I would be offended if someone burned might be my icons (I'm Byzantine Catholic and have several icons -- Christ, the Holy Mother, etc.). But, that's like, a real religion. How do you serve both God and Flag?
So far, my Stars and Stripes knickers have only received a sort of breaking in...in which, shall we say, they were rendered crotchless...
But after last Tuesday, I believe they are going to get good and truly thrashed in the next couple of months when my boyfriend is here.
Note, however, that after he was demoted from chairman of the Defense Policy Board, Richard Perle was replaced with Karl Rove.
I shudder to think of picking his name out of the bowl after last week.
As mentioned in my last post, I'm thinking of replacing Ken Lay with Pfizer, who charges extortionate prices for medication. But then I was thinking today that perhaps we might make each implement a category into which we could place any number of people. My boyfriend suggested we add Lynn Cheney. At first I thought she would fit well in the hairbrush category, but then I remembered what she was like when she was head of the National Endowment of the Humanities in the 80s and decided she would go in the same category as Marvin Olasky. Dick, of course, would go in the "all of the above" category.
And from time to time my boyfriend suggest the United States for not just becoming one of the current greatest threats to world peace, allowing its poor to suffer, and filling its prisons with black people, but for things like McDonalds and other random things that piss him off.
The list was as follows:
Condoleeza Rice -- Hairbrush
A smart girl who is either being too naive or too incompetent (though also someone my boyfriend fantasizes about spanking).
Ken Lay -- Ruler
He should probably get something much worse as he ruined the lives of thousands, but now at least he's finally going to face trial.
Tony Blair -- Cane
That implement was a given. Wonder how many times he got the cane as a public school boy?
Marvin Olasky -- Leather Belt and Riding Crop
He's a professor of journalism at the University of Texas and the guy who founded the philosophy of "compassionate" conservativism with his book The Tragedy of American Compassion in 1993. He started out as a communist but while doing doctoral work was born again and became obsessed with John Wayne. He has his own website should you desire to read more.
Richard Perle -- All of the Above
The (former) chairman of the Defense Policy Board who orchestrated the Iraq War and pisses on international law even to the point of suggesting that the U.S. take over Saudi oil fields.
Now, each of these names is written on a piece of paper and put into a bowl, hat, etc. After they have been properly shaken up, I pick out a name and receive whatever punishment that person has been assigned.
And the karmic order is put back into balance (well, a little bit).
As all but Tony Blair are Americans (and he might as well be anyway), we thought it might be appropriate if such punishments were over knickers with the American flag. I looked online for some panties with the Stars and Stripes, and while I found a number of sites with thongs that had the flag on it (and in sizes that didn't accommodate my... er... voluptuous figure), no panties. Since I know how to sew, I decided I would make some. Couldn't find any stretchy knit fabric with the flag, but did find a heavy cotton fabric (a bit heavier than poplin but not as heavy as canvas) with flags all over and made what look sorta like bloomers (it occurred to me later that I could have simply hand sewn a flag on the back of some white cotton panties, and I may yet do that). I felt like a kinky Martha Stewart.
Sewing is great for thinking, even meditating. As I cut out pattern pieces and fed fabric beneath the needle, I kept thinking about how my grandfather who fought in the South Pacific during WWII must be spinning in his grave. I even wondered for a moment if spanking the flag is against the law. It's funny how Americans are about our flag. Almost pagan, like it's an idol or something. Veterans often talk about how they risked their lives for the flag, which is something I have a hard time understanding. Dying for freedom, democracy, principle, protecting your family -- those I understand. But a piece of cloth? Yes, I know it's a symbol of our country. But a symbol, not the country or its supposed ideals themselves. I guess the only thing I can think of that I would be offended if someone burned might be my icons (I'm Byzantine Catholic and have several icons -- Christ, the Holy Mother, etc.). But, that's like, a real religion. How do you serve both God and Flag?
So far, my Stars and Stripes knickers have only received a sort of breaking in...in which, shall we say, they were rendered crotchless...
But after last Tuesday, I believe they are going to get good and truly thrashed in the next couple of months when my boyfriend is here.
Note, however, that after he was demoted from chairman of the Defense Policy Board, Richard Perle was replaced with Karl Rove.
I shudder to think of picking his name out of the bowl after last week.
As mentioned in my last post, I'm thinking of replacing Ken Lay with Pfizer, who charges extortionate prices for medication. But then I was thinking today that perhaps we might make each implement a category into which we could place any number of people. My boyfriend suggested we add Lynn Cheney. At first I thought she would fit well in the hairbrush category, but then I remembered what she was like when she was head of the National Endowment of the Humanities in the 80s and decided she would go in the same category as Marvin Olasky. Dick, of course, would go in the "all of the above" category.
And from time to time my boyfriend suggest the United States for not just becoming one of the current greatest threats to world peace, allowing its poor to suffer, and filling its prisons with black people, but for things like McDonalds and other random things that piss him off.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Good News!
Yay for Neurontin!
I started this anti-epileptic medicine the middle of last month as its been successful in helping some people with Fibromyalgia with chronic pain. Between that and the antibiotic, I had about four days when I was pain free enough to actually start thinking about spanking again. But, as it's a freekin' expensive drug that isn't covered by my insurance, I decided to order it online from a Canadian pharmacy and ran out before I could get more. After a week, my pain came back and while spanking on an abstract level gave me that familiar tingle between my legs, when I'd think about actually getting spanked, I just tense up and get that slightly nauseous feeling.
My prescription arrived in the mail yesterday. I realize that I am now a criminal for getting my drugs from Canada and have disdained the compassionate protection of our beloved president who made it illegal for me to get two months worth of Neurontin for the same price as two weeks worth at my local pharmacy, as well as deprived the benevolent makers of Neurontin, Pfizer, of a substantial chunk of the student loans that I am using to pay for this drug when they said I was not eligible for their patient assistance program because Medicaid pays for my other prescriptions, though not this one. (May they choke on their overperforming stock dividends that allowed them to give our beloved president over $1 million this year.)
[Okay, rant over -- though I think Pfizer may replace Ken Lay in our punishment game...more about that tomorrow.]
My pain level started dropping last night and it stayed low today. This morning (or, um, this afternoon rather) I was thinking about being over my honey's knee when I woke up.
And now, I'm going to go to bed and think about it some more. :D
I started this anti-epileptic medicine the middle of last month as its been successful in helping some people with Fibromyalgia with chronic pain. Between that and the antibiotic, I had about four days when I was pain free enough to actually start thinking about spanking again. But, as it's a freekin' expensive drug that isn't covered by my insurance, I decided to order it online from a Canadian pharmacy and ran out before I could get more. After a week, my pain came back and while spanking on an abstract level gave me that familiar tingle between my legs, when I'd think about actually getting spanked, I just tense up and get that slightly nauseous feeling.
My prescription arrived in the mail yesterday. I realize that I am now a criminal for getting my drugs from Canada and have disdained the compassionate protection of our beloved president who made it illegal for me to get two months worth of Neurontin for the same price as two weeks worth at my local pharmacy, as well as deprived the benevolent makers of Neurontin, Pfizer, of a substantial chunk of the student loans that I am using to pay for this drug when they said I was not eligible for their patient assistance program because Medicaid pays for my other prescriptions, though not this one. (May they choke on their overperforming stock dividends that allowed them to give our beloved president over $1 million this year.)
[Okay, rant over -- though I think Pfizer may replace Ken Lay in our punishment game...more about that tomorrow.]
My pain level started dropping last night and it stayed low today. This morning (or, um, this afternoon rather) I was thinking about being over my honey's knee when I woke up.
And now, I'm going to go to bed and think about it some more. :D
Saturday, November 06, 2004
AAARRGH!
George Bush has been re-elected AND I have no desire to be spanked.
Is this the end of civilization as we know it??
Hopefully this kidney issue gets sorted out soon (I'm back on antibiotics and have a referral to a urologist) because my boyfriend is coming in 25 days and I suspect my stars and stripes knickers are going to get quite a work out after what happened on Tuesday.
I'll post more on my stars and stripes knickers later. ;)
Is this the end of civilization as we know it??
Hopefully this kidney issue gets sorted out soon (I'm back on antibiotics and have a referral to a urologist) because my boyfriend is coming in 25 days and I suspect my stars and stripes knickers are going to get quite a work out after what happened on Tuesday.
I'll post more on my stars and stripes knickers later. ;)
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Story: Spanked by Mr. Schneider
Yay! I just found out that this little story I wrote for the soc.sexuality.spanking Short Story Contest this summer won 2nd place. (Bouncing in my seat with glee, especially after reading the comments on my story [you have to scroll down past the story to read them].)
However, a warning. It's not a fun spanking story and certainly not intended to be erotic. Like most spankos, my spanking fantasies started at an early age and I daydreamed about teachers spanking me. What inspired me to write this story was wondering what I would have actually felt if I had actually been spanked by one of my teachers.
***************************************************
Spanked by Mr. Schneider [M/f, child 500 words]
I always used to think about it. Getting spanked by Mr. Schneider.
It started when we were reading To Kill A Mockingbird in my language
arts class and Hillary Hanson asked what it meant when Scout said
Atticus threatened to "wear us out." Mr. Schneider got a funny grin on
his face.
"That means he's going to whip their hide."
It made me giggle. Especially when he looked at me after he said it.
Made me dream at night that he was my dad, whipping my hide with his belt.
This one day in class my friends, Tim and Cameron, and I were playing
Paper, Rock, Scissor when we were supposed to be working on our
vocabulary worksheets.
"Paper."
I looked up as I slapped my right hand down on my left palm.
Tim and Cameron were turned around in their desks. Mr. Schneider was
scowling at me.
"Melissa, I want to see you after class." I gulped and went back to
figuring out Latin prefixes with a hot/cold tingly feeling.
He closed the door when everyone left. It was lunchtime so there wasn't
another class coming.
"Explain to me why you weren't doing your work." He unbuttoned the
cuffs of his shirt sleeves. Rolled them up to his elbows.
"I dunno." I looked down at the cream linoleum swirling around my desk.
"Not the answer I was looking for, young lady." He unbuckled his belt
and slid it through the loops of his gray slacks. My eyes felt big
inside my head. "Stand up. Pull your jeans and underwear down and bend
over the desk."
I stood up. Looked at him. My bottom lip started wiggling and my eyes
got all teary. But I just stood there. Hoping he'd change his mind and
wouldn't make me do something so embarrassing.
"Do as I asked, please." Forceful, but in the same tone of voice. I
whimpered. Sniffled. Unbuttoned my jeans. "We both know you deserve
this." He had that funny grin again. Made him seem like one of those
guys my mother said lurked in the woods behind our apartments. I bent
over the desk with my naked behind in full view. Hoping to God nobody
walked in at that moment. Praying to God somebody would.
The splat of the belt echoed in the room. And it stung like hell. But
it was when he rubbed my bottom after the first couple of whacks that I
started crying. He hit me a few more times. Then stopped and rubbed
again. More whacks. More rubbing. I think he gave me about twenty
whacks in all. I was really crying by the end.
"Shhh..." He gave me his handkerchief. Pulled me against him. Rubbed my
back and bottom. When I stopped crying, he told me I could go to lunch.
"The State allows me to use corporal punishment. So be a good girl."
With that same grin.
I still think about it. Mr. Schneider spanking me.
But now I just feel icky.
Copyright 2004 Natty
However, a warning. It's not a fun spanking story and certainly not intended to be erotic. Like most spankos, my spanking fantasies started at an early age and I daydreamed about teachers spanking me. What inspired me to write this story was wondering what I would have actually felt if I had actually been spanked by one of my teachers.
***************************************************
Spanked by Mr. Schneider [M/f, child 500 words]
I always used to think about it. Getting spanked by Mr. Schneider.
It started when we were reading To Kill A Mockingbird in my language
arts class and Hillary Hanson asked what it meant when Scout said
Atticus threatened to "wear us out." Mr. Schneider got a funny grin on
his face.
"That means he's going to whip their hide."
It made me giggle. Especially when he looked at me after he said it.
Made me dream at night that he was my dad, whipping my hide with his belt.
This one day in class my friends, Tim and Cameron, and I were playing
Paper, Rock, Scissor when we were supposed to be working on our
vocabulary worksheets.
"Paper."
I looked up as I slapped my right hand down on my left palm.
Tim and Cameron were turned around in their desks. Mr. Schneider was
scowling at me.
"Melissa, I want to see you after class." I gulped and went back to
figuring out Latin prefixes with a hot/cold tingly feeling.
He closed the door when everyone left. It was lunchtime so there wasn't
another class coming.
"Explain to me why you weren't doing your work." He unbuttoned the
cuffs of his shirt sleeves. Rolled them up to his elbows.
"I dunno." I looked down at the cream linoleum swirling around my desk.
"Not the answer I was looking for, young lady." He unbuckled his belt
and slid it through the loops of his gray slacks. My eyes felt big
inside my head. "Stand up. Pull your jeans and underwear down and bend
over the desk."
I stood up. Looked at him. My bottom lip started wiggling and my eyes
got all teary. But I just stood there. Hoping he'd change his mind and
wouldn't make me do something so embarrassing.
"Do as I asked, please." Forceful, but in the same tone of voice. I
whimpered. Sniffled. Unbuttoned my jeans. "We both know you deserve
this." He had that funny grin again. Made him seem like one of those
guys my mother said lurked in the woods behind our apartments. I bent
over the desk with my naked behind in full view. Hoping to God nobody
walked in at that moment. Praying to God somebody would.
The splat of the belt echoed in the room. And it stung like hell. But
it was when he rubbed my bottom after the first couple of whacks that I
started crying. He hit me a few more times. Then stopped and rubbed
again. More whacks. More rubbing. I think he gave me about twenty
whacks in all. I was really crying by the end.
"Shhh..." He gave me his handkerchief. Pulled me against him. Rubbed my
back and bottom. When I stopped crying, he told me I could go to lunch.
"The State allows me to use corporal punishment. So be a good girl."
With that same grin.
I still think about it. Mr. Schneider spanking me.
But now I just feel icky.
Copyright 2004 Natty
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Just Right
Eeks! Two and a half weeks since I posted! That'll be one for the punishment book.
Yeah, I really do have one, or so I've been told. I've not *actually* seen it and frankly, I think my boyfriend has forgotten all about it. (Of course, if he reads this in the next three weeks before he comes, I very well may yet learn of its actual existence.)
Though, he can surprise me sometimes. This last spring when I went to visit him, I was over his lap within an hour of arriving home from the airport. He wanted a good view of the big red knickers I wore as a surprise for him.
They didn't stay up for long, as you can imagine. Soon he was smacking me with his hand, then a brush. Happy, fun smacks. Stingy, but fun. Suddenly (at least it seemed that way to me) the conversation got rather serious. "Now about your writing..." he began (I'm currently writing a decidedly non-kink novel).
I hadn't done any the week before I left. There were a few seconds here and there in all the rush to get papers graded during Finals Week and packing and appointments and such when I did think about how I hadn't sent him my required 250 words/4 days a week. In those 2-3 seconds of thought I would think, "hmm, odd. He hasn't said anything." But that's about as far as that line of thought went.
Until I was over his lap.
"Now, why didn't you send me anything last week?" Calm and curious.
I mumbled something about being really busy with all of the things I just mentioned above.
"Fair enough. But, why didn't you talk to me about it? I mean, at least an email would have been nice."
I gulped. That was true. I could have been polite enough to have sent an email at the very least.
"I guess I just figured you assumed I wasn't able to with all the other stuff."
"Right," he said. "Well, I was waiting to see if you were going to say anything. I mean if we're going to take this discipline seriously -- "
"-- Oh, I do."
That's when I felt really bad. That I had ever let him think I didn't.
"So, how long have you known that you were in trouble?" he said after a minute or so of silence.
"About...two minutes."
"Really?"
"Yeah," I said. "I mean, I guess I figured since you hadn't said anything, it was okay."
"Ah, so you were waiting for *me* to say something. And would be disappointed if I hadn't."
I laughed.
"Well, I don't know that I'd be THAT disappointed."
Though, he was right. I probably would have been. At least a little bit.
"Do you remember what happened the last time you didn't do your writing?" He smacked my bottom lightly.
That whole summer before I left to visit in the Fall I had completely blown it off. A couple of weeks after I got there, I got a severe spanking over his lap with the hairbrush and then got spanked on the back and front of my thighs with a wooden spoon. It hurt like freaking hell.
"Do you agree that you deserve that again?"
I wasn't sure. On the one hand, I'd only blown it off for a week, not two months and I had a pretty good excuse for not getting it done. On the other hand, I really felt guilty about being rude and not saying anything and making him think I wasn't taking our disciplinary arrangement seriously.
However, I was exhausted from the 10 hour flight plus the multiple hour drives to and from the airports.
"Maybe, but I'm really too tired to handle that today."
"Fair enough." He smacked me lightly with the hairbrush. "But I am going to spank you with the hairbrush."
"Okay." I nodded. Buried my face into the arm of the sofa. He gave me several sharp spanks with the brush.
"An apology would be nice."
D'oh! Why didn't I think to do that?
I turned to face him (well, as best as I could considering my position).
"I'm sorry." Though the words felt completely inadequate.
"Thank you."
He didn't spank me as hard or as long as I thought he was going to. It was sorta just right. Sorta only because a small part of me wished it would have gone on a little longer so that I might have cried. But only a small part of me. The rest was relieved as hell. :)
And definitely just right in that it made me feel safe on so many levels.
Yeah, I really do have one, or so I've been told. I've not *actually* seen it and frankly, I think my boyfriend has forgotten all about it. (Of course, if he reads this in the next three weeks before he comes, I very well may yet learn of its actual existence.)
Though, he can surprise me sometimes. This last spring when I went to visit him, I was over his lap within an hour of arriving home from the airport. He wanted a good view of the big red knickers I wore as a surprise for him.
They didn't stay up for long, as you can imagine. Soon he was smacking me with his hand, then a brush. Happy, fun smacks. Stingy, but fun. Suddenly (at least it seemed that way to me) the conversation got rather serious. "Now about your writing..." he began (I'm currently writing a decidedly non-kink novel).
I hadn't done any the week before I left. There were a few seconds here and there in all the rush to get papers graded during Finals Week and packing and appointments and such when I did think about how I hadn't sent him my required 250 words/4 days a week. In those 2-3 seconds of thought I would think, "hmm, odd. He hasn't said anything." But that's about as far as that line of thought went.
Until I was over his lap.
"Now, why didn't you send me anything last week?" Calm and curious.
I mumbled something about being really busy with all of the things I just mentioned above.
"Fair enough. But, why didn't you talk to me about it? I mean, at least an email would have been nice."
I gulped. That was true. I could have been polite enough to have sent an email at the very least.
"I guess I just figured you assumed I wasn't able to with all the other stuff."
"Right," he said. "Well, I was waiting to see if you were going to say anything. I mean if we're going to take this discipline seriously -- "
"-- Oh, I do."
That's when I felt really bad. That I had ever let him think I didn't.
"So, how long have you known that you were in trouble?" he said after a minute or so of silence.
"About...two minutes."
"Really?"
"Yeah," I said. "I mean, I guess I figured since you hadn't said anything, it was okay."
"Ah, so you were waiting for *me* to say something. And would be disappointed if I hadn't."
I laughed.
"Well, I don't know that I'd be THAT disappointed."
Though, he was right. I probably would have been. At least a little bit.
"Do you remember what happened the last time you didn't do your writing?" He smacked my bottom lightly.
That whole summer before I left to visit in the Fall I had completely blown it off. A couple of weeks after I got there, I got a severe spanking over his lap with the hairbrush and then got spanked on the back and front of my thighs with a wooden spoon. It hurt like freaking hell.
"Do you agree that you deserve that again?"
I wasn't sure. On the one hand, I'd only blown it off for a week, not two months and I had a pretty good excuse for not getting it done. On the other hand, I really felt guilty about being rude and not saying anything and making him think I wasn't taking our disciplinary arrangement seriously.
However, I was exhausted from the 10 hour flight plus the multiple hour drives to and from the airports.
"Maybe, but I'm really too tired to handle that today."
"Fair enough." He smacked me lightly with the hairbrush. "But I am going to spank you with the hairbrush."
"Okay." I nodded. Buried my face into the arm of the sofa. He gave me several sharp spanks with the brush.
"An apology would be nice."
D'oh! Why didn't I think to do that?
I turned to face him (well, as best as I could considering my position).
"I'm sorry." Though the words felt completely inadequate.
"Thank you."
He didn't spank me as hard or as long as I thought he was going to. It was sorta just right. Sorta only because a small part of me wished it would have gone on a little longer so that I might have cried. But only a small part of me. The rest was relieved as hell. :)
And definitely just right in that it made me feel safe on so many levels.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
The Spanking Appointment
One of the things that has irritated me about being sick and in so much pain the last few months has been that I haven't really been able to enjoy the memory of past spankings, which is often one of the funnest parts of being spanked.
Good news today is that I can remember this event that I wrote about in my journal at the time without immediately tensing up and getting that slightly sick feeling. :)
************************************
March 30, 2004
I got so thrashed last night.
We’ve been doing these “spanking appointments” and yesterday it was announced that I was to report to the bedroom for a spanking at 6 pm. It always gives me butterflies in my tummy – the good kind.
About 4ish, we decided on a whim to play a game of poker, which of course, we turned into spanking poker, especially as he’s still teaching me how to play and it seems to be a good pedagogical tool. I won the first game, lost the second, won the third, lost the fourth, and then held him off for an hour before finally losing the last. Indeed, it went on for so long he had to change the appointment to 7.
As I stood to drop my trousers for my third spanking, this time 12 strokes with the wooden spoon as, appropriately enough, chosen by the cards, he smiled. “Mmmm…Michelle’s bottom…I get to see it again after sooo long.” I love how he makes me feel sexy. “You know,” I said. “I think I should get less strokes since I played so well.” He put his arms around me and kissed my head. “True. If the world were fair.” I still got 12 strokes.
When the appointed time arrived, he came to the bedroom to find me in the requested panties and bra, bent over the chair as instructed. “This is going to be a severe spanking as you’ve already had a warm-up,” he explained. He had the riding crop in his hand, his favorite new toy he picked up in a charity shop the week before I arrived. (Most of his implements are from charity shops. The British donate the perviest stuff.) I cringed. “This will help prepare you for the Flogging Room day.” A Victorian period scene we’re planning to do not long before I leave at the end of April. “It will only end when you say the words ‘mercy, please.’” I nodded. “What do you need to say for the spanking to end?” “Mercy, please,” I mumbled.
The riding crop came down with full force on my backside. I yelped. By the fourth stroke, I felt nauseous and almost said the words. But I couldn’t wuss out after only four strokes. And my pride was still smarting from losing that last poker game. I dug my fingers into the floor. Buried my face into the pillow underneath me on the seat of the chair. Soon the strokes were landing on my thighs. He patted the crop on one thigh, then seared my flesh. Stepped to the other side and did the same thing.
Just say the damn words, I told myself. But my pride and curiosity about just how far could I go left me mute.
And so the strokes kept coming. Some in the middle of my ass. Some on the side, which would make me almost jump up from the chair. Some in rapid succession. Some with a second or two in between to catch my breath. When he tapped my thighs, the words would form in my mouth but simply linger along my tongue, despite the tears forming in my eyes as the crop bit into my legs. I’ve never had to use a safe word before because a spanking was too hard. I wanted to keep it that way.
“We’re almost done.” He rubbed his hand along my back. “Almost.” I pursed my lips together. I just had to hold out a bit longer. Several more center strokes. Side strokes. Thigh strokes. Then he put the crop in the corner. “Okay. We’re done.”
It took me a moment to gather my strength to stand up. I was shaking and breathing heavy, convulsive breaths. As I came upright, he drew me against his chest. “My brave, brave girl.” I sniffled and clutched him. “You are one tough cookie.” He kissed my head. “And stubborn. Very stubborn.” I chuckled a little and sniffled some more. Still shaking, still breathing hard.
“You better lay down on the bed.” He rubbed arnica gel on my ass as I laid there wiping my eyes, telling myself that it was over now. The shaking slowly subsided as he skated ice cubes along my throbbing cheeks and thighs. “Now these are the kinds of marks you don’t see in those pictures online.” That made me smile a little. Then he laid down next to me. “Alright. Big cuddle.” And as he held me, I really cried. From relief that it was over. With left over tears from the sadness I wrote about earlier that day. Grateful that he was there to hold me. “You won that one,” he said. I grinned.
Good news today is that I can remember this event that I wrote about in my journal at the time without immediately tensing up and getting that slightly sick feeling. :)
************************************
March 30, 2004
I got so thrashed last night.
We’ve been doing these “spanking appointments” and yesterday it was announced that I was to report to the bedroom for a spanking at 6 pm. It always gives me butterflies in my tummy – the good kind.
About 4ish, we decided on a whim to play a game of poker, which of course, we turned into spanking poker, especially as he’s still teaching me how to play and it seems to be a good pedagogical tool. I won the first game, lost the second, won the third, lost the fourth, and then held him off for an hour before finally losing the last. Indeed, it went on for so long he had to change the appointment to 7.
As I stood to drop my trousers for my third spanking, this time 12 strokes with the wooden spoon as, appropriately enough, chosen by the cards, he smiled. “Mmmm…Michelle’s bottom…I get to see it again after sooo long.” I love how he makes me feel sexy. “You know,” I said. “I think I should get less strokes since I played so well.” He put his arms around me and kissed my head. “True. If the world were fair.” I still got 12 strokes.
When the appointed time arrived, he came to the bedroom to find me in the requested panties and bra, bent over the chair as instructed. “This is going to be a severe spanking as you’ve already had a warm-up,” he explained. He had the riding crop in his hand, his favorite new toy he picked up in a charity shop the week before I arrived. (Most of his implements are from charity shops. The British donate the perviest stuff.) I cringed. “This will help prepare you for the Flogging Room day.” A Victorian period scene we’re planning to do not long before I leave at the end of April. “It will only end when you say the words ‘mercy, please.’” I nodded. “What do you need to say for the spanking to end?” “Mercy, please,” I mumbled.
The riding crop came down with full force on my backside. I yelped. By the fourth stroke, I felt nauseous and almost said the words. But I couldn’t wuss out after only four strokes. And my pride was still smarting from losing that last poker game. I dug my fingers into the floor. Buried my face into the pillow underneath me on the seat of the chair. Soon the strokes were landing on my thighs. He patted the crop on one thigh, then seared my flesh. Stepped to the other side and did the same thing.
Just say the damn words, I told myself. But my pride and curiosity about just how far could I go left me mute.
And so the strokes kept coming. Some in the middle of my ass. Some on the side, which would make me almost jump up from the chair. Some in rapid succession. Some with a second or two in between to catch my breath. When he tapped my thighs, the words would form in my mouth but simply linger along my tongue, despite the tears forming in my eyes as the crop bit into my legs. I’ve never had to use a safe word before because a spanking was too hard. I wanted to keep it that way.
“We’re almost done.” He rubbed his hand along my back. “Almost.” I pursed my lips together. I just had to hold out a bit longer. Several more center strokes. Side strokes. Thigh strokes. Then he put the crop in the corner. “Okay. We’re done.”
It took me a moment to gather my strength to stand up. I was shaking and breathing heavy, convulsive breaths. As I came upright, he drew me against his chest. “My brave, brave girl.” I sniffled and clutched him. “You are one tough cookie.” He kissed my head. “And stubborn. Very stubborn.” I chuckled a little and sniffled some more. Still shaking, still breathing hard.
“You better lay down on the bed.” He rubbed arnica gel on my ass as I laid there wiping my eyes, telling myself that it was over now. The shaking slowly subsided as he skated ice cubes along my throbbing cheeks and thighs. “Now these are the kinds of marks you don’t see in those pictures online.” That made me smile a little. Then he laid down next to me. “Alright. Big cuddle.” And as he held me, I really cried. From relief that it was over. With left over tears from the sadness I wrote about earlier that day. Grateful that he was there to hold me. “You won that one,” he said. I grinned.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Like sugar
It's been a rough summer.
Within a month of returning from visiting my boyfriend in the Land of Spanking (aka England) and attending a conference in Jerusalem, I came down with a respiratory virus. No big deal except that when I get a fever, it's like having needles jabbing me all over -- constantly. It's one of the ways my brain doesn't quite process sensory input correctly, the result of a disorder called Fibromyalgia.
Two weeks after the virus ended, I was in the emergency room with severe back pain and a fever of 104. I had apparently developed a urinary tract infection that had backed up into my kidneys. A few weeks later, the pain in my right foot had reached a level that I sought out a podiatrist, who said I had developed soft tissue damage as a result of spraining my ankle while I was in England three months earlier. After suffering another two weeks while my insurance sorted out whether or not it would pay for it, I was put into a cast boot, which then aggravated my low back, which in turn, kinked out my cervical vertebrae.
Just as that was finally calming down, I started having severe pain in the small of my back. Thinking it was related to the earlier low back pain resulting from my weak foot, I kept trying to do my yoga and pilates to strengthen and relax the muscles. My rhuematologist sent me to have an MRI, which came back normal aside from minor arthritis. For three weeks, whenever I turned over in bed, walked more than a few steps, sat at my desk or tried to get out of the bathtub, I would have intense, throbbing pain. Eventually I again showed up at the ER, with only a low-grade fever this time thanks to all the Vicodin I had been taking, and again was diagnosed with a urinary tract infection that had backed up into my kidneys (before June, I'd never even had one). Why I can't just get normal UTI symptoms is beyond me. But, yeah, note to self: if I have back pain that lasts more than a week, get checked for a UTI. Oh and just to make life extra fun, I had also developed a bit of bursitis in my right hip because of the cast boot and weak foot.
For the first time since I was a kid, I'm afraid of being spanked.
On an abstract level, it still has some appeal. When my boyfriend made a comment the other night about being strict, it gave me that familiar tingle. But when I start to think of actually getting one or remember past spankings, my whole body tenses up and there's a sharp feeling in that spot where the sternum and the stomach meet.
Now, I know that will change as all the Substance P that's been flooding my brain and spinal fluid returns to more managable levels (though for people with Fibromyalgia, this neurotransmitter for pain is often three times the normal level found in the spinal fluid of healthy controls). Yet, I've found myself feeling quite sad about it. Like seeing an empty chair at the family dinner table.
It dawned on me today that what has been really bothering me is that I'm afraid of losing spanking.
After surgery six years ago, I developed Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome (CFIDS -- also known as Myalgic Encephalomeylitis or ME outside of the US) in addition to Fibromyalgia, and since then I've lost my teaching job, my academic career (though in the long run, that may not be a bad thing), a lot of my hobbies like hiking or gardening or cantoring at church, hanging out with my friends or playing with my nieces and nephew. In addition to being lactose intolerant, I'm now soy intolerant, as well as sensitive to insoluble fiber, acidic foods, yeast, sugar substitutes/alcohols like aspartame, Splenda or sorbitol,and most preservatives and additives. Spanking is one of the few things that allows me to feel strong again.
However, the more I read about how the brain processes pain, particularly in the case of Fibromyalgia, the more it appears that the brain becomes increasingly dysfunctional the more it is forced to process pain. Robert Bennett, a professor of medicine just up the road from me at Oregon Health Science University, explains that Fibromyalgia is "a disorder in which the central nervous system amplifies pain sensations ('central sensitization') due to a complex interplay between genetic predisposition, the cumulative burden of painful insults ('perpheral pain generators) and a dysregulation of the normal response to stressors."
I often use the analogy of having a radio on that plays 80s acid rock. The radio is always on for me, but at a level where I can try and ignore it. I can't (for the most part) turn it off so I go on as best I can, though it does make sleeping or concentrating a challenge.
This summer it's been turned up almost full blast for all but about three weeks or so. It's gone back to just below half way down the dial since starting the antibiotics last week. But it's like my ears are still hearing it. And I feel exhausted. Like I've been run over by a truck or beaten up with a baseball bat.
It's made me wonder if purposefully having someone turn the dial up is a wise thing to do. Wonder about the irony of having a disorder which amplifies pain AND having a spanking kink. Particularly considering that I'm often told I seem to have a high pain threshold (at least when it comes to spanking) when actually it's the exact opposite.
Does that mean I'm an even bigger pain slut than I thought? ;)
Not that it's really an issue at the moment. My boyfriend lives in the UK and I in Portland, Oregon, and I suspect by the time we get together again, I'll be practically begging to go over his knee.
But maybe the really hard ones will be like sugar or alcohol -- something I can have once in a while but in limited amounts. Making them all the sweeter.
And maybe, since I feel pain more intensely, spanking is something I feel more intsensely as well.
And just maybe, for once, I can feel lucky to have Fibromyalgia.
Within a month of returning from visiting my boyfriend in the Land of Spanking (aka England) and attending a conference in Jerusalem, I came down with a respiratory virus. No big deal except that when I get a fever, it's like having needles jabbing me all over -- constantly. It's one of the ways my brain doesn't quite process sensory input correctly, the result of a disorder called Fibromyalgia.
Two weeks after the virus ended, I was in the emergency room with severe back pain and a fever of 104. I had apparently developed a urinary tract infection that had backed up into my kidneys. A few weeks later, the pain in my right foot had reached a level that I sought out a podiatrist, who said I had developed soft tissue damage as a result of spraining my ankle while I was in England three months earlier. After suffering another two weeks while my insurance sorted out whether or not it would pay for it, I was put into a cast boot, which then aggravated my low back, which in turn, kinked out my cervical vertebrae.
Just as that was finally calming down, I started having severe pain in the small of my back. Thinking it was related to the earlier low back pain resulting from my weak foot, I kept trying to do my yoga and pilates to strengthen and relax the muscles. My rhuematologist sent me to have an MRI, which came back normal aside from minor arthritis. For three weeks, whenever I turned over in bed, walked more than a few steps, sat at my desk or tried to get out of the bathtub, I would have intense, throbbing pain. Eventually I again showed up at the ER, with only a low-grade fever this time thanks to all the Vicodin I had been taking, and again was diagnosed with a urinary tract infection that had backed up into my kidneys (before June, I'd never even had one). Why I can't just get normal UTI symptoms is beyond me. But, yeah, note to self: if I have back pain that lasts more than a week, get checked for a UTI. Oh and just to make life extra fun, I had also developed a bit of bursitis in my right hip because of the cast boot and weak foot.
For the first time since I was a kid, I'm afraid of being spanked.
On an abstract level, it still has some appeal. When my boyfriend made a comment the other night about being strict, it gave me that familiar tingle. But when I start to think of actually getting one or remember past spankings, my whole body tenses up and there's a sharp feeling in that spot where the sternum and the stomach meet.
Now, I know that will change as all the Substance P that's been flooding my brain and spinal fluid returns to more managable levels (though for people with Fibromyalgia, this neurotransmitter for pain is often three times the normal level found in the spinal fluid of healthy controls). Yet, I've found myself feeling quite sad about it. Like seeing an empty chair at the family dinner table.
It dawned on me today that what has been really bothering me is that I'm afraid of losing spanking.
After surgery six years ago, I developed Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome (CFIDS -- also known as Myalgic Encephalomeylitis or ME outside of the US) in addition to Fibromyalgia, and since then I've lost my teaching job, my academic career (though in the long run, that may not be a bad thing), a lot of my hobbies like hiking or gardening or cantoring at church, hanging out with my friends or playing with my nieces and nephew. In addition to being lactose intolerant, I'm now soy intolerant, as well as sensitive to insoluble fiber, acidic foods, yeast, sugar substitutes/alcohols like aspartame, Splenda or sorbitol,and most preservatives and additives. Spanking is one of the few things that allows me to feel strong again.
However, the more I read about how the brain processes pain, particularly in the case of Fibromyalgia, the more it appears that the brain becomes increasingly dysfunctional the more it is forced to process pain. Robert Bennett, a professor of medicine just up the road from me at Oregon Health Science University, explains that Fibromyalgia is "a disorder in which the central nervous system amplifies pain sensations ('central sensitization') due to a complex interplay between genetic predisposition, the cumulative burden of painful insults ('perpheral pain generators) and a dysregulation of the normal response to stressors."
I often use the analogy of having a radio on that plays 80s acid rock. The radio is always on for me, but at a level where I can try and ignore it. I can't (for the most part) turn it off so I go on as best I can, though it does make sleeping or concentrating a challenge.
This summer it's been turned up almost full blast for all but about three weeks or so. It's gone back to just below half way down the dial since starting the antibiotics last week. But it's like my ears are still hearing it. And I feel exhausted. Like I've been run over by a truck or beaten up with a baseball bat.
It's made me wonder if purposefully having someone turn the dial up is a wise thing to do. Wonder about the irony of having a disorder which amplifies pain AND having a spanking kink. Particularly considering that I'm often told I seem to have a high pain threshold (at least when it comes to spanking) when actually it's the exact opposite.
Does that mean I'm an even bigger pain slut than I thought? ;)
Not that it's really an issue at the moment. My boyfriend lives in the UK and I in Portland, Oregon, and I suspect by the time we get together again, I'll be practically begging to go over his knee.
But maybe the really hard ones will be like sugar or alcohol -- something I can have once in a while but in limited amounts. Making them all the sweeter.
And maybe, since I feel pain more intensely, spanking is something I feel more intsensely as well.
And just maybe, for once, I can feel lucky to have Fibromyalgia.
Monday, September 13, 2004
Spanking for peace?
A friend and I were talking this afternoon about how we've met people from all over the world in spanking chat rooms. Could it be that spanking could bring the world together in perfect harmony?? :)
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Postmodern Spanking: HWJS
Remember a few years ago when there were those WWJD bracelets? You know, the ones that stood for "what would Jesus do?" hip young Evangelicals wore to remind them to think about Jesus whenever they did something? Well, this afternoon my boyfriend (aka Mr. Sexy-Voice as my sister has recently dubbed him) came up with the spanko equivelent: How Would Jesus Spank?
So all you spankers out there, as you sit with your loved one over your knee or bent over a bed or strapped into a spanking bench, I implore you to ponder for a moment just how the Son of God would tan your honey's hide.
Maybe there should even be little bracelets with HWJS on them. :)
So all you spankers out there, as you sit with your loved one over your knee or bent over a bed or strapped into a spanking bench, I implore you to ponder for a moment just how the Son of God would tan your honey's hide.
Maybe there should even be little bracelets with HWJS on them. :)
Monday, September 06, 2004
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Bad pain week...
Or rather bad couple of pain weeks. Haven't even thought about spanking lately. Yeah, that bad...
But, don't think anyone is reading this blog yet anyway so if I don't post much for a bit, don't think it'll matter.
And if it does...well, email me. :)
But, don't think anyone is reading this blog yet anyway so if I don't post much for a bit, don't think it'll matter.
And if it does...well, email me. :)
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Story: Patron Saint of Spanking
This story first appeared on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup on August 18, 2002.
******************************
The Patron Saint of Spanking
Born in a village in the south of France in 1381, Saint Michelle was the only child of a poor tanner and his wife, who had, up until her birth, been barren. As a child she loved to attend daily Mass and began compulsively reciting the Our Father and Hail Mary at an early age.
However, she also had a penchant for mischief, often teasing others mercilessly as well as playing pranks. One day as she was teasing a boy about his appearance, the Holy Mother appeared to her holding a birch rod and sternly reproached her for being such a wicked child. At the end of the vision, the birch rod lay at Michelle’s feet. She grabbed it, and ran home where she found her father seated on a chair. After handing him the birch rod, she pulled up her skirts, lowered her undergarment, and flung herself across his lap, exclaiming, “Father, you must whip me for being a wicked child.” Her father complied and laid the birch rod upon her vigorously until her bottom was raw. Every night after that, at the conclusion of her evening prayers, she would present the birch rod to her parents and ask to receive a sound thrashing as perpetual penance to maintain her piety.
When her mother died from a fever at age 13, Michelle was sent to the nearby convent of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. She continued her habit of nightly birchings at the hand of the abbess, as well as received additional punishments and penances from her confessor. As time passed, her piety and holiness became well known. In her autobiography, “La Fessee Pour L’ame,” she credited her punishments for purifying her soul and focusing all of her mind and heart on Christ.
The same fever that stole her mother took Michelle five years later. After her death, there were several visions of her. One man with a wife who was often lewd and profane prayed for advice about what to do. Saint Michelle appeared to him in the same way the Holy Mother had appeared to her – holding a birch rod – and instructed him to thrash the girl, who became an example of womanly virtue afterward. Another husband had long desired for his wife to spank him, but she refused. Saint Michelle appeared to the wife, again with her birch rod, and filled her with the desire to love her husband with a sound thrashing. She has also appeared to numerous school children who have sought her assistance in enduring their just punishments.
The Church recognizes the devotion, piety and holiness of this great saint, who has helped many seek lives of greater charity and sanctity even through the embrace of physical chastisement. She is the patron saint of spanking, and her feast day is celebrated on August 18.
copyright 2002 by Natty
******************************
The Patron Saint of Spanking
Born in a village in the south of France in 1381, Saint Michelle was the only child of a poor tanner and his wife, who had, up until her birth, been barren. As a child she loved to attend daily Mass and began compulsively reciting the Our Father and Hail Mary at an early age.
However, she also had a penchant for mischief, often teasing others mercilessly as well as playing pranks. One day as she was teasing a boy about his appearance, the Holy Mother appeared to her holding a birch rod and sternly reproached her for being such a wicked child. At the end of the vision, the birch rod lay at Michelle’s feet. She grabbed it, and ran home where she found her father seated on a chair. After handing him the birch rod, she pulled up her skirts, lowered her undergarment, and flung herself across his lap, exclaiming, “Father, you must whip me for being a wicked child.” Her father complied and laid the birch rod upon her vigorously until her bottom was raw. Every night after that, at the conclusion of her evening prayers, she would present the birch rod to her parents and ask to receive a sound thrashing as perpetual penance to maintain her piety.
When her mother died from a fever at age 13, Michelle was sent to the nearby convent of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. She continued her habit of nightly birchings at the hand of the abbess, as well as received additional punishments and penances from her confessor. As time passed, her piety and holiness became well known. In her autobiography, “La Fessee Pour L’ame,” she credited her punishments for purifying her soul and focusing all of her mind and heart on Christ.
The same fever that stole her mother took Michelle five years later. After her death, there were several visions of her. One man with a wife who was often lewd and profane prayed for advice about what to do. Saint Michelle appeared to him in the same way the Holy Mother had appeared to her – holding a birch rod – and instructed him to thrash the girl, who became an example of womanly virtue afterward. Another husband had long desired for his wife to spank him, but she refused. Saint Michelle appeared to the wife, again with her birch rod, and filled her with the desire to love her husband with a sound thrashing. She has also appeared to numerous school children who have sought her assistance in enduring their just punishments.
The Church recognizes the devotion, piety and holiness of this great saint, who has helped many seek lives of greater charity and sanctity even through the embrace of physical chastisement. She is the patron saint of spanking, and her feast day is celebrated on August 18.
copyright 2002 by Natty
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Story: Her Dry Eyes
Another story along the same theme, first posted to soc.sexuality.spanking in July 2002
Her Dry Eyes [M/F – though I suppose it could be F/F too…]
She really is such as child.
Don’t get me wrong, she seems like an adult. Being the teacher she is, she can give an extemporaneous, though thorough and incisive history of the Arab-Israeli conflict, a critique of nationalism in light of postmodernism, or a trenchant theological treatise on the importance of unity within the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. She can discuss music from Beethoven to Yo-Yo Ma, Miles Davis to John Lee Hooker, the Chieftains to ‘Amr Diab. And she cooks like a European grandmother ("no, the produce must be fresh – from the garden, or at least the farmer’s market").
But as a graduate student, she excels at tardiness, procrastination, and work that, while fine, is far below her potential. Her stereo will, as often as not, be playing one of those hideous rock bands like Green Day or the Beastie Boys or even, God helps us, the South Park soundtrack. And it’s not unheard of for me to find out she’s had ice cream for breakfast.
She’s not naughty…just…willful. Rambunctious. Bratty. She knows all the right buttons to push – and jams them often. Though I remind her that there are certain physical limitations in this world – time and gravity being but a few – she seems oblivious. An attitude she never grew out of – she still brags about how, when she broke her ankle at age ten, she continued playing kickball in her walking cast.
And now that she’s sick, it’s all I can do to get her to settle down long enough to rest. To pay attention to her symptoms. To take her medicine regularly. To do the exercises the doctor gave her to do. “But, they’re not fun like hiking, or swimming. I don’t feel anything when I do them.” So, I gave her something to feel.
Yes, I spanked her. Long and hard. With a wooden hairbrush, her baby fine hair mingling with the boar bristles. I laid her over my lap. Made her suffer the indignity of my pulling her panties down around her knees. And through it all she whimpered. Curled her toes. Squirmed. Put her face in her hands and sobbed. Or seemed to. When I let her up, her eyes were dry.
She’s laying on her bed now. Her tummy on the quilt. I sense her sadness. Her contrition. Her scalding discomfort. Her ache to cry and let all those feelings out. But that grown up – that sophisticated adult who shut out the little girl long ago – won’t let her. I wish I had seen her when she was that ten-year-old playing kickball, before a hard life came and dammed her tears.
But I know someday it will happen. She will be lying over my lap, panties bunched up around her knees. And I will be using the hairbrush on that tender spot where the buttocks and the thighs become ambiguous. And a salty glaze will come over her earth green eyes. And then tears will finally accompany those vocal sobs.
Her Dry Eyes [M/F – though I suppose it could be F/F too…]
She really is such as child.
Don’t get me wrong, she seems like an adult. Being the teacher she is, she can give an extemporaneous, though thorough and incisive history of the Arab-Israeli conflict, a critique of nationalism in light of postmodernism, or a trenchant theological treatise on the importance of unity within the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. She can discuss music from Beethoven to Yo-Yo Ma, Miles Davis to John Lee Hooker, the Chieftains to ‘Amr Diab. And she cooks like a European grandmother ("no, the produce must be fresh – from the garden, or at least the farmer’s market").
But as a graduate student, she excels at tardiness, procrastination, and work that, while fine, is far below her potential. Her stereo will, as often as not, be playing one of those hideous rock bands like Green Day or the Beastie Boys or even, God helps us, the South Park soundtrack. And it’s not unheard of for me to find out she’s had ice cream for breakfast.
She’s not naughty…just…willful. Rambunctious. Bratty. She knows all the right buttons to push – and jams them often. Though I remind her that there are certain physical limitations in this world – time and gravity being but a few – she seems oblivious. An attitude she never grew out of – she still brags about how, when she broke her ankle at age ten, she continued playing kickball in her walking cast.
And now that she’s sick, it’s all I can do to get her to settle down long enough to rest. To pay attention to her symptoms. To take her medicine regularly. To do the exercises the doctor gave her to do. “But, they’re not fun like hiking, or swimming. I don’t feel anything when I do them.” So, I gave her something to feel.
Yes, I spanked her. Long and hard. With a wooden hairbrush, her baby fine hair mingling with the boar bristles. I laid her over my lap. Made her suffer the indignity of my pulling her panties down around her knees. And through it all she whimpered. Curled her toes. Squirmed. Put her face in her hands and sobbed. Or seemed to. When I let her up, her eyes were dry.
She’s laying on her bed now. Her tummy on the quilt. I sense her sadness. Her contrition. Her scalding discomfort. Her ache to cry and let all those feelings out. But that grown up – that sophisticated adult who shut out the little girl long ago – won’t let her. I wish I had seen her when she was that ten-year-old playing kickball, before a hard life came and dammed her tears.
But I know someday it will happen. She will be lying over my lap, panties bunched up around her knees. And I will be using the hairbrush on that tender spot where the buttocks and the thighs become ambiguous. And a salty glaze will come over her earth green eyes. And then tears will finally accompany those vocal sobs.
Story: "To the Pain"
First posted to the soc.sexuality.spanking Usenet group December 2002.
"...TO THE PAIN" [M/F]
“Tonight you’re going to cry,” Adrian said as he turned off Westley and Princess Buttercup riding off into the sunset.
“You know I never cry when you spank me,” Melinda replied.
“But you will tonight.” Adrian grinned, nodded, and walked into the bedroom.
“Oh really?” Melinda got up off the couch and followed her beloved.
“Yep.” Adrian squatted down alongside the bed and pulled the storage box out from behind the eyelet dust ruffle. “Because tonight I'm going to make you go 'to the pain.' You’re not going to just push it away like you always do.”
Melinda looked up at him with a gaze he had only seen a few times before. Afraid. Sad. Angry. Vulnerable. Then looked at him with a smirk. And a giggle.
“Your arm will get tired first,” she teased.
“Probably. Then I’ll just make you stand in the corner while it rests.” It was Adrian's turn to smirk. Melinda huffed.
“But I hate the corner. And it’s not like I did anything wrong…”
“Take off your pj bottoms and panties.” Adrian nudged her with his shoulder. Melinda pouted, then sighed and began disrobing. As she tugged down plaid flannel and white cotton, he could see the concentration in her eyes. The deep, centered breathing. He reached out and smacked her left cheek with the hairbrush. She jumped and reached behind her.
“Ow! Wait! What – “
“I know what you’re doing – stop it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re preparing. Getting your mind ready to dissociate the pain. I don’t want you to. I mean it that I really want you to feel it.” He stared back at her as she scowled. And gaped. Eyes glazed in disorientation.
Clutching her left arm, Adrian led her body over his lap. Then slapped Melinda's fleshy buttocks repeatedly. Hard. In rapid, concentrated clips for several minutes. She gripped the quilts. Pulled herself onto her elbows, moving her bottom forward. And yelped.
“I know that you don’t cry when I spank you," Adrian began, "because you push the pain away to a place inside where you can’t feel it anymore.” His smacks lagged but remained heavy as he spoke. “And it’s worked to get you through some very tough times. But it’s still there inside. Keeping you from healing. Hurting you much more than this is.” The hairbrush returned to the faster pace. “Let it out…Feel it and let it out.”
She curled her toes. Shifted her weight from one hip to the other. Grunted. Dropped her forehead onto her arms.
Oh god this hurts…He’s going to stop soon. He will…Damnit this stings...Just gotta hang in there a little bit more. It’ll stop in a minute…But it burns. I can’t take it…Yes I can…But he’s not stopping. This just hurts too much…If I can just breathe…Concentrate…
“I want you to focus on how much it hurts. Tell me what it feels like…” He continued the sharp spanks then increased the force when she remained silent. “Talk to me – what’s it feel like?” Melinda squealed.
“It…it hurts.” Then several “ows” and “ohhhwees.”
“Okay, what else.” Still slapping the hairbrush down on her jiggling, scorched buttocks and thighs. “How does it hurt?
“Burning…It…it burns. And stings.” Melinda whimpered and squirmed. Adrian steadied her with his left hand on her back. Delivered a biting slap on the right thigh as her legs jerked upward.
“And…?” Several more smacks on the thighs.
“Ahhh…I…ow…I…don’t know…I can’t…ohhwee…” She was making the sounds of someone crying, but without the tears. And it would be awhile yet before they would come.
Melinda was right. His arm was worn out.
“I want you to go stand in the corner for awhile and think. Think about how much your bottom hurts and how much it’s still going to hurt.” She crawled off his lap and straggled to the corner.
Adrian left her there while he went into the kitchen. Humiliation was not his intent. No, he really wanted to leave her alone with herself. To face what was inside.
The paint blots on the wall began to take on individuality as Melinda stared at them. She hated the corner because it was boring. And then because it made her have to look at herself. Like a surreal sort of mirror. But unlike the warped mirrors in a fun house, this mirror reflected back a small child. The little her. The frightened her. The her without any answers. The her she locked away behind maturity, intelligence and toughness needed to survive a hard life. The her she shielded from all pain. Wherever it came from. She shivered as the cold air wafted around her naked bottom half.
“Come here.” Melinda turned to see Adrian back on the bed, switch in hand. Her stomach dropped. He patted the bed and she bent over. And with as much vigor as before he laid the switch on her cold, scalded bottom. She cried out – but no tears. Yet.
“Let her come out,” he whispered. “Go back to that little girl before she had to become tough and grown up. Back when she could still feel pain.” The switch thwacked across her cheeks. “Back before you built up all those walls. Before you put on all that armor.” Then down across her thighs. “Before all the injuries and illness. All the loss and heartache…”
That small feeling from the corner came back. The little girl who felt lost and scared and lonely and sad. And hurt. Unbearably hurt. Who couldn’t find anything to grab onto in her grown up mind to get her through the pain that burned her skin and throughout her soul…
Oh god…he’s not stopping…it hurts so much…so much…all of it…oh god…I just want it to stop…I just can’t…
“It’s okay. You don’t have to be tough anymore. You’re hurting. You’ve been hurting for a very long time.” Again the switch sliced across her cheeks. “But it’s okay to cry. To feel it.” It seared along the thighs once more. “It’s real pain that would be too much for anyone to bear.” The switch bit a few more times. “Let her cry…”
They started in that spot where the stomach and the chest meet. Yes, the tears came from Melinda's eyes, but they started down there. The sobs rippled through her shoulders. Filled her chest, her stomach, her back.
Adrian dropped the switch onto the floor. Climbed onto the bed and pulled Melinda next to him. Held her in his arms as she lay there on the bed – the little girl/woman – crying.
Copyright 2002 Natty
"...TO THE PAIN" [M/F]
“Tonight you’re going to cry,” Adrian said as he turned off Westley and Princess Buttercup riding off into the sunset.
“You know I never cry when you spank me,” Melinda replied.
“But you will tonight.” Adrian grinned, nodded, and walked into the bedroom.
“Oh really?” Melinda got up off the couch and followed her beloved.
“Yep.” Adrian squatted down alongside the bed and pulled the storage box out from behind the eyelet dust ruffle. “Because tonight I'm going to make you go 'to the pain.' You’re not going to just push it away like you always do.”
Melinda looked up at him with a gaze he had only seen a few times before. Afraid. Sad. Angry. Vulnerable. Then looked at him with a smirk. And a giggle.
“Your arm will get tired first,” she teased.
“Probably. Then I’ll just make you stand in the corner while it rests.” It was Adrian's turn to smirk. Melinda huffed.
“But I hate the corner. And it’s not like I did anything wrong…”
“Take off your pj bottoms and panties.” Adrian nudged her with his shoulder. Melinda pouted, then sighed and began disrobing. As she tugged down plaid flannel and white cotton, he could see the concentration in her eyes. The deep, centered breathing. He reached out and smacked her left cheek with the hairbrush. She jumped and reached behind her.
“Ow! Wait! What – “
“I know what you’re doing – stop it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re preparing. Getting your mind ready to dissociate the pain. I don’t want you to. I mean it that I really want you to feel it.” He stared back at her as she scowled. And gaped. Eyes glazed in disorientation.
Clutching her left arm, Adrian led her body over his lap. Then slapped Melinda's fleshy buttocks repeatedly. Hard. In rapid, concentrated clips for several minutes. She gripped the quilts. Pulled herself onto her elbows, moving her bottom forward. And yelped.
“I know that you don’t cry when I spank you," Adrian began, "because you push the pain away to a place inside where you can’t feel it anymore.” His smacks lagged but remained heavy as he spoke. “And it’s worked to get you through some very tough times. But it’s still there inside. Keeping you from healing. Hurting you much more than this is.” The hairbrush returned to the faster pace. “Let it out…Feel it and let it out.”
She curled her toes. Shifted her weight from one hip to the other. Grunted. Dropped her forehead onto her arms.
Oh god this hurts…He’s going to stop soon. He will…Damnit this stings...Just gotta hang in there a little bit more. It’ll stop in a minute…But it burns. I can’t take it…Yes I can…But he’s not stopping. This just hurts too much…If I can just breathe…Concentrate…
“I want you to focus on how much it hurts. Tell me what it feels like…” He continued the sharp spanks then increased the force when she remained silent. “Talk to me – what’s it feel like?” Melinda squealed.
“It…it hurts.” Then several “ows” and “ohhhwees.”
“Okay, what else.” Still slapping the hairbrush down on her jiggling, scorched buttocks and thighs. “How does it hurt?
“Burning…It…it burns. And stings.” Melinda whimpered and squirmed. Adrian steadied her with his left hand on her back. Delivered a biting slap on the right thigh as her legs jerked upward.
“And…?” Several more smacks on the thighs.
“Ahhh…I…ow…I…don’t know…I can’t…ohhwee…” She was making the sounds of someone crying, but without the tears. And it would be awhile yet before they would come.
Melinda was right. His arm was worn out.
“I want you to go stand in the corner for awhile and think. Think about how much your bottom hurts and how much it’s still going to hurt.” She crawled off his lap and straggled to the corner.
Adrian left her there while he went into the kitchen. Humiliation was not his intent. No, he really wanted to leave her alone with herself. To face what was inside.
The paint blots on the wall began to take on individuality as Melinda stared at them. She hated the corner because it was boring. And then because it made her have to look at herself. Like a surreal sort of mirror. But unlike the warped mirrors in a fun house, this mirror reflected back a small child. The little her. The frightened her. The her without any answers. The her she locked away behind maturity, intelligence and toughness needed to survive a hard life. The her she shielded from all pain. Wherever it came from. She shivered as the cold air wafted around her naked bottom half.
“Come here.” Melinda turned to see Adrian back on the bed, switch in hand. Her stomach dropped. He patted the bed and she bent over. And with as much vigor as before he laid the switch on her cold, scalded bottom. She cried out – but no tears. Yet.
“Let her come out,” he whispered. “Go back to that little girl before she had to become tough and grown up. Back when she could still feel pain.” The switch thwacked across her cheeks. “Back before you built up all those walls. Before you put on all that armor.” Then down across her thighs. “Before all the injuries and illness. All the loss and heartache…”
That small feeling from the corner came back. The little girl who felt lost and scared and lonely and sad. And hurt. Unbearably hurt. Who couldn’t find anything to grab onto in her grown up mind to get her through the pain that burned her skin and throughout her soul…
Oh god…he’s not stopping…it hurts so much…so much…all of it…oh god…I just want it to stop…I just can’t…
“It’s okay. You don’t have to be tough anymore. You’re hurting. You’ve been hurting for a very long time.” Again the switch sliced across her cheeks. “But it’s okay to cry. To feel it.” It seared along the thighs once more. “It’s real pain that would be too much for anyone to bear.” The switch bit a few more times. “Let her cry…”
They started in that spot where the stomach and the chest meet. Yes, the tears came from Melinda's eyes, but they started down there. The sobs rippled through her shoulders. Filled her chest, her stomach, her back.
Adrian dropped the switch onto the floor. Climbed onto the bed and pulled Melinda next to him. Held her in his arms as she lay there on the bed – the little girl/woman – crying.
Copyright 2002 Natty
My First BDSM event
So, I went to my first BDSM event this last Sunday. The Portland Leather Alliance had an event called Leather Tastings where participants could sample different BDSM activities. While I didn't find many of the other activities quite my kink, I did sample a little bit at the Spanking and Caning station. :)
Okay, I got thrashed. The good Christian girl in me felt a bit shy about baring my bottom in public, so I only took down my trousers before bending over the stool. But, as rattan canes are best felt on the bare skin, R, the one manning the station and the implements, scrunched my cotton panties in between my cheeks before giving me several strokes of varying force. Then he gave me a couple of strokes with a nasty implement called a sjambok. Ouch! And to finish me off, he used a very old razor strop on my already smarting backside. It apparently has been handed down and used on bottoms for a few generations. After getting a good ten or so hard whacks, I can see why it has terrorized many a child. My backside is still marked and bruised as I type this.Though I've been sorta buzzed and giddy since. I so wanna do that again. ;) When I told my boyfriend (who lives far far away in the Land of Spanking [aka England]) about the sjambok, he was like "I gotta get me one of those." What a sadist... ;)
It's funny because R asked me if I topped. I have a few times but never really get into it much. He told me it might help me understand a bit what it's like to be on the other end. Apparently my stoicism kind of made him uncomfortable as he didn't know if he was hitting too hard or not.
I have a hard time verbalizing when I'm physically in pain. After having Fibromyalgia and a myriad of other painful health problems since breaking my ankle when I was 10, I've become used to being stoic. Nobody likes a complainer.
I think that's something spanking has been slowly helping me with. Every now and then I manage to make a bit of noise. My boyfriend has even made me cry a couple of times -- and that's no mean feat! ;) But, I think R might have a point. Maybe verbalizing my pain would make spanking more of the release it should be.
Okay, I got thrashed. The good Christian girl in me felt a bit shy about baring my bottom in public, so I only took down my trousers before bending over the stool. But, as rattan canes are best felt on the bare skin, R, the one manning the station and the implements, scrunched my cotton panties in between my cheeks before giving me several strokes of varying force. Then he gave me a couple of strokes with a nasty implement called a sjambok. Ouch! And to finish me off, he used a very old razor strop on my already smarting backside. It apparently has been handed down and used on bottoms for a few generations. After getting a good ten or so hard whacks, I can see why it has terrorized many a child. My backside is still marked and bruised as I type this.
It's funny because R asked me if I topped. I have a few times but never really get into it much. He told me it might help me understand a bit what it's like to be on the other end. Apparently my stoicism kind of made him uncomfortable as he didn't know if he was hitting too hard or not.
I have a hard time verbalizing when I'm physically in pain. After having Fibromyalgia and a myriad of other painful health problems since breaking my ankle when I was 10, I've become used to being stoic. Nobody likes a complainer.
I think that's something spanking has been slowly helping me with. Every now and then I manage to make a bit of noise. My boyfriend has even made me cry a couple of times -- and that's no mean feat! ;) But, I think R might have a point. Maybe verbalizing my pain would make spanking more of the release it should be.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
My Natty Moods
Here's a follow up to the last post from about a year ago.
My Natty Moods
I’ve worn my hair in pigtails the last few days. A sort of tangible reminder that Natty is still around. I get in these moods. My Natty moods. When I feel small but rambunctious.
Actually, she used to be Allie. The character I created and wrote about all the way up through high school. But Allie is her own person now. A real fictional person who I do not wish to encumber with my emotional baggage. So in the story I wrote a few years ago about my relationship with her, I changed her name to Natty. I always liked that name better anyway.
As I woke up this morning, she grabbed hold of me. I have often tried to ignore her but I knew my therapist would tell me to listen to her. Would ask what she’s like. However, since my therapist is not around anymore, I asked the question myself. And listened. And as Natty talked, I realized she sounded just like the memoir piece I started writing a couple of years ago in the voice of my ten-year-old self.
It made me cry. I never meant for her to get locked away and ignored. First physically when I broke my ankle and it didn’t heal properly, leaving me unable to play kickball or ride my bike anymore. Then emotionally when I started raising my baby sister, and then my baby brother. And especially after my stepfather tried to crush her. She wasn’t safe in my world anymore.
I’m not sure what made her come out so forcefully this week. Perhaps it’s because I was such a good grown up the week before when I finished my review of post-Zionism, and filled out all those forms for school and Social Security, and agonized over my application essay for the editorial fellowship. Maybe it’s because I’ve felt stronger and healthier this week than I have in a good year or so, suggesting to her that just possibly the body she used to inhabit will let her in again.
During these Natty moods, I have this intense craving for structure and discipline. For a good, long, hard spanking. Not that I’ve necessarily done anything bad, though I find myself feeling much more guilty about petty failures than I normally would. But somehow the spanking would be a palpable reminder that in many ways I am a little girl. I have permission to be Natty once again.
That permission came in the oddest sort of way this week. I finally made it to confession. The Roman parish I’ve been attending because I can’t drive out to my Byzantine parish only has confession once a month or by appointment. And I’ve been hesitant to go because I’ve never been to confession with a Roman priest. But I found out that Father P does the Spanish Mass out here once a month, and as he’s bi-ritual, as well as the one who heard my first confession three years ago when I converted, it made sense to go to him. As I began my confession with him on Saturday, I realized I’d forgotten how human he was. He talked to me about his own health problems. Almost seemed to justify whatever sin I confessed. Then I confessed the one I was the most nervous about.
“I’ve had impure thoughts. Read impure things. And…and…something I’ve never done in my life before…I’ve masturbated.”
He nodded and sighed and looked sort of flustered. “Well…okay…see…alright…” He started in his rapid voice. “I understand why the Church was so big on procreation in the Middle Ages when people only lived until 30 or something. And of course, the more grievous sin is if it’s with someone else. But there’s a lot of disagreement about whether it’s a sin at all…Some priests will laugh at you if you confess it. Some, of course, get really concerned. I just figure if people want to confess it then I let them – I mean the whole point of the sacrament of reconciliation is so you don’t have to feel guilty anymore…”
“Well, it’s just that…” I stammered with an equally flustered voice. “I’ve never done this before and it just seems like it was wrong or something.”
“If it feels good it must be wrong?” He chuckled. I blushed and giggled a little.
“Well, yeah sorta…And it does feel good. I mean, I feel so healthy afterwards.” Wow. This certainly was not how I expected this conversation to go. He smiled, then sighed.
“It’s…it’s up to you if you want to confess it. Let’s just say…” He paused, still looking for the right words. “It’s just…it’s just…not uncommon.” He nodded and returned to the order of confession. As he gave me my penance he stressed that it was not punishment but for healing, a very Byzantine-Orthodox view with which I was familiar. As an optional penance, he wanted me to look up verses about forgiveness in the Bible. I immediately thought of one from Psalm 103: “As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions. As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear Him; for He knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are but dust.”
I thought of one of my earliest confessions with Father S, my parish priest. He admonished me “you’re going to make mistakes. It’s okay. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” For the last few years it seems like this has been a theme God has been emphasizing to me. That He knows I’m not perfect. Just as parents allow their kids to make mistakes – to be kids – God was allowing me, encouraging me, to be myself, to be free, to be the kid I in many ways still am. As I walked home from church, Natty soared.
But right now the adult Michelle must get ready to go for her interview with the Pacific Historical Review about that editorial fellowship. Prepare to discuss style sheets and research about the appropriation of the construct of the American West in the Palestine-Israel conflict. Yet I know that Natty won’t be too far away. That all of this started when I was a kid and devoured the Little House on the Prairie books and became a walking encyclopedia of Laura Ingalls Wilder and pioneer trivia. Then read the Black Stallion Returns set in Arabia and became enchanted with Arab culture. And when I get home, I’ll change from my sensible skirt and shoes into my flannel jammies. Take down my hair and brush it back into pigtails. And savor that delicious tension between my Natty mood and my grown-up self.
My Natty Moods
I’ve worn my hair in pigtails the last few days. A sort of tangible reminder that Natty is still around. I get in these moods. My Natty moods. When I feel small but rambunctious.
Actually, she used to be Allie. The character I created and wrote about all the way up through high school. But Allie is her own person now. A real fictional person who I do not wish to encumber with my emotional baggage. So in the story I wrote a few years ago about my relationship with her, I changed her name to Natty. I always liked that name better anyway.
As I woke up this morning, she grabbed hold of me. I have often tried to ignore her but I knew my therapist would tell me to listen to her. Would ask what she’s like. However, since my therapist is not around anymore, I asked the question myself. And listened. And as Natty talked, I realized she sounded just like the memoir piece I started writing a couple of years ago in the voice of my ten-year-old self.
It made me cry. I never meant for her to get locked away and ignored. First physically when I broke my ankle and it didn’t heal properly, leaving me unable to play kickball or ride my bike anymore. Then emotionally when I started raising my baby sister, and then my baby brother. And especially after my stepfather tried to crush her. She wasn’t safe in my world anymore.
I’m not sure what made her come out so forcefully this week. Perhaps it’s because I was such a good grown up the week before when I finished my review of post-Zionism, and filled out all those forms for school and Social Security, and agonized over my application essay for the editorial fellowship. Maybe it’s because I’ve felt stronger and healthier this week than I have in a good year or so, suggesting to her that just possibly the body she used to inhabit will let her in again.
During these Natty moods, I have this intense craving for structure and discipline. For a good, long, hard spanking. Not that I’ve necessarily done anything bad, though I find myself feeling much more guilty about petty failures than I normally would. But somehow the spanking would be a palpable reminder that in many ways I am a little girl. I have permission to be Natty once again.
That permission came in the oddest sort of way this week. I finally made it to confession. The Roman parish I’ve been attending because I can’t drive out to my Byzantine parish only has confession once a month or by appointment. And I’ve been hesitant to go because I’ve never been to confession with a Roman priest. But I found out that Father P does the Spanish Mass out here once a month, and as he’s bi-ritual, as well as the one who heard my first confession three years ago when I converted, it made sense to go to him. As I began my confession with him on Saturday, I realized I’d forgotten how human he was. He talked to me about his own health problems. Almost seemed to justify whatever sin I confessed. Then I confessed the one I was the most nervous about.
“I’ve had impure thoughts. Read impure things. And…and…something I’ve never done in my life before…I’ve masturbated.”
He nodded and sighed and looked sort of flustered. “Well…okay…see…alright…” He started in his rapid voice. “I understand why the Church was so big on procreation in the Middle Ages when people only lived until 30 or something. And of course, the more grievous sin is if it’s with someone else. But there’s a lot of disagreement about whether it’s a sin at all…Some priests will laugh at you if you confess it. Some, of course, get really concerned. I just figure if people want to confess it then I let them – I mean the whole point of the sacrament of reconciliation is so you don’t have to feel guilty anymore…”
“Well, it’s just that…” I stammered with an equally flustered voice. “I’ve never done this before and it just seems like it was wrong or something.”
“If it feels good it must be wrong?” He chuckled. I blushed and giggled a little.
“Well, yeah sorta…And it does feel good. I mean, I feel so healthy afterwards.” Wow. This certainly was not how I expected this conversation to go. He smiled, then sighed.
“It’s…it’s up to you if you want to confess it. Let’s just say…” He paused, still looking for the right words. “It’s just…it’s just…not uncommon.” He nodded and returned to the order of confession. As he gave me my penance he stressed that it was not punishment but for healing, a very Byzantine-Orthodox view with which I was familiar. As an optional penance, he wanted me to look up verses about forgiveness in the Bible. I immediately thought of one from Psalm 103: “As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions. As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear Him; for He knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are but dust.”
I thought of one of my earliest confessions with Father S, my parish priest. He admonished me “you’re going to make mistakes. It’s okay. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” For the last few years it seems like this has been a theme God has been emphasizing to me. That He knows I’m not perfect. Just as parents allow their kids to make mistakes – to be kids – God was allowing me, encouraging me, to be myself, to be free, to be the kid I in many ways still am. As I walked home from church, Natty soared.
But right now the adult Michelle must get ready to go for her interview with the Pacific Historical Review about that editorial fellowship. Prepare to discuss style sheets and research about the appropriation of the construct of the American West in the Palestine-Israel conflict. Yet I know that Natty won’t be too far away. That all of this started when I was a kid and devoured the Little House on the Prairie books and became a walking encyclopedia of Laura Ingalls Wilder and pioneer trivia. Then read the Black Stallion Returns set in Arabia and became enchanted with Arab culture. And when I get home, I’ll change from my sensible skirt and shoes into my flannel jammies. Take down my hair and brush it back into pigtails. And savor that delicious tension between my Natty mood and my grown-up self.
Time to Play: A Spanking Memoir
This is a bit dated as I wrote it about two and half years ago, but it's a good introduction to my spanking kink.
Note, it's also a bit long...
Note, it's also a bit long...
Time to Play: A Spanking Memoir
It started with Ping. The story about the little duckling who lived on a little boat in China with his zillions of aunts, uncles and cousins. Everyday the ducks would venture off from the boat in search of food and then at night the boatman would call them home. The last duck to straggle in got a spank on his back. Ping’s adventures came when he realized one night he will be the last one to return. To avoid the inevitable spank, he remained on land that night. Ultimately land life proved more frightening than the spank so Ping returned to the boat, rushing in at the last minute, took his spank, and then basked in the domestic bliss and comfort of his vast family. The Story About Ping was the first book I ever checked out of the library. And it was the first time I ever read about a spanking and felt some inexplicable appeal.
As I am being trained as an historian, I know that such cultural changes do not occur in a vacuum. Prior to Ping, my feelings about spanking had no positive aspect. I certainly disliked getting one from my mom. When we visited my grandpa, he thought it was funny to play spank us, something I simply found annoying.
First grade was the last time my mother ever spanked me. Actually, it was the second day of first grade to be precise. My single-parent mother entrusted me with a key to our apartment so that I could let myself in after school, thus promoting me to the ever-growing ranks of latchkey kids filling my generation. “Now DON’T lose this key,” my mother admonished me after taking pictures before I left for my first day of school. “If you do, I’m going to spank you.” I accepted the key, acknowledged the penalty of its abandonment and then promptly lost it the next day.
I was apparently not devious enough to figure out a way to simply break into our apartment. Rather, I joined my sister and brother at the babysitter’s until my mom arrived. We were going straight to my grandmother’s house from there and when we arrived, my mom hauled me into the bathroom and whacked me several times on my bottom. When she finished, I looked up to her and asked calmly, “okay, can I go play now?” She never spanked me after that.
I went to a private evangelical Christian school for first grade. These were fundamentalists who took the Bible literally, including passages that admonished liberal use of the rod. Even though I was fascinated with the idea of being spanked, I was one of only two students in my class who never experienced a swat on the backside from Mrs. Leiser. I was quite smug about my uniqueness in this area that was shared only with the love of my life: Jeff Bartell. He and I were models, and I relished this role.
However, my need to be teacher’s pet didn’t stop me from incorporating my spanking curiosity into recess. My classmates and I created a game that I vaguely recall went something like us girls would do something to the boys (to be honest, I cannot remember exactly what) and then we would run. If one of the boys caught one of us, he would take us to a makeshift prison (the stairs of the stage if it was raining and we were in the multipurpose room, or the jungle gym if we were outside) and threaten or give a certain number of whacks (usually 5 or so). I wonder if any of my classmates grew up and turned this idea into an S&M website. . .
A lot of my desire for a spanking had to do with what I’ve always called the Dad Thing. Every since my mom left my legal father when I was four, I wanted a daddy. A lot of it had to do with the fact I was quite the tomboy and missed a masculine influence. But, I also just missed having a parent. Yes, I had my mom, but she was an older, more experienced friend rather than a parent. She always treated me like adult, even if I was woefully inadequate as one. When I acted like a child she got a highly disdainful tone in her voice. “Michelle -- GROW UP!” And usually I did. But once when I was bouncing around impishly she spat out, “you know, if you had a father, he’d make you behave!” I was a bit puzzled as I didn’t realize I was misbehaving. At the same time, I so wanted a father to make me behave.
However, I got a stepfather who did more than make me behave; he broke my spirit. Any misdeed, no matter how trivial, could result in a ferocious spanking. On a Sunday not long after he and my mom married, I remember watching a children’s show and then going down to the basement to play. A few minutes later my stepfather came down and towered in front of me, his eyes wild with rage. “Did you leave the T.V on?” he barked. I had but it was because I thought my brother was still watching it. Before I could verbalize this, he grabbed me and flailed my backside with a force I didn’t know was possible.
It was just a spanking. Just his hand. But it was different than anything my mom had done. Or Mrs. Leiser. Or what I imagined a father wanting to help me behave better would do. It was unfettered rage. Wild and pointless. And that’s the way it always was with him. You never knew what would set him off. A voice raised one or two decibels. Papers left next to a broken baseboard heater. He took my spirit and broke it like a china plate on the hard floor.
But, spanking still captivated me nonetheless. My friend Rachelle and I would play tic-tac-toe and then whoever lost would get paddled with a ping-pong paddle. When my pastor mentioned spanking his kids, I would imagine being one of his children disciplined for playing where I wasn’t suppose to. Then there was my pioneer phase: I would imagine I was Laura Ingalls or some mischievous kid coming over the Oregon Trail who had earned a whipping with a switch or her pa’s belt.
Throughout elementary school and junior high, I searched out books with stories that included spanking – or at least would have a high probability of a spanking occurring. And then, of course, read those scenes over and over. Laura’s spanking in Little House in the Big Woods. Miz Crocker’s “whipping chair” from Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry. Tom getting paddled by Mr. Standish in The Great Brain. Papa accidentally spanking Henny’s friend instead of her in More All-of-a-Kind-Family. And, of course, Tom taking Becky’s whipping in Tom Sawyer.
I also began to create my own stories. They were not really spanking stories for the spanking was only part of the larger plot rather than the main event. These narratives usually took place in the past, reflecting my growing affection for history. A rebellious brother and sister who decide to fight with the Sons of Liberty during the American Revolution (influenced, of course, by Johnny Tremain). Or a sacrificing daughter who saves her medieval family from economic ruin by working as whipping girl (hey, if Prince Edward could have a whipping boy in the Prince and the Pauper, why couldn’t a princess have a whipping girl?).
And then there was Allie. Her full name was Alexandra Mary Toggins and she lived in Oregon in 1897 with her Papa. I created her at the end of seventh grade and wrote about her all the way up through my freshman year of college. Again, the stories had complex plots in which spanking was sometimes apart, but Allie’s good-natured mischievousness, often with the participation of her best friend Jason, landed her in trouble on a number of occasions.
Her shining moment of naughtiness came the second day of fifth grade. Allie and the teacher of the town school, Mr. Clayson, shared a mutual dislike for each other and on the first day of school he accused Allie of posting a picture of a jackass on the chalkboard labeled with his name. His was oblivious to her adamant denial and when she refused to comply with his request to step to the front of the room, he stormed down the aisle to her desk, grabbed her by the ear, marched her up to a chair where he laid her over his knee, paddled her and sent her to the corner for the rest of the afternoon.
The extended time in the corner simply gave Allie time to plot her revenge. The next day during the lunch break, she sabotaged the classroom. Cooking lard on the floor around Mr. Clayson’s desk. Paste in the chalk tray. Spilled ink on his grade book. A picture posted on the chalkboard of a monkey labeled with his name on it. Upon returning from lunch and finding the school in such disarray, Mr. Clayson expelled her and sent her home, a punishment Allie had not expected.
Distraught, Allie straggled home, where to her surprise, she met Papa, who had stopped by the house to pick up something before returning to the bank, which he ran in the small town. Likewise surprised to see his daughter home so early from school, Papa felt her forehead and asked if she came home early because she was ill. She really did feel ill and so simply nodded. Of course, by the time Papa got home that night, he had found out the truth. Horrified by her actions at school, and dejected by her lie, he sent her to her room after dinner to get ready for bed while he went to cut a switch. After laying the switch long and hard on her bottom as she lay bent over the end of her bed, he held her as she sobbed and whispered, “O my sweet girl, don’t make me ever have to do that again…”
In real life, I was nothing like Allie. I was meek and passive at home because of my intimidating stepfather, and at church because I wanted God and other Christians to like me. I was the mother for my sister and brother when my mother started beauty school my freshman year of high school and then divorced my stepfather, thereby starting her second adolescence. I broke my ankle when I was ten and because it never healed properly, I experienced a multitude of injuries and eventual arthritis. Allie was the way the emotional me survived – though that emotional part never grew past ten-years-old without a parent of my own. And I so wanted someone to raise me. To help me grow up. To know I really was only ten years old, even if I acted thirty for everyone else.
I dreamed of finishing a book about Allie and getting it published. The editor of the book would adopt me and set strict boundaries to help me reach the potential at which teachers said I never worked. Throughout college and at the beginning of graduate school as I focused on the Arab World, an area I had been interested in since elementary school, I imagined an Arab couple adopting me. They would compel me to learn the study habits I should have learned long before, as well as practice my Arabic. I held out hope that some day I would find the childhood I lived only in my imagination. That I would find someone to raise the emotional me and help it catch up to the level of development as the rest of me.
My second year of grad school I had surgery on the ankle I broke when I was ten, as well as on the knee above it now malformed after years of walking on a weak ankle. It was successful for the ankle but a disaster for the rest of my body as I had complications that included blood clots in my legs and lungs and hemorrhaging in my knee from the blood thinners used to treat the blood clots. After a year and a half, I was still fairly disabled and ached for my childhood even more. I also could not stop thinking about spanking. And so, despite the mounting imcompletes screaming for my attention, I decided to explore the subject on the Internet.
I was bewitched. Like most spankos, I was astounded to find I was not the only freak in the world. Indeed, there was a whole spanking culture out there. There were stories where spankings were narrated with intimate detail. There were live chat rooms where I could actually talk to people about it. There was an avenue by which I could move out of the isolation of my inner world.
After weeks of lurking throughout the Internet world of spanking, I mustered the courage to actually post on a spanking club for my city on Yahoo. “Chubby little girl needs a daddy…” I thought I was crazy. That I was courting unmistakable danger. But I also glowed with a giddy eagerness.
The first of two responses came from a contractor in his mid-forties. We corresponded by email, then began talking on Yahoo Instant Messenger, then the phone, and then met in person. He reminded me a lot of my biological father – intelligent, liked to work with his hands, and talked about the golden days of the seventies. I reminded him of the little girl he once dreamed he would have years before. “My long lost daughter…” he called me. I have a biological father, a legal father, and a stepfather, but he is Dad. Someone to be proud of me, to spend his birthday with me in the emergency room, to attend my chrismation, to threaten any guy I date with imminent death if they hurt me and me with punishment if I stay out too late. Though, I must stress the word threaten as the closest my dad has ever come to disciplining me was a lecture about speeding. “I needed a family, and you needed a dad,” he always tells me. And with a smile I think, yep, totally.
I also discovered the world of age-play. In an age-play chat room I could climb trees, jump out of swings, run after other kids, and do cartwheels – activities difficult to do with the cane I was still using at the time. After a while, a group of us created a sort of cyber family. It was like playing “House.” Except within a week or so it had degenerated into a sort of bizarre soap opera, which I came to realize was quite common within the chat server genre of the spanking community and subsequently decided that occasional visits to age-play rooms would be sufficient for me. My own dysfunctional family is quite enough, thank you.
A couple of months later I began to talk with the second response to my post. We also talked via Yahoo Messenger and created various spanking scenarios together. We lived in the same city and one night as we were talking through a scenario, we just had to meet. “I can be there in an hour,” he said in response to my question. Throughout that hour we each wondered what the hell we were doing meeting a total stranger from the Internet like this. When he arrived and I opened the door, it was just right. After fifteen minutes of small talk, he looked sheepishly at me and said, “I, uh, REALLY want to spank you…” I laughed my high, full laugh, and then, without a thought, we both assumed our role-play.
It was my first real life spanking as an adult – well, as a physical adult. A few days later I received my first kiss. Boys and sexuality were, and still are, an area where I’ve stayed very much a child. I’m not completely sure why that has been so. Partly because I was too busy raising my sister and brother as a teenager. Partly because I was too focused on academia and Church throughout college. And I suppose that in my mind I’ve just been 10-years-old and didn’t feel old enough to date.
That first kiss led to a little tongue. Eventually I learned the pleasure of having someone kiss my neck and play with my breasts. And of course, spank my jiggly behind. For the first time I was with someone with whom I could be both an adult and a child. Who I could play “Little House on the Prairie” with and make out with on the couch. We never actually had sex as I have the old-fashioned desire to wait until marriage that, as much as he respected, I know was difficult for him, as it was for me at times. Eventually he fell in love with a barista from Starbucks and I struggled along with that old Shakespeare admonition “better to have loved and lost…”
Despite an understanding for the erotic nature of spanking, sex and spanking remain separate for me. Spanking does not make me think about sex, though because I began to explore my sexuality at the same time as my interest in spanking, I have a hard time thinking about sex without spanking.
For me, spanking has always been about childhood. About play. About the world of pretend. About a desire for the care and comfort of structure and boundaries. About submitting to that structure, but certainly not being dominated. On one of my favorite websites about spanking, Pablo and Mija’s Treehouse, Mija explains in one of their chats that, “Basically at the core I'm a kid. Not a brat, not even very naughty, but a kid and feel most happy and comfortable when I'm being cared for.” Me too.
A year and a half ago, after those initial few weeks of age-play, I dug up the abandoned file folder holding the novel about Allie that had wilted in a plastic crate for eight years. And I realized how much I needed her back. Her emotional energy. Her willfulness. Her playfulness. Her immature selfishness. I need her to feel the feelings my intellect has long ago explained away. To temper my endless caregiving with the demands of my own needs. To stamp her foot and say, “it’s time to play.”
It started with Ping. The story about the little duckling who lived on a little boat in China with his zillions of aunts, uncles and cousins. Everyday the ducks would venture off from the boat in search of food and then at night the boatman would call them home. The last duck to straggle in got a spank on his back. Ping’s adventures came when he realized one night he will be the last one to return. To avoid the inevitable spank, he remained on land that night. Ultimately land life proved more frightening than the spank so Ping returned to the boat, rushing in at the last minute, took his spank, and then basked in the domestic bliss and comfort of his vast family. The Story About Ping was the first book I ever checked out of the library. And it was the first time I ever read about a spanking and felt some inexplicable appeal.As I am being trained as an historian, I know that such cultural changes do not occur in a vacuum. Prior to Ping, my feelings about spanking had no positive aspect. I certainly disliked getting one from my mom. When we visited my grandpa, he thought it was funny to play spank us, something I simply found annoying.
First grade was the last time my mother ever spanked me. Actually, it was the second day of first grade to be precise. My single-parent mother entrusted me with a key to our apartment so that I could let myself in after school, thus promoting me to the ever-growing ranks of latchkey kids filling my generation. “Now DON’T lose this key,” my mother admonished me after taking pictures before I left for my first day of school. “If you do, I’m going to spank you.” I accepted the key, acknowledged the penalty of its abandonment and then promptly lost it the next day.
I was apparently not devious enough to figure out a way to simply break into our apartment. Rather, I joined my sister and brother at the babysitter’s until my mom arrived. We were going straight to my grandmother’s house from there and when we arrived, my mom hauled me into the bathroom and whacked me several times on my bottom. When she finished, I looked up to her and asked calmly, “okay, can I go play now?” She never spanked me after that.
I went to a private evangelical Christian school for first grade. These were fundamentalists who took the Bible literally, including passages that admonished liberal use of the rod. Even though I was fascinated with the idea of being spanked, I was one of only two students in my class who never experienced a swat on the backside from Mrs. Leiser. I was quite smug about my uniqueness in this area that was shared only with the love of my life: Jeff Bartell. He and I were models, and I relished this role.
However, my need to be teacher’s pet didn’t stop me from incorporating my spanking curiosity into recess. My classmates and I created a game that I vaguely recall went something like us girls would do something to the boys (to be honest, I cannot remember exactly what) and then we would run. If one of the boys caught one of us, he would take us to a makeshift prison (the stairs of the stage if it was raining and we were in the multipurpose room, or the jungle gym if we were outside) and threaten or give a certain number of whacks (usually 5 or so). I wonder if any of my classmates grew up and turned this idea into an S&M website. . .
A lot of my desire for a spanking had to do with what I’ve always called the Dad Thing. Every since my mom left my legal father when I was four, I wanted a daddy. A lot of it had to do with the fact I was quite the tomboy and missed a masculine influence. But, I also just missed having a parent. Yes, I had my mom, but she was an older, more experienced friend rather than a parent. She always treated me like adult, even if I was woefully inadequate as one. When I acted like a child she got a highly disdainful tone in her voice. “Michelle -- GROW UP!” And usually I did. But once when I was bouncing around impishly she spat out, “you know, if you had a father, he’d make you behave!” I was a bit puzzled as I didn’t realize I was misbehaving. At the same time, I so wanted a father to make me behave.
However, I got a stepfather who did more than make me behave; he broke my spirit. Any misdeed, no matter how trivial, could result in a ferocious spanking. On a Sunday not long after he and my mom married, I remember watching a children’s show and then going down to the basement to play. A few minutes later my stepfather came down and towered in front of me, his eyes wild with rage. “Did you leave the T.V on?” he barked. I had but it was because I thought my brother was still watching it. Before I could verbalize this, he grabbed me and flailed my backside with a force I didn’t know was possible.
It was just a spanking. Just his hand. But it was different than anything my mom had done. Or Mrs. Leiser. Or what I imagined a father wanting to help me behave better would do. It was unfettered rage. Wild and pointless. And that’s the way it always was with him. You never knew what would set him off. A voice raised one or two decibels. Papers left next to a broken baseboard heater. He took my spirit and broke it like a china plate on the hard floor.
But, spanking still captivated me nonetheless. My friend Rachelle and I would play tic-tac-toe and then whoever lost would get paddled with a ping-pong paddle. When my pastor mentioned spanking his kids, I would imagine being one of his children disciplined for playing where I wasn’t suppose to. Then there was my pioneer phase: I would imagine I was Laura Ingalls or some mischievous kid coming over the Oregon Trail who had earned a whipping with a switch or her pa’s belt.
Throughout elementary school and junior high, I searched out books with stories that included spanking – or at least would have a high probability of a spanking occurring. And then, of course, read those scenes over and over. Laura’s spanking in Little House in the Big Woods. Miz Crocker’s “whipping chair” from Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry. Tom getting paddled by Mr. Standish in The Great Brain. Papa accidentally spanking Henny’s friend instead of her in More All-of-a-Kind-Family. And, of course, Tom taking Becky’s whipping in Tom Sawyer.
I also began to create my own stories. They were not really spanking stories for the spanking was only part of the larger plot rather than the main event. These narratives usually took place in the past, reflecting my growing affection for history. A rebellious brother and sister who decide to fight with the Sons of Liberty during the American Revolution (influenced, of course, by Johnny Tremain). Or a sacrificing daughter who saves her medieval family from economic ruin by working as whipping girl (hey, if Prince Edward could have a whipping boy in the Prince and the Pauper, why couldn’t a princess have a whipping girl?).
And then there was Allie. Her full name was Alexandra Mary Toggins and she lived in Oregon in 1897 with her Papa. I created her at the end of seventh grade and wrote about her all the way up through my freshman year of college. Again, the stories had complex plots in which spanking was sometimes apart, but Allie’s good-natured mischievousness, often with the participation of her best friend Jason, landed her in trouble on a number of occasions.
Her shining moment of naughtiness came the second day of fifth grade. Allie and the teacher of the town school, Mr. Clayson, shared a mutual dislike for each other and on the first day of school he accused Allie of posting a picture of a jackass on the chalkboard labeled with his name. His was oblivious to her adamant denial and when she refused to comply with his request to step to the front of the room, he stormed down the aisle to her desk, grabbed her by the ear, marched her up to a chair where he laid her over his knee, paddled her and sent her to the corner for the rest of the afternoon.
The extended time in the corner simply gave Allie time to plot her revenge. The next day during the lunch break, she sabotaged the classroom. Cooking lard on the floor around Mr. Clayson’s desk. Paste in the chalk tray. Spilled ink on his grade book. A picture posted on the chalkboard of a monkey labeled with his name on it. Upon returning from lunch and finding the school in such disarray, Mr. Clayson expelled her and sent her home, a punishment Allie had not expected.
Distraught, Allie straggled home, where to her surprise, she met Papa, who had stopped by the house to pick up something before returning to the bank, which he ran in the small town. Likewise surprised to see his daughter home so early from school, Papa felt her forehead and asked if she came home early because she was ill. She really did feel ill and so simply nodded. Of course, by the time Papa got home that night, he had found out the truth. Horrified by her actions at school, and dejected by her lie, he sent her to her room after dinner to get ready for bed while he went to cut a switch. After laying the switch long and hard on her bottom as she lay bent over the end of her bed, he held her as she sobbed and whispered, “O my sweet girl, don’t make me ever have to do that again…”
In real life, I was nothing like Allie. I was meek and passive at home because of my intimidating stepfather, and at church because I wanted God and other Christians to like me. I was the mother for my sister and brother when my mother started beauty school my freshman year of high school and then divorced my stepfather, thereby starting her second adolescence. I broke my ankle when I was ten and because it never healed properly, I experienced a multitude of injuries and eventual arthritis. Allie was the way the emotional me survived – though that emotional part never grew past ten-years-old without a parent of my own. And I so wanted someone to raise me. To help me grow up. To know I really was only ten years old, even if I acted thirty for everyone else.
I dreamed of finishing a book about Allie and getting it published. The editor of the book would adopt me and set strict boundaries to help me reach the potential at which teachers said I never worked. Throughout college and at the beginning of graduate school as I focused on the Arab World, an area I had been interested in since elementary school, I imagined an Arab couple adopting me. They would compel me to learn the study habits I should have learned long before, as well as practice my Arabic. I held out hope that some day I would find the childhood I lived only in my imagination. That I would find someone to raise the emotional me and help it catch up to the level of development as the rest of me.
My second year of grad school I had surgery on the ankle I broke when I was ten, as well as on the knee above it now malformed after years of walking on a weak ankle. It was successful for the ankle but a disaster for the rest of my body as I had complications that included blood clots in my legs and lungs and hemorrhaging in my knee from the blood thinners used to treat the blood clots. After a year and a half, I was still fairly disabled and ached for my childhood even more. I also could not stop thinking about spanking. And so, despite the mounting imcompletes screaming for my attention, I decided to explore the subject on the Internet.
I was bewitched. Like most spankos, I was astounded to find I was not the only freak in the world. Indeed, there was a whole spanking culture out there. There were stories where spankings were narrated with intimate detail. There were live chat rooms where I could actually talk to people about it. There was an avenue by which I could move out of the isolation of my inner world.
After weeks of lurking throughout the Internet world of spanking, I mustered the courage to actually post on a spanking club for my city on Yahoo. “Chubby little girl needs a daddy…” I thought I was crazy. That I was courting unmistakable danger. But I also glowed with a giddy eagerness.
The first of two responses came from a contractor in his mid-forties. We corresponded by email, then began talking on Yahoo Instant Messenger, then the phone, and then met in person. He reminded me a lot of my biological father – intelligent, liked to work with his hands, and talked about the golden days of the seventies. I reminded him of the little girl he once dreamed he would have years before. “My long lost daughter…” he called me. I have a biological father, a legal father, and a stepfather, but he is Dad. Someone to be proud of me, to spend his birthday with me in the emergency room, to attend my chrismation, to threaten any guy I date with imminent death if they hurt me and me with punishment if I stay out too late. Though, I must stress the word threaten as the closest my dad has ever come to disciplining me was a lecture about speeding. “I needed a family, and you needed a dad,” he always tells me. And with a smile I think, yep, totally.
I also discovered the world of age-play. In an age-play chat room I could climb trees, jump out of swings, run after other kids, and do cartwheels – activities difficult to do with the cane I was still using at the time. After a while, a group of us created a sort of cyber family. It was like playing “House.” Except within a week or so it had degenerated into a sort of bizarre soap opera, which I came to realize was quite common within the chat server genre of the spanking community and subsequently decided that occasional visits to age-play rooms would be sufficient for me. My own dysfunctional family is quite enough, thank you.
A couple of months later I began to talk with the second response to my post. We also talked via Yahoo Messenger and created various spanking scenarios together. We lived in the same city and one night as we were talking through a scenario, we just had to meet. “I can be there in an hour,” he said in response to my question. Throughout that hour we each wondered what the hell we were doing meeting a total stranger from the Internet like this. When he arrived and I opened the door, it was just right. After fifteen minutes of small talk, he looked sheepishly at me and said, “I, uh, REALLY want to spank you…” I laughed my high, full laugh, and then, without a thought, we both assumed our role-play.
It was my first real life spanking as an adult – well, as a physical adult. A few days later I received my first kiss. Boys and sexuality were, and still are, an area where I’ve stayed very much a child. I’m not completely sure why that has been so. Partly because I was too busy raising my sister and brother as a teenager. Partly because I was too focused on academia and Church throughout college. And I suppose that in my mind I’ve just been 10-years-old and didn’t feel old enough to date.
That first kiss led to a little tongue. Eventually I learned the pleasure of having someone kiss my neck and play with my breasts. And of course, spank my jiggly behind. For the first time I was with someone with whom I could be both an adult and a child. Who I could play “Little House on the Prairie” with and make out with on the couch. We never actually had sex as I have the old-fashioned desire to wait until marriage that, as much as he respected, I know was difficult for him, as it was for me at times. Eventually he fell in love with a barista from Starbucks and I struggled along with that old Shakespeare admonition “better to have loved and lost…”
Despite an understanding for the erotic nature of spanking, sex and spanking remain separate for me. Spanking does not make me think about sex, though because I began to explore my sexuality at the same time as my interest in spanking, I have a hard time thinking about sex without spanking.
For me, spanking has always been about childhood. About play. About the world of pretend. About a desire for the care and comfort of structure and boundaries. About submitting to that structure, but certainly not being dominated. On one of my favorite websites about spanking, Pablo and Mija’s Treehouse, Mija explains in one of their chats that, “Basically at the core I'm a kid. Not a brat, not even very naughty, but a kid and feel most happy and comfortable when I'm being cared for.” Me too.
A year and a half ago, after those initial few weeks of age-play, I dug up the abandoned file folder holding the novel about Allie that had wilted in a plastic crate for eight years. And I realized how much I needed her back. Her emotional energy. Her willfulness. Her playfulness. Her immature selfishness. I need her to feel the feelings my intellect has long ago explained away. To temper my endless caregiving with the demands of my own needs. To stamp her foot and say, “it’s time to play.”
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Beginning my spanking blog
The first post feels so intimidating. Say something profound... Something witty...Something upon which I can build the blog...
Whatever...
So, I'm starting a blog about spanking as it's something I think a lot about and find I want to write more about. I also want to post spanking stories and essays I've written here, though they are also all available on Google through a search of the soc.sexuality.spanking Usenet group. Though it may take me awhile to figure out how to do that. :)
Whatever...
So, I'm starting a blog about spanking as it's something I think a lot about and find I want to write more about. I also want to post spanking stories and essays I've written here, though they are also all available on Google through a search of the soc.sexuality.spanking Usenet group. Though it may take me awhile to figure out how to do that. :)
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