Despite

The other night as A. and I were talking, our discussion led to a traumatic memory of abuse from my childhood. It's still something that is hard for me to verbalize and after giving him a brief, nondescript summary of the incident, he held me quietly while the memory played out in full detail in my mind. He rubbed my back as I began to cry. Caressed my bottom, an act that usually turns on my spanko cravings. Instead, it reminded me of years lived in fear. I even slightly flinched at one point when his hand came toward my head to stroke my hair.

When I first began to explore my spanking kink five years ago, I thought that perhaps my desire for a spanking was an eroticization of the abuse from my childhood.

But over the years I've realized that I'm a spanko despite the abuse.

Under the apple tree

A. and I went to visit my grandma Saturday night. She lives about an hour away on seven acres of wooded property in the middle of suburbia. Indeed, it's hard to see the gravel road leading up to her house from the street, and A. almost missed it were it not for his Dukes of Hazzard-like turn in the middle of the road (he's adapting to driving in America so well). Yet once the gravel was crunching beneath the tires as we drove along fields lined with tall Fir trees, it felt miles from the endless rows of McMansions.

My Gram welcomed us inside. Made us each a drink (Scotch for A., vodka for me). Took us out to the back porch where hummingbirds freely buzzed among the feeders and rhododendrons and Gram's chocolate brown dachshund bounced around noisily demanding that her favorite chew toy be thrown.

After chatting for a bit, my Gram announced that she needed to use the restroom, so I took the opportunity to show A. around the place. We walked out to the barn where I pointed to the old sheep stalls and the back field where they used to graze. We sauntered back to the house but detoured along a concrete path down towards the storage shed in the basement. The path was overgrown with blackberry bolts and various flowers that hadn't been cut back. A. stood in front of me holding the hand of mine that wasn't holding onto my cane as I hobbled down the small steps. When we went as far as we could, we turned to head back up.

"Just a second." A. turned to step under an old apple tree.

[...]


I followed, half smirking as I knew what he was thinking. He looked around the ground at the various sticks. "Turn around. Up against the tree," he said as he pulled me toward the trunk. I did as I was told.

He picked up a hunk of wood about an inch or so in diameter.

"No, that's too big," I told him. Though it didn't stop him from whacking me on the ass with it a few times. I rolled my eyes. It stung a little, but clearly he knew nothing about switches. I turned to my right and saw a nice green, fairly smooth switch growing out of a branch about even to my head. "Here." I picked it off and handed it to him.

"Ah, that's better."

Well, yes and no.

I mean, it definitely stung a lot more. But, well, it stung a lot more!

Before I know it, he's pulling down my trousers and panties right there in my Gram's yard.

Part of me was thinking, omg, my Gram is going to hear. She's going to tell my aunt that here I am, after not coming to visit in over six years, bringing some British guy around and getting all kinky in her yard.

The other part of me was grabbing the branch just above my head, feeling really warm and squirmy. A. felt his hand up my shirt and onto my breasts.

"Are your nipples still tender?" I nodded. PMS has been extra fun this month. He brushed along my left breast, though at that moment I totally wanted him to go ahead and squeeze. "Keep still," A. ordered as I reflexively tried to dodge the switch.

Did I mention that it stung? Thank God for the vodka earlier.

I mumbled something about my Gram hearing between oowws, though I know she can't hear well. But, what if she came looking for us? What if she was in the living room looking out the glass patio door and down at us?

Yet, wasn't holding onto to this tree branch above my head as I got whipped one of the most erotic things we've ever done?

"You so like this tree," A. teased as he gave me a few hand spanks.

"You're the one who picked it out." I giggled. "Maybe you're a...dendraphile."

"No, you're the dendraphile. Holding onto that tree like that. You so want it," he kept teasing as he pulled my pants back up. I adjusted my shirt, grabbed my cane, rubbed my backside and headed back up the steps.

"Where did you guys go? You've been gone forever." Well, at least Gram didn't hear anything.

We went out for dinner and after salty Mexican, returned to her place to look at old photos and knick knacks until the wee hours of the morning before finally heading back to downtown Portland.

I didn't sleep well that night, though not for the reason you might imagine. The sting wore off after twenty minutes or so. But, as noted above, I haven't been to visit my Gram in over six years, before the surgery that made me so sick. Physically it's hard for me to get out and about on my own much of the time.

However, as I mentioned in this post, I didn't grow up with my Gram. Or my biological father. I didn't really get to know them until I was 24 and spent part of the year living with that side of the family. My father was more ambivalent about my presence in his life, but my grandparents and aunt were happy to have me around. Happy to spend warm summer evenings, a lot like last Saturday, telling me about a part of me I never knew. About the life I might have had. Like spending summers with them on their ranch in Dallas riding my own pony instead of living with my histrionic mother in low-income housing eating Kraft macaroni and cheese.

My grandpa in particular spent hours telling me all the family history. About farming. About being a Navy cook on a ship during WWII. About hunting with his Native-American friends in Eastern Oregon. He talked about building bookshelves for me. And a little chair because I'm short and don't fit well in regular chairs.

And when he died that summer it felt like the most unfair thing that ever happened to me.

As I got up Sunday morning while A. remained asleep, that staggering loss came back in the same flood of tears it usually does. In the same ache in the middle of my chest. In the less palpable, but more unbearable pain seeping throughout my being. All those "whys?" All that terrible unfairness.

But then I remembered A. and I under the apple tree.

And smiled.

I cannot go back and erase the mistake my mother made in never telling my father about me. I cannot go back and capture the childhood I might have had if she had told him. I will never again listen to my Pop tell stories on the back porch as he sits flicking his cigarette ash into an old Alpo can next to him.

Yet, right now, there is a lot that is sweet and wonderful and beautiful.

Like memories of being kinky under an apple tree.

Technical difficulties

After a heads up from Poeisia, I discovered that my blog is not showing up properly in Internet Explorer. I usually use Mozilla Firefox, and my blog is showing up just fine there so I wasn't aware there was a problem. I have alerted Blogger of the problem and hopefully they'll have it fixed soon. Especially as I got a wicked spanking under an apple tree yesterday that I want to tell you all about. ;)

Thanks for your patience.

In case you were wondering...

Lest you wrongly assume that I always think saintly, good Catholic girl thoughts (well, alright, you guys know I don't, but those who read my non-kink blog where I originally posted this don't always know that) consider the conversation my boyfriend and I had the other morning about fetishes.

"I wonder what the most obscure sexual fetish is?" A. pondered.

"I remember coming across balloon fetishes once online," I said. "I think that one has to be the most boring."

After thinking a bit about zoophilia, which we always joke about after he saw a BBC documentary about zoophiles, I wondered aloud about the following.

"So, since there are zoophiles, can you have the vegatarian equivilent? Say, an herbiphile?"

"Now, Prince Charles - he'd be a right herbiphile," A stated.

Before you know it, we were on the Internet looking up herbiphilia. Which is apparently phytophilia. And those who have sex with trees are dendraphiles.

So, now ya know.

More neighbor action

The warm weather has us all opening our windows and reminded me that there was more spanko action in some apartment somewhere above me.

I was taking a bath and could hear it. My boyfriend was in the other room, and I wasn't sure if he had heard it until after I got out of the bathtub.

"Did you hear the spanking action going on?" he asked.

So, it isn't just my imagination. I've got another set of ears to verify the presence of other spankos in this building.

They might have even been the couple behind me at Safeway a week or so ago. They were college-age and the young woman was saying something about she shouldn't be punished. I didn't hear the rest of the conversation as it was my turn at the pharmacy counter.

No spanking action in this apartment lately. I've felt pretty shitty this week. Wait, I think there was some a bit earlier in the week before I took a nap. But that was with my pajama bottoms on. Yeah, it's been one of those weeks when all I wear is my pajamas.

Sigh. Yeah, bad pain. That icky, flu-like feeling so much apart of having CFIDS/ME.

Makes me think I'm insane for having a spanking kink when I live in so much pain as it is.

Catching up

Okay, we finally got the Internet connection fixed, so it's time to catch you up on the spankings I've had in the last two weeks.

As my last post mentioned, I was a bit cranky last week and this time a bit more vocal about it. Though, my boyfriend, A., says that my cranky is really "cranky-lite," the "diet-Coke of cranky" with pinky finger hooked to the corner of his mouth. (Think "The Spy Who Shagged Me.") At any rate, I woke up that day really achy and tired because I hadn't slept well due to the fact that my hip is STILL bothering me after almost a year now and has flared up even more the last few weeks. I had been annoyed with all kinds of things all day and when I got pouty, A. just responded with silly faces to make me laugh. Which did make me laugh, making me all the more annoyed.

"Stop it," I'd whine.

"But it's the best remedy for crankiness," he'd say.

"Nuh uh."

"That's alright, I'll sort you out later." He couldn't then because my dad was with us. So later that night after I'd taken my dad home, I figured he'd be sorting me out. When he just got ready for bed instead, I got really bratty. He emerged from the bathroom to find me sitting on the corner of the bed, my arms folded over my chest.

"About fucking time you got out of the bathroom."

He gave me that mock-shocked look as I went into the bathroom. While I, um, did my business in there, I could hear him rummaging around underneath the bed.

Damnit! Why oh why can't he just use his frickin' hand? Why does he need implements?

To be honest, as it was over a week ago, I don't remember the details of that spanking well. I believe there was a strap and a brush involved. And a half-assed lecture about swearing. I do, however, remember him saying afterwards when we cuddled that it was hard for him to be very stern when I'm cranky because it's so cute.

Sigh...what can I say? Maybe I should change my nickname to the Cranky Cutie. ;)

The second spanking took place last week while we were on holiday at the Coast. We stayed in the cottage of the Sandlake Country Inn, a delightful Bed and Breakfast in Pacific City where our privacy was priority for the innkeepers. Indeed, each morning they brought breakfast in a basket, placed it on the doorstep, rang the doorbell and left. The only time we saw them was when we arrived and when we left. Which was a good thing because we packed with kinky play in mind. However, we didn't end up doing much kinky play as those bastards at Thrifty Car Rental failed to tell us over the phone about a variety rules, including those about additional drivers, despite being specifically asked, so I ended up having to drive, causing my hip pain to flare up to ungodly levels. After a night of very little sleep, we decided to have A. drive and hope we didn't get into an accident or anything as I was utterly incapapble of driving by that point.

And we needed to drive up to Cannon Beach to meet a spanko friend from online. The innkeeper said that it would only take an hour or so to drive to Cannon Beach. We were meeting our friend at 5:30, so leaving at 4:30 seemed reasonable, right? Wrong. It actually takes about an hour and 15 minutes. And of course, I was running about 10 minutes late. Why? I have no idea. I'm always late and still can't quite figure out what exactly causes me to be late. Then there was road work. Though that didn't throw us off too much. But we ended up in Cannon Beach at 6:05 pm.

"I'm so blaming you," A. said as we got out of the car. As always (it's a play thing). Though this was rather merited as we did leave late because of me. We ended up missing our friend. And while I enjoyed the poshest dinner I've ever had later that night at the Stephanie Inn, it was with a twinge of dread as I knew a spanking awaited me at the end of the night. Tardiness usually carries a six strokes with the brush per minute late penalty. And A. had most assuredly packed the brush. Thankfully he was in a merciful mood when we got back to the cottage, especially as our being late wasn't entirely my fault. I only got the strap and his hand. Which made for a nice, cozy glow to sleep on. If only he would do all bedtime spankings like that...

The last spanking was Friday. We finally got our Internet connection up, and the new cane arrived from Adam and Gillian's. I was trying to catch up a bit on blog reading and managed to make it over to the Punishment Book where Mija was showing off some antique brushes she's put on sale at Ebay. I didn't even get a chance to finish reading the post as A. decided my reading a spanking blog was a sure sign I was hankering for a spanking, despite my protestations to the contrary. It was over a pile of pillows on the bed for me.

My first taste of a rattan cane was almost a year ago. At that time I remember thinking that rattan stings much more than bamboo. And Friday I was reminded of just how much they sting. I got six of the best several times over as A. played around with intensity and position. Then he decided to compare it with the riding crop to see which one hurt more. OW! Definitely still have to go with the riding crop as the more painful implement. There was a final nine strokes that were fairly severe. Then the strap. Then his hand. Then lots of cuddling during which I fell asleep.

Spankings do seem to have that affect on me.

So, my gentle readers, you are all caught up. And no, we still have not had the "discussion" yet, but I suspect that will be the next post.

There's nothing like a good spanking...

...to put you in a better mood. :-)


[Note: I started writing this post a week ago but between the holiday and no internet connection, haven't been able to finish it until now. I'm using a tenuous wireless hotspot here in my apartment for the moment. Hopefully they'll figure out what's wrong this week.]

I'm not normally a cranky sort of person. On those few days when I am, I tend to suppress it as I don't like to make others suffer from my bad mood. And that was true for the first few days after my boyfriend arrived. I felt really cranky, but didn't really say much. I mean, it wasn't his fault. I was tired and feeling shitty. My neuropathic pain was back. And I had no libido. At all. It was really annoying.

I kept telling myself to be patient. I was actually able to drive to the airport to pick him up, and I haven't been able to drive for almost two months. Hell, I've spent most of the last two months in bed. So, I mean, there is progress here.

But I still felt annoyed.

And I wanted a spanking. Well...sorta. My body still felt squeamish about it.

As we were leaving Trader Joe's Friday afternoon, we talked about whether or not we had enough time to get the Flexcar washed before we had to have it back. As I looked at my watch, I thought it would be cutting it too close.

"And you don't want to be late," he said with a pseudo-stern grin. "Or rush to get back."

"Nope. I learned my lesson that day." And, you know, I have too. I tend to leave a lot more time for things now, which means I rush less. Funny how that works.

"Actually, you've been very good since I've been here," he said as we pulled out of the parking lot.

Sigh. Yeah. I have been. I've felt too shitty to be otherwise.

When we got home, he unloaded the groceries while I sat in the car waiting to take it back to its appointed parking spot. After taking the first load in, he came back out for the second.

"Did you honk at me?" With a stern-ish edge to it.

"No." I shook my head a bit puzzled as I hadn't heard any honking. Then felt that devilish feeling come up and honked the horn. "But now I did." And grinned my mischievous grin.

Yay! My bratting instincts are back.

He gave me a mock shocked look. Took the rest of the groceries inside.

A little while later we were sorta just sitting lazily and talking. At one point the conversation shifted to a discussion of his new glasses and how stylish they are. He pulled them down his nose as I giggled about how stern they made him look. That's when he mentioned that he hadn't really spanked me since he arrived.

"Nope, ya haven't," I said.

"Right. It's six now. At 6:30 I want you on the bed in your knickers."

"Okay." There was a pause for a few minutes. Then I giggled. "About time you fucking spanked me."

Yep. Those bratting instincts are soooo back.

"My my, you do need a spanking," he said after another mock shocked gasp.

"Ummm...yeah," I grinned.

I was ready now. Both mind and body.

So, at 6:25 I was on the bed laying on a pile of pillows in nothing but my pink flowery knickers. Watching from the corner of my eye as he pulled out various implements: the new leather strap, the paddle, the mean ol' brush. Feeling that excited dread coursing through my veins.

It was basically a "getting reacquainted" spanking. Testing out where my pain threshold was utilizing the 1-10 scale. The strap was about a 7. The brush an 8 1/2 and the paddle a 9/10. Yeah, that paddle freekin' hurts. He also played a bit with the diminutive, broken cane while we await the new one from Adam and Gillian. At 12-inches it definitely gives a bit of a sting and leaves some marks, leaving me to imagine what the full 33 inches will be like.

Then he got out the wooden spoon.

"Do you know why I'm going to use this?"

"Um...no."

"It's because this is the implement most associated with past spankings about your writing." As he spanked me, he told me to be thinking about all the writing I do -- novel, blogging, school, emails -- and how much time I spend on each and how much time I want to be spending before our forthcoming discussion.

Which, trust me, I've been thinking about a great deal after that damn wooden spoon.

A funny thing happened once the spanking finished. I was no longer cranky. And I was even a little, er...libidinous.

"I'm in a much better mood now," I said with a happy sigh as we cuddled before falling asleep that night. "I've been feeling cranky all day."

"I didn't even know you were in a bad mood."

"Well, I don't know, I usually don't really say anything."

"You'll have to tell me next time when you're cranky."

Well, yesterday I told him. Boy oh boy, did he get to see me in a cranky mood.

But that will have to wait for another post.

Internet service down

Just a quick note here from my school's computer lab (my haven't I gotten brave) to let you know that my Internet service is down and may not be working again until Monday (ugh!). I hope to return to writing about the salacious details of my spanking life as soon as possible.

In the meantime, go get some sun and quit blog surfing. ;)

P.S. No, we haven't had that "discussion" yet, though we did have a different one. I've started writing about that but was only able to get about half way through the post before I got too tired and had to save it to finish later. And then, of course, I wasn't able to access the Internet to finish it so, it's still in draft status for now.

The annual SSC at SSS

Every summer at the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup there is a short story contest to give all us perverts plenty of summer reading. Should you be creatively inclined, you might try your hand at writing a story for the fame and accolades this venerable contest provides. Er...well, sorta. Okay, maybe not much fame, but perhaps a few accolades.

Here is one of my stories from last year, "Spanked by Mr. Schneider." I'm working on a few stories for this summer, but I'd love to see what you write. :)