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.)

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.

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...

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.

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.

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

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. ;)