A school girl again

Yup. For real. I'm taking classes again for the first time in two years. All three are related to my thesis topic (something that has absolutely nothing to do with spanking) and two of them are with potential thesis committee participants. And who knows? If I stay healthy enough for long enough, I just might actually NEED a thesis defense committee.

So, tonight in his stern British voice, my boyfriend forbade passing notes in class, whispering to the other students, and cheeking the teacher.

Sigh...we sooooo gotta play school one of these days...I've got a school tie even...and once we get a rattan cane...

{waking from my school spanking reverie}

Oh...um...right, uh, while I hope to continue to bring you thoughtful reflections about spanking on a regular basis, gentle readers, do note that because of my more active schedule this next three months, not only will I have to actually wear something other than my pajamas, but my spanking reflections on this blog may not be quite as, um, regular.

Thank you for your understanding.

Right, now that I've already managed to procrastinate for most of the day instead of doing my class reading, I guess I'll be off then to...well, read.

Or maybe I'll take a nice hot bath first. And make some tea...

Masochism in Women

Masochism in Women

I love it when I'm reading for class or researching for a paper and come across a really juicy spanko reference. And so do other spanko academics.

Like Kate, who posted the above link on soc.sexuality.spanking today where you can read a passage about women and masochism she stumbled upon while reading for her Gender and Sexuality in Modern Europe seminar.

It almost makes academia worth it sometimes.

Sometimes.

Mighty Believer v. Catholic School Girl

Which Circle? Archives: Mighty Believer v. Catholic School Girl


If any of you are familiar with Campus Crusade or InterVarsity or any sort of Christian campus ministries, you'll appreciate this site. And if you're a perverted spanko like me, you'll love the above link.

Hell, I think I'm going to make that the wallpaper on my computer.

Thanks to Domino for posting this on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup. She always finds great stuff online. And probably deserves a good spanking for being on the Internet too much. (So, if you're a no nonsense Scotsman with a thick tawse, I know a naughty lass in your neighborhood ;) )

Story: Quality Time [F/F]

Dealing with all the repressed emotional trauma of late has made me crave maternal affection, which made me think of this old story. Though, today has been one of those super-fatigue days when the idea of canning peaches sounds exhausting. Hell, just getting out of bed feels a bit exhausting.

Anyway...enjoy. :)



Quality Time [F/F]


It was half past eleven by the time I pulled open the screen door to
Helen's kitchen.

"Hey there! Sorry I'm so late. Just couldn't seem to get out of bed this
morning."

"Well, there you are. Was starting to wonder." She nodded toward the box
of peaches on the kitchen table. "You haven't missed too much. I've
started cutting and peeling, but we've got two boxes of peaches, so
there's plenty left for you to cut and peel also." She pointed to an
extra apron and knife. I giggled.

"Darn, thought maybe I'd missed out on the hard work."

"Ha! Not on your life, kid." Helen dropped some peeled and sliced
peaches into a Mason jar. I sighed and grabbed a couple of peaches out
of the box. "You feeling alright, Natty? You look a bit pasty this
morning." Her brown eyebrows furrowed together as she looked at me.

"Me? Oh I'm fine. Just tired cause I haven't gotten much sleep lately."

"And why's that?"

"Oh, well..." My face flushed a bit. "I've sorta been up late talking with
a friend online the last few nights."

"Ah, I see." In that disapproving parent tone of hers. "Well, guess
you'd better be getting to bed a bit earlier then hadn't you? Don't want
you coming down with something..."

Funny how Helen was like that. I'd only known her for a few months as I
was housesitting next door to her. We started talking one day while I
was taking out the trash, and before I knew it she was having me over
for dinner and lessons on making the perfect pie crust.

We chatted, peeled, sliced and filled Mason jars. Talked about her
grandkids. Then about school.

"How's that thesis of yours coming along? Did you finally get some
writing done this week like you were supposed to?" There was that
parental tone again.

"Well..." I couldn't quite mouth the reality of my dereliction. "I,
um...haven't quite gotten around to it much this week..."

"'Haven't gotten around to it'?" She put down her knife and looked at
me. "And just what has kept you so busy this week that you 'haven't
gotten around to it?'"

My mind raced to find an answer that wouldn't make me look completely
irresponsible. But as I couldn't find one and my tongue wouldn't spit
out the truth, I simply gulped and stared at the counter.

"Hmm...think I know the answer. Procrastination and the Internet can keep you awfully busy I suppose." She picked up the knife again and finished slicing her peach. "Now, remind me again, how much of your thesis did you finish this summer?" I sighed.

"Er...um...not very much..." I sliced my peach very slowly as Helen actually seemed to pick up speed with hers.

"I see." She grabbed the next peach and had it peeled, sliced and in the
jar before I even finished slicing the one I had been working on. I
started working faster in an effort to feel productive. "You know," she
began after a long minute of painful silence, "if I were your mother,
I'd give you a darn good spanking."

"Well, you are kinda like a mom to me," I piped as I cut through a
peach. It just slipped out before I had time to really think about it. I
mean, it was true. Just sort of an awkward time to say it. She smiled at
first. Then pursed her lips and furrowed her eyebrows in a way that made
her look very stern.

"Hmm...maybe then I ought to have you spend some quality time over my
knee, young lady."

"Maybe." Again, popped out before I could think. She put down the knife,
wiped her hands, then handed me a towel.

"Very well, then, come with me." I dutifully wiped my hands and followed
her down the hallway to her bedroom. She led me to a corner next to the
closet. "You stand right here in this corner for a few minutes until I
get back."

And so, being the mature grown-up I was, I stood in the corner. My brain
finally clicked on within thirty seconds or so of standing there and
stammered to figure out at what the hell I'd gotten myself into.

"Alright, come here." I turned to see Helen sitting on the side of the
bed. She had a thermometer in her hand and on the nightstand was a small tub of Vaseline and a wooden hairbrush. "Take off your apron, jeans and panties." I reached back and began untying the apron. "Now, since you looked like you weren't feeling very well this morning I want to take your temp to make sure you're not coming down with anything."

"You mean like...in my..." I held the apron and stood frozen in front of her.

"Yes, in your bottom. It's -"

"--But why can't you just take it orally like normal? Besides, I'm fine.
No fever. Really."

"I'll be honest that I'm doing this as part of your punishment. I want
it to be very uncomfortable so you'll start thinking about your health
more. Staying up all night isn't the only thing you do that's not
healthy - I know you've been eating junk food and doing a zillion other
things that aren't very good for you. And since you act like such a
child I'm going to treat you like one in the hope that it makes you
start thinking like an adult. Now get those jeans and panties off and
come lay over my lap."

I certainly did feel very little as I climbed onto the bed and lay
across her lap. As the thin, cold glass thermometer slid between my
cheeks and then poked against my anus, I couldn't help but whimper like
a four-year-old. It was like being more naked than naked. Yet, I
couldn't remember a time when I've felt more safe and cared for as she
rubbed my back and patted my bottom. A few minutes later she twisted the thermometer around then pulled it out.

"Normal temp. Good." I lay there in an odd state of contentment and
fear. The affection felt nice, but I knew that wooden hairbrush would
not. "Now, Natalie, I'm going to spank you. It is going to hurt very
much. But I hope it will motivate you to be more responsible to do your
work and take care of yourself. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Ma'am," I mumbled with a nod.

"Good girl." She patted my back.

Then they came. Sharp, crisp, wooden smacks on the middle of my
backside. I winced. Then squeaked as they got harder. And when she
started slapping my thighs, I yelped. Curled my toes and gripped the
bedspread. And they kept coming. Burning my skin. I put my face in my
hands and hoped they would stop soon. But they didn't. I began kicking
my legs slightly. Helen landed a very hard smack on my thighs.

"None of that please." And went right back to work on my bottom.
Eventually the combination of the cumulating pain in my bottom and
thighs, the inscrutabilty of it ending and the ever-present feeling of
childishness made me do what any child in that situation would do: bawl
my eyes out. "Alright. It's alright." The spanking ended. Helen was
smoothing my hair and rubbing my back again.

Once my sobbing slowed, she helped me up and into my clothes. Then led
me by the hand into the living room where she sat down in her rocker and
sat me on her lap. And there in her big arms I finished crying.

"There now. It's all over. I know you're going to do much better from
now on." She kissed the top of my head as I nodded. "Think you're ready
to finish canning peaches?"

"Yes, Mommy." I smiled at her. And she smiled back.

Copyright 2003 Natty

My blessed willow switch

In my Carpatho-Rusyn Byzantine rite Catholic parish we call today "Flowery Sunday" rather than "Palm Sunday" because, well, let's face it, there aren't too many palm trees in Eastern Europe. So, instead of blessing a bunch of palm branches and marching around the church, the priest blesses a bunch of willow switches and we all march around the church.

And being the pervert that I am, all I could thinking of was, "hey, if these switches are blessed, does that mean the spanking you get with them is a blessed spanking?"

It also occurred to me that the Easter Monday tradition of boys spanking girls with a pomlazka in Moldavia and Bohemia, from where our particular ethnic branch of the rite hails, may have just as much to do with, well, doing *something* with all those blessed switches as it does with fertility and gettting rid of all the bad stuff accumulated during winter.


pomlazka

I know that's all I could think of during church as the kids whipped the thin, green switches through the air during the procession.

And in the fellowship hall afterwards.

And all I can think of still as my blessed willow switch sits on my table (which will probably not be quite so green and swishy by the time my boyfriend gets back over in a month or so).


My blessed willow switch

Despite the conspiracy theories...

Turns out those Freemasons were all just a bunch of BDSMers.

Consider this, or this, or this, or this, or my personal favorite, this.

All from an historic "fraternalism supply catalog" found at the Phoenix Masonry Masonic Museum.

My boyfriend finds the darnedest things on the Web...

Wholeness of being

Most people think of spanking exclusively in terms of sexuality. And well, certainly the buttocks are physiologically set up for a great deal of erogenous potential. However, I find that spanking is a core part of me that taps into almost every aspect of who I am, with sexuality being only one part.

I've been reading a book recently entitled Being Human that has helped me be able to articulate all the different ways spanking is a part of my being. The authors synthesize comparative religion, biology, neuroscience, and psychology to form a model or construct for explaining the different aspects of what it means to be human that includes four basic aspects or forces. The material aspect relates to our genetic makeup and family history. The vegetal force is made up of the sensory information we translate into feelings as well as our connection to the Divine. The animal force is that part of us that is protective, always alert to danger, is ambitious, aggressive, and manifests our sexuality. The human aspect is the steward of the first three and is the part that takes all that exists in those lower three forces and combines them with analysis, thought, and language. Integrity or wholeness is what links all of them together in proper order and proportion.

Spanking touches on each of those four. It was someting I first learned of in the setting of my family and whether it's environment or genetics (or both), it is something I have inherited. Spanking is a sensory celebration. I relish the pain/pleasure dynamic, the explosion of endorphines, the feel of the hand, wood, or leather on my skin, the care, trust and love it requires. Not only does it tap into my sexuality, but I have also used it to try and enforce my ambitions through discipline. It encourages, and indeed, demands that I reflect, analyze, and discuss.

Yet it is in regard to integrity where I have found myself thinking about spanking the most lately. While I like to think of myself as a person with integrity in the normal sense of the word -- honest, principled, good -- I lack the sense of wholeness the authors mean when they talk about integrity. When I try to imagine myself as one whole person, I can't. Instead I imagine a number of dissperate shards strewn about or a disjointed, abstract Picasso. The very purpose of my blog is to give voice to one of those shards -- a quite significant one that I often think of as an entirely different person called "Natty."

There's a reason for it, of course. It's what I have done to survive. I separated certain parts of myself that were not safe in my environment or that impeded me from doing those things which felt safe. In the Being Human model, my animal force is completely dominant. My ears are always pricked up waiting for danger, whether that be emotionally from years of child abuse or physically from years of chronic pain and illness. I've been constantly striving to be better than my peers academically for the sake of my career, as well as for the approval of my advisor, professors, etc. or striving to be a better Christian for the approval of God or my priest or the people at church. Approval that I've falsely equated with self worth.

A couple of weeks ago I was sitting talking to myself as I am prone to when I'm alone. At one point, I stopped and thought about what a silly habit it was as obviously no one else is listening. At that moment, my gaze happened to stop upon my small, laminated, paperboard icon of Christ above my computer, and I had one of those moments of Grace that those of you who are not religious will find quite possibly a bit uncomfortable to read about (and for which I'm not entirely unsympathetic), but during which I felt Christ remind me that He is always listening. Suddenly I felt that feeling of wholeness that I've been made aware I lack. Like all the pieces of me just suddenly lined up. Like I could feel them snap into place. Almost palpably down my chest. It was an amazingly profound moment of wholeness. A profoundly healing moment. Like Jesus had just extended his hand and healed me. Like someone-from-the-Vatican-was-going-to-be-
visiting-me kind of moment.

Later that evening I was waiting for my boyfriend to call. One of those days when I just really missed him. When he didn’t call, I felt very annoyed. I was desperately craving attention. And I think a part of me was a tiny bit envious of some of the recent experiences of my fellow writers at the Punishment Book. So, I decided that I wasn’t going to do any of the things on my list that I was supposed to do. Instead of reading and meditating and going to bed on time, I web surfed and hung out at chatrooms until the wee hours of the morning. But by the time I went to bed, I felt very embarrassed for what I’d done. What an absolutely silly, irrational, ineffective thing to do! I mean, it’s not like it really affects him if I don’t do what I’m supposed to do – *I* lose out. And if he’s in England, it’s not like he can give me that attention I was trying to get anyway. I was rather angry with myself. I’m 32 years old, not 8.

A few days later it occurred to me that I had done something similar last summer and wrote about it in my journal. Sure enough, on August 12th, I wrote:

"...Last night when I was reading for a review essay I need to write and having a hard time concentrating, I found myself doing something that I often do when it comes to academic stuff: I pretend I’m Natty and should be doing my homework and will get a spanking if I don’t. And often I’ll seek out a spanking for not doing my work as a way of giving Natty attention. Just like how real kids act up when they aren’t getting enough attention, even if the attention they get is not quite what they really want."

I had written about it in terms of *Natty* not doing her work in order to get spanked. As I thought about this, I smiled. What I had done that night when my boyfriend didn't call I did as *Michelle* not Natty. Maybe Jesus did heal me. Maybe I’ve finally integrated her into who I am as Michelle instead of some compartmentalized, separate piece of myself.

And it's not just "Natty." My body has also been a separate shard. I have become increasingly aware that almost from the day I was born there has been a full scale attack on who I am as a physical being. The more I think about it, the more I understand how my body and my mind/soul became separate. My body was clearly bad. It was fat and therefore clearly not reflecting the "victorious life in Jesus" my evangelical Protestant upbringing said I should have nor the healthy body my doctors bullied me about not having. It developed sexually too early when I finally had to start wearing a bra when I was nine years old because my breasts were large enough to fill a C cup. It hurt and was ill in ways laboratory tests could not explain.

But in my heart I was desperate to be a good girl. To follow the rules. Since my body was bad, I had to separate it from me. There was my deviant, disobedient body and my ever so obedient mind/soul craving what I understood to be "normal." As I’ve begun to appreciate the cultural, familial, medical and possible sexual violence done to my body, I’ve been able to integrate it into who I am as Michelle.

Who is fat.

And short.

And has a beautiful smile.

And soft, luscious skin.

And voluptuous curves.

And large, droopy breasts.

And a jiggly ass.

And a heart that breaks.

And hands and feet that hurt.

And a brain that thinks too much.

A body I want to protect. And nourish. And love. Not be drafted into, or even actively enlist myself into hating.

Spanking has been such a powerful way of integrating my body into me. It has provided a link between the physical sensation that I get from spanking and my soul. A way of loving my flesh, as ironic as it may be to others, by embracing the deviance of both my mind and my body.

It also becomes a tool that can remind me that I’ve lost that sense of wholeness, that connection to myself. An external way of connecting me back to whatever part of me I disconnected from, whether it be the academic, or the CFIDS/ME patient, the needy child or the protective adult. Or perhaps a means of putting back into proportion one of those aspects or forces that has come to dominate the rest of me. That makes me drive aggressively or push myself beyond what is healthy.

However, it is *a* way – not *the* way. A method I chose because it feels right for me. It has nothing to do with being an emotional female who requires a rational male to set me straight. It is genderless, as the amazing diversity of spankophiles demonstrates. Indeed, for me, spanking transcends sexual orientation. While the sexual aspect connects on a heterosexual level, the other parts of me find the same connection regardless of whether it is a man or woman who has me over his or her knee.

It's Lent now and in the Eastern Church we say a prayer each day by St. Ephraim of Syria that includes "Grant to me, your servant, a spirit of wholeness of being..."

Who would have thought that God, in part, would answer my prayer with a good, hard spanking.

[Cross-posted at The Punishment Book]

Emotional house cleaning

I figured out why I was so desperate for a spanking last week and why it went into remission this weekend and why it's been back in full force this week.

The last few weeks I've been doing some emotional house cleaning of sorts. Lots of old emotions that haven't been dealt with, etc. Many of them, as regular readers of this blog might imagine, have to do with trauma and loss from my childhood, or lack of one.

Last week I had this desperate need to be a little girl. And, well, when you're bare bottom over someone's lap with your legs dangling down the side, you certainly feel like a little girl. But on Saturday I finally figured out enough html and how the Blogger template worked to be able to add links to this blog, as well as another blog I write for. I could zone out on all the little girl feelings and just stay in my brain.

It finally occurred to me tonight that in order to reach a point where I can actually feel those really intense emotions, I have to sort of regress back into being a child. I wanted a spanking because it would be a way of feeling childlike without actually having to feel those extremely unpleasant emotions. Which, of course, would not be a good thing as I have to get them all out. Clean them from my system.

It also occurred to me that my spanking kink is not really about being taken in hand but rather about being taken care of.

A few IRC chat thoughts

I go through extroverted phases where being semi house-bound gets a bit lonely. So, often I end up at certain spanking chat servers just to hang out while I'm doing mindless stuff on my computer.

Often it's quite entertaining watching so-called "Doms" make complete asses of themselves. Like the guy (as others before him have) the other night who asked me if I was into spanking.

"No," I replied. "Gardening."

He then informed me, bless his little heart, that I was on a spanking chat server.

"No, really? How shocking!"

But, he decided he would talk to me about gardening, so I filled him in on all the herbs I plan to plant this spring (which will probably be next week when the herb starts arrive). He then again tried to fill me in on the purpose of the chat server I was on.

"This isn't Better Homes and Gardens you know."

"No? But I get the best gardening advice here."

"From who?"

"Oh those nice ladies at The Garden," I said, giving him the name of a ladies only room on this particularly chat server.

"Are you married?"

"I have a boyfriend."

"So, does he get into all this gardening stuff?"

"Oh yes, we both enjoy organic produce."

At which point he apparently became bored with gardening and disappeared.

Yes, I know. I'm quite naughty to mess around with their little minds. But, damnit it's so much fun.

One of the other common stupid questions I'll get asked is "what do you look like?" Or sometimes it's not even a question but a command: "describe yourself." To which I respond, "I look like me." Tonight when I gave this answer, I was told I was cheeky. Yes, perhaps so. Though I could just lie and tell you I'm a tall, thin blonde, but frankly, if I'm going to do that, then you can damn well pay me $1.99 a minute.

A lot of the people on these chat servers are on a mission to find Mr/Miss Perfect Spanko (indeed one guy tonight told me that exactly), and I suppose that's a reasonable activity to pursue there. I find I tend to wander in there wanting to have a conversation with people that may or may not include spanking, but with the freedom to talk about spanking if I so choose.

Relief

Not sure why, but my overwhelmeing, all-consuming, first-thought-when-I wake-up and lulls-me-to-sleep-at-night and the-beginning-and-end-of-just-about-every-waking-thought need for a good, long spanking went into remission yesterday.

Phew. Relief. {big breath in and out}

Now I might actually be able to get something done this week.

Though may I say just one more time that the whole 8 time zones thing is a real bitch.

One more reason to love Picasso

Picasso's "The Spanking"


Thanks, Robert, for this little bit of culture from this website, as well as this one.

Concentrations problems

I went to a talk by Yonatan Shapira of the Refuser Solidarity Network this afternoon and as I'm sitting there listening to him talk about why he decided to refuse to serve in the Occupied Territories, all I could think of was how much I really wanted to be over my honey's lap, my knickers down around my knees, getting my backside smacked good and hard.

Sigh...

I did manage to actually take some notes.