Something to do with "naughty"

The other day I turned the television on to PBS during the middle of the day (I almost never turn the TV on before 5 or 6pm) and was greeted by a kindly Irish grandpa teaching painting. He would look into the camera and talk directly to the viewer -- which, at this point, included me.

Most of the time he was explaining which watercolor to use or which paintbrush, or how to paint a sky or moss-thatched cottage. Every now and then he would degenerate into gentle scolding. "Don't just watch me but try this out for yourself...It's no use for me to just sit here painting alone like a madman."

It always made me giggle a little. Maybe because I was feeling a little guilty.

But this noon as I watched him tell the story of a "naughty" Irish queen who stole a bull, I giggled like a little girl. It had something to do with him saying "naughty."

The only Frank Clarke I'd ever heard of before this week was some old football player A. told me about. But now, I think I'm becoming a Frank Clarke -- The Simply Painting One -- fan. (Though he seriously needs some fashion help!)

Who knows...I might even buy some paints. ;)

My wankin' spankin' tool

You, gentle reader, might remember the little flogger my ever so handy A. made back in January (okay, I have to laugh a little about A. being handy when I remember the two of us stuck camping with a gas stove that neither of us could figure out how to turn on for several hours...but I digress).

Now that he is away, but certain urges aren't, I've had to make do on my own and what I've discovered is that little flogger is THE MOST PERFECT SELF SPANKING IMPLEMENT EVER!

Really.

It requires little effort or awkward twisting and turning to whack myself pretty well with it. But, because I'm logistically incapable of giving the swing a lot of power, when each little cord hits my skin, it has a very similar sensation to the strap or a belt for me: it hurts the minute it hits my skin, but instantly turns into a very pleasurable sensation. So, you know, it's very handy for wankin' spankin'.

I even get that lovely swishing sound with it that normally I'd only hear with something like the cane -- an implement that is categorically impossible to use on oneself.

Yes, my beloved has earned my undying admiration for his skill with unused electrical cord and duct tape.

More spanking highlights

Yes, the trip down memory lane continues over at the Punishment Book where I posted about one of the few disciplinary spankings (the only?) I got while A. was here.

Not sure if all this remembering when he was here is a good thing or just makes me miss him more...

Story: The Office of Discipline Application [M/f]

This is the very very very first spanking story I ever wrote in March of 2002. At the time it was a recurring fantasy, and as I'd just joined the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup where everybody writes and shares stories, I thought I'd give it a go.

This has been slightly edited from it's original posting. Mostly to break up one long-ass paragraph the editor in me just couldn't handle posting as it was.



The Office of Discipline Application [M/f – school]


Natty gripped the cold silver door handle of the ODA and sighed. Rolled her eyes. Swung the door open wide and walked inside.

“Natalie…sent down again, eh?” Mrs. Franzen turned her head from her computer. Looked down her beak-like nose over her glasses. Natty bit her bottom lip.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well, take a seat. Father Michael is on a phone call at the moment.” Mrs. Franzen turned back to her computer.

[...]



Natty sat down on one of the hard, plastic chairs with her arms folded, next to the thick wooden door of the Application Room. Checked off the familiar artifacts of Mrs. Franzen’s L-shaped desk separating her from the rest of the office. School photos of her two children. A verse-a-day calendar. A mug with a rainbow painted on it holding pens, pencils, scissors, and a letter opener. Laser printer and copy/fax machine behind her with trays holding plain and letterhead paper. Pictures colored by her kids hung on the wall, underneath a crucifix. A spider plant on top of the file cabinets…

“Natalie?” Father Michael stood at the door of his office, across from Mrs. Franzen’s desk.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, Father…” Natty stood and stumbled into the office.

“Have a seat, dear.” He pointed his pudgy hand to the chair in front of his desk as he took his seat behind it. “Well, what brings you here today?” he asked while pointing, clicking and typing to bring up her file on the computer.

“Um, Sister Rita sent me.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well, she sorta caught me reading during math class – I was reading The Bronze Bow and I’m at the part where they’re trying to rescue Joel from the Romans leading him off to the galleys and I just couldn’t stop for some stupid math lesson– but Sister Rita asked me a question, which I didn’t realize she had cause I was so into the story..."

Father Michael took off his glasses and wiped them clean with his handkerchief as Natty continued her tale in rapid speech.

"...so she came over and found me reading instead of paying attention to whatever it was she was trying to teach – something about exponents or something – anyway, then she went on at me about reading during her lesson which she spent a great deal of time to prepare and how it was rude, and then asked where my homework was and where in heaven’s name was my math book..."

The principal-priest suppressed a smile as he put his handkerchief back in his pocket while Natty took a breath and continued.

"...I told her that I’d sorta not had time to do my homework and sorta accidentally left my math book at home. She asked me why I hadn’t had time and I said cause I had been reading. She said that she appreciated that I like reading but I also had to do my math lessons and so I asked why and she said because it would better prepare me for the real world..."

Another breath in...

"Then I said that I didn’t see how exponents were going to help me in the real world because I want to be a writer and in fact, I think the school is doing a great disservice to me because they make me spend eight hours a day in classes that take my time from writing or reading other people’s writing and then they give me homework that takes even more time away and…well…that’s when she said to quit being cheeky and to come down here…” Natty took in a big breath then breathed heavily out and looked at the floor.

Father Michael smiled wryly and then drew in a breath of sternness.

“Well, Sister Rita was right on several counts. You were being very rude reading during her lesson. Teacher’s do spend a great deal of time preparing lessons to make sure you’ll understand the concepts they are trying to teach.”

“Yes, Father,” Natty nodded, still looking at the floor.

“She’s certainly right to ask about your homework – which takes just as much of her time as it does yours – and she is most definitely trying to teach you things which you will need to know later in life.”

“But how am I ever going to use exponents?” Natty’s eyes darted up and at Father Michael.

“Exponents themselves you may not use, but it’s the thinking behind them that you will – that is, if you’ve learned it. Especially if you’re going to be a writer. You have to be able to think in many different ways – use different parts of your brain to be a truly great writer. What if you have to write about a character who is a mathematician?”

“Hmm…I guess I’d never thought of that…”

“Yes, my dear, there are a good many things you never think of, which is why I get to see you so often…” Father Michael looked back at his computer screen. “It seems this is your fifth visit here this semester.” Natty gulped and looked back down at the floor. Father Michael scowled. Scratched his left temple where there used to be hair. Sighed. “Well, I’ll be getting Sister Rita’s report by the end of the day. And you can plan on attending detention tomorrow.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Off you go now, back to class.”

The next day Natty again opened the door to the ODA. She walked past the Application Room, Mrs. Franzen’s desk, and Father Michael’s office to the Detention Room. A narrow cave with gray walls and a high ceiling. A chalkboard at the front. Underneath a crucifix. Twelve small tables with wooden stools filled the room. A catechism, paper, and pen lay on each table like party favors at a festival. A warped, twisted party, thought Natty as she sat down on a stool. Several other students staggered in and took seats. The detention bell rang and Mrs. Franzen stepped in and stood in front of the chalkboard.

“Alright, detention has now begun. You will begin copying from page 357 and wait for your name to be called to see Father Michael in the Application Room.” She walked back out while each person picked up their pen, opened the catechism and began copying.

The first time Natty had detention she only pretended to copy from the catechism while she wrote a story from her own imagination. But at the end of detention discovered she had to hand in what she was supposed to have copied and was thus assigned another day in detention. And another trip to the Application Room.

“Natalie Taylor,” Mrs. Franzen called out as a black-haired boy with swollen eyes rubbed his khaki-clad bottom while walking into the Detention Room. Natty put down her pen, stood and straggled along to the Application Room.

“Natalie.” Father Michael nodded to her as he sat at a table writing something on a file folder with his black shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

The yellow walls were muted underneath the flickering of the florescent lights. On the wall to the left of Natty hung two paddles, one with and one without holes, and several thick wooden rulers. Beneath that was a cherrywood bookcase with two crook-handled canes on the top shelf and two leather tawses on the bottom. Father Michael put down his pen and closed the file folder. “Well, now, Miss Natalie, I read Sister Rita’s report and it seems to run along the same lines as what you described yesterday. Though, she also added that you are missing seven assignments over this semester so far.”

“Yeah? I, uh, didn’t realize it had been so many…” Natty looked down at her Mary Janes.

“Well, I think it’s high time you realize these things, as well as pay attention in class and treat your teachers with more respect.”
“Yes, Father.” Her stomach felt heavy.

“So, for your punishment today it’ll be 10 with the ruler for arguing with Sister Rita, 10 with the paddle for reading during math class, and 7 with the tawse for each assignment you’re missing.”

“Yes, Father.” Natty gulped and scowled at the floor.

“Well then, unbutton your skirt, bare your bottom and then over the Bench with you.” Father Michael stood and walked around the Application Bench towards the other side of the room where all his tools were.

The Application Bench was a wooden box-like structure that stood in the middle of the room on a platform. The side of the box facing Natty was vertical with padded navy blue upholstering that ran from the cover of the small step at its foot, up over the top and down the other side, which was slanted. Natty stepped up onto the platform. Undid the buttons on the right side of the wrap-around skirt of her red plaid jumper. Pulled down her tights and panties until they were down around her ankles. Knelt down on the step in front of the bench and laid her torso down the slanted side with her braided pigtails pointing to the floor. Shivered and waited for Father Michael, who pulled her white shirt up and tucked it into the waistline of her skirt. Then velcroed straps connected to the Bench around her wrists, waist, and calves.

“Now, ten with the ruler for arguing. And might I suggest you reconsider quarreling with your teachers in the future.”

Natty winced and whimpered through ten sharp swipes of the ruler along her bottom and upper thighs. Perhaps discussing the usefulness of exponents with Sister Rita had not been one of her better moves…

“Now ten with the paddle for reading during math class…”

Each of the ten thuds and stings of the paddle made Natty whimper and moan and reassess whether reading about Joel’s rescue could have indeed been put off for a few hours…

“Now, seven with the tawse for those missing assignments.”

It took until the second stroke for Natty to appreciate the bite of the tawse. Especially on skin that was already raw. She tried to wiggle. To shift her weight in some way to offset the strikes. The Velcro straps held her firm.

“Four…”

Natty released the sobs she had been suppressing. She never cried when she was spanked. At least not most of the time. But three spankings in a row was hard…
“Five…” That one hit the inside of her left thigh. And it really hurt…

She tensed up to brace for the last two but there was no more strength left to hold herself rigid. Limp, she whimpered and sobbed through the final burning blow.

Father Michael return his tools to their appointed homes. He came over to the Bench and pulled the Velcro straps apart. Brushed his hand on the middle of Natty’s back.

“There, there, child. Take the time you need to gather yourself together.” Then sat down on the table to the right of the Bench and wrote in a file folder.

After a few minutes of deep breaths, Natty dragged herself upright, pulled up her tights and panties over her seared bottom, and buttoned up her skirt. She stood in front of Father Michael, hands behind her back, staring at her Mary Janes.

“Well, now, off you go back to detention.” He said.

“Yes, Father.” Natty turned and opened the door.

“And Natalie…don’t pay me another visit anytime soon, alright?” He winked.

“Yes, Father.” Natty smiled and returned to the Detention Room, where she aimed her bottom for the stool, placed it down gently and determined she would not be visiting the Office of Discipline Application for a very long time.

Copyright 2002 Natty

Netflix for spankos?

I have decided with all of my Netflix patronage over the last two months that we need a Netflix for spanking porn. I don't generally want to actually buy spanking movies, just view them once. And downloading them onto my laptop is not ideal either because my laptop sucks and overheats too easily. Plus, it's way too expensive.

I suppose the problem with starting such a venture would be decency laws and all that. But, if somebody could figure out a way around that, I'd so be signing up. Think of it as a service to a poor sick shut-in... ::grin::

An anal rententive spanko watches Desperate Housewives

With being more sick lately and unable to do much of anything else except bask in the glow of the flickering tube, I've been blazing through my Netflix queue. The last week or two has been mostly dedicated to the first season of Desperate Housewives as I didn't really start watching it (Sunday nights, 9pm on ABC) until last year. And, you know, once I started watching I was always like, "oh oh gotta watch the next one! Gotta see what happens!"

And among the twenty-four hours of viewing has been a bit to satisfy my ever present inner spanko. It started out light -- Lynette (mother of four kids) yelling at her sons to do what she tells them or she's going to spank them (Did she just say she was going to spank them? ::rewind:: Omg, she did!) -- to downright graphic at times such as when WASPy character Bree Van de Camp's husband Rex is walked upon by a suburban dominatrix in stiletto heels.

[...]



Yes, Rex Van de Camp likes be handcuffed and whipped and when he tells his wife, she immediately assumes his mother must have horribly abused him. Then slaps him when her sense of moral outrage can be suppressed no longer. Domination of her husband is definitely something that takes place outside the bedroom sans stilettos and leather. And therein most likely lies the problem. Rex probably married Bree because she was domineering and he vaguely knew he liked that. By middle age he had realized that it was a sexual thing for him. Except, because Bree has had to be the dominant one in the household, she's been most likely looking for him to be dominant in the bedroom.

However on Valentines Day, Bree relents to maybe giving the whole domination thing a go. Rex, almost giddy as he takes his toy box out of the closet, explains how the whole thing works. "So, it's like we're in a little play?" suggests Bree. Indeed, I often think of roleplay as pretend play for adults. And I think the better you were at it as a kid, the better you're at it (or even perhaps the kinkier you are) as an adult.

Rex goes on to explain that they have to have a "control" word (rather than the more commonly used "safeword" -- censors? lazy writing?) and that his is "Philadelphia." "My Aunt Fern lives in Philadelphia," states Bree, "and I don't want to be thinking about her when I'm spanking you with a leather paddle." She then suggests "Boise," which Rex thinks sounds too funny and that they need something that's serious. Bree thinks, then gets a very grave, concerned look on her face. "How about Palestine?" and nods slightly to emphasize how serious a topic it is. This made me laugh my fucking head off. Palestine was part of my academic research and something I have very definite political views that I feel passionately about, meaning she could very easily have been doing a parody of me. Seriously, I think it will rank up there as one of the funniest damn scenes I've ever seen on television.

In the end, Rex decides "Boise" will be fine. And thanks to YouTube, you can watch the whole thing for yourself.

But the scenes that really captured my imagination more were those with Lynette's kids as spanking is more my kink than leather. And as the title of this post states, I'm rather anal retentive (A. will certainly vouch for that) and ended up copying down every single word of dialogue, especially as the two scenes are nowhere to be found on YouTube (though I did find this bizarre but funny as hell video -- ah the wonders of public access television!). I may be breaking a gazillion copyright laws, but I can't imagine it's any more so than all the fine folks posting at YouTube.

So the first scene occurs after Lynette finds out her boys (who are generally out-of-control hellions) stole a potted flower from the neighbor to give to her as a Valentines Day gift. She comes out onto the porch and yells, "Boys, get your fannies in here!" The boys, however, are huddled in neighbor Mike Delfino's yard. When Mike finds them and asks who they're hiding from, they explain their mom because she wants to spank them. In that sweet but sexy way of his, Mike tells them that if they hide, then it will just get worse because then she'll get worried and that if they just go home and take their lumps, they'll have the rest of the afternoon to play. He even tops off the deal with a piggy back ride home.

At home, Lynette sweeps away the Valentines Day cards from the kitchen table and lays down a hickory switch, a hairbrush, a ping pong paddle, a spatula, a metal ruler (I think -- that one was hard to see) and a belt. Seriously, my eyes about bugged out of my head. It felt like one of us showing off the contents of our toy box.

"We don't wanna get spanked," the boys cry.

"Too late. You stole. And then you lied. Even worse, you made me look bad in front of Mrs. Mcclusky, who you know is Mommy's sworn enemy." Lynette waves her hand over the implements. "Time to pick your poison." She then picks up the belt with one end in each hand. "How about the belt? It's a classic."

The boys shake their heads. She drops it and picks up the switch.

"Well, we could go with the old hickory stick. It's a cliche..." Lynette whacks the table hard with the switch causing the boys to jump. "But it's pretty effective." She drops the switch and picks up the spatula. "I know, we'll go with the spatula. The holes give it less wind resistance.." Another whack against the table that cause the boys to jump. "...Moves faster."

"No! No! No!" The boys yell.

"Hey, hey, guys, my hands are tied. Thieves get spanked. It's just the way it works." She pauses. "Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"For a first time offense, if you swear, cross your heart that you will never steal again and you write Mrs. Mcclusky a letter I will let it slide." Needless to say, the boys gladly agree to these terms and happily take the pencils and notebooks their mother hands to them.

"Mommy, why are you smiling?" Asks one of the twins when he notices Lynette smirking.

"Do you know what psychological warfare is?"

"No."

"Well, too bad for you." Then Lynette picks up the implements and helps the boys spell Mcclusky.

The second scene was two episodes later in Episode 18, "Children Will Listen." Lynette desperately wants to go meet some friends and refuses to pay the extortionate rate the babysitter demands. After much pleading she manages to talk Bree into watching the kids ("For God's sake, Bree, I'm wearing pantyhose!"). While the boys color, waaayy outside the lines, on Bree's dining room table, she bakes cookies. Porter, one of the twins, can't seem to resist those cookies and tries to get one off the cookie sheet before they're adequately cooled down, meriting a reprimand from Bree. When he complains that he's hungry, Bree offers to make him a nice bowl of peaches and cottage cheese -- which he rebuffs

"Ew barf!"

"Don't be common, young man." Bree leads him back into the dining room to color. "If you play around with those cookies one more time I'm going to have to spank you," she states as she sits him down.

"We don't get spanked," explain Porter's brothers.

"Really?" asks a shocked Bree.

"Mommy always says she's gonna but she never does."

"Well, I'm not your Mommy and if you misbehave in my house, you will get spanked." She brushes Porter's cheek. "Now, be good." Then goes off to tend to the baby.

Did I mention that Lynette's boys are incorrigible?

Porter sneaks back into the kitchen to get that cookie, only to end up dumping the whole cookie sheet of cookies all over the kitchen floor. Bree rushes in to see Porter standing over them with his hands in his pockets.

"Porter, I warned you."

"I'm sorry...I'll be good."

"Those cookies were made from scratch! You're fate is sealed." She takes him by the arm to the kitchen table, pulls out a chair, takes him over her lap and starts spanking. The camera (as it invariably does) turned away to focus on his brothers watching on in true shock and awe to the tune of smacking and yelps coming from the kitchen.

When Lynette finds out that Bree spanked Porter (during their weekly ladies poker game, which I found unlikely as those kids or Bree would no doubt have told Lynette when she came to pick them up -- I dunno, maybe Tom picked them up and didn't tell Lynette) she freaks out. Later that night as she vents to Tom, she points out that Bree could have just threatened to spank them.

"Yeah, cause that works so well when we do it," Tom half sneers.

"It does work, " Lynette insists (forgetting that after letting the boys off with writing a letter two episodes before, she and Tom discover that the boys had been stealing all kinds of things from throughout the neighborhood and stashing them in their playhouse). But Tom points out that the boys are onto them that the treats are empty. "My mom beat the hell out of me and my sisters..." Lynette says in a trembling voice. "...And I won't do it." Tom (as he so often does) empathizes with Lynette but points out that they have to figure out something.

"Eventually they're going to figure out that they out number us and we're gonna be screwed."

So, what to do?

Well, the next night when Preston threatens to flush his toothbrush down the toilet, Lynette starts out with her typical hollow threats as his brothers egg him on. When she realizes they aren't going to work, she glares at Preston and issues a new threat.

"I will walk you down to Mrs. Van de Camp's and we all know what happens when she gets mad!"

Hmm...wasn't this the scenario for an RGE film? LOL -- though they, of course, manage to get even darker than Desperate Housewives.

At any rate, that threat makes the boys straighten right up and brush their teeth. And in the end, Bree and Lynette make up like all good housewives/neighbors do: over a cup of coffee.

I must say, if I were to imagine being spanked, Bree would totally be the housewife I'd want to be spanked by. In some ways, she represents the mother I always wanted as a kid. My mom looks like a cross between Gabrielle and Edie, and acts like Susan's mom, Sophie (seriously, Marc Cherry could have been tape recording my mother when I was a teenager and then written those lines for Sophie). To be fair, if Bree had been my mom, I'd probably still be all fucked up, just in different ways. But, gawd I do love the facade of the anal retentive housekeeper mother who wears an apron and can cook. ;)

When backdoor luvin' goes bad...very bad

Okay, so in my return post I mentioned that I had a bad relapse of my illness because of kink-related activities, and that it occurred in a most mortifying way. Indeed, I've been dragging my feet and debating about whether to post about it at all, and, if so, how to do it in a way that would not be too TMIish ("Too Much Information" in abbreviated slang). Yeah, it was really that bad.

I think in the end I felt that, while I don't feel obligated to share everything about my kink life, I also felt like I wanted people to know that things do go wrong sometimes. People often read spanking blogs as a way to live out their spanking fantasies vicariously (hell, I know I do!). Yet fantasy and reality can collide in very ugly ways, and this was definitely a case of the two smashing into each other in grotesque fashion.

[...]



Right, so I had a day at the end of February where I was actually feeling pretty well. And as I'm apt to do when I feel well, I started cleaning. A lot. Then I went off to the acupuncturist/massage therapist and came home feeling even better. Which then prompted me to clean even more. And bake and cook. And by the time I finally laid down to rest late that afternoon, I had that awful heavy feeling that made me realize oh shit! I soooo overdid it! (Now you understand A.'s vigilance in this post at the Punishment Book. However, he was sleeping after working all night and therefore unable to provide what was clearly some much needed supervision.)

A while later or so A. and I started cuddling and one thing led to another, and I started getting aroused despite feeling what I knew was just the beginning of what would soon be crushing exhaustion. When he flipped me over onto my belly and reached for a condom, I knew I should have said no. And when he kept going and going to the point where I thought I couldn't possibly go on anymore, I should have had him stop. But I liked the idea that I didn't have any say so in the matter. So, he kept going on -- longer than he ever has.

When we finished, I finally did take a nap (sans climax as I didn't have the energy for it by that point) and when I woke up I had a little piece of the quiche I'd made from scratch that afternoon. A half an hour later I was rushing to the bathroom with an awful tummy ache that left me in there for quite awhile. But that ended up being the most I did in there for a week. Here and there when something did come, there was usually blood along with it. Not uncommon after anal sex, but when I was still having it a week later, I decided it was time to visit my GP. Which meant explaining what I was doing directly prior to my gastro-intestinal discomfort.

Ugh.

I kept telling myself that, you know, for gay males this is the primary means of intercourse and to just walk in there act as if anal sex is a completely normal, natural thing. I mean, it's the county health department, for gawd's sake. I can't possibly be the only heterosexual woman they've seen who has had a complication from backdoor luvin'.

So I went. And put on as business-like a demeanor as I could. Though I cringed every time my doctor referred to it as "rectal sex." After an examination the doctor decided that the stool had become impacted in my colon during sex. All I could think of on the way home was that pejorative term guys in my high school used to use for male homosexual sex.

When I got home I related the diagnosis to A., who, despite having been horrified about how awful I had felt that week, was rather proud to hear what he and his giant penis had accomplished.

"Yeah, well you'll think it's cool when you have to go to Safeway and buy me an enema!" I snapped backed. Cool indeed.

Now some of you faithful readers of this here blog may know that I have on occasion fantasized about getting an enema. And I'd be lying if I said that there was not even one little part of me that wasn't sort of excited at the thought. But the other 99% was absolutely and utterly mortified. And despite the fact that A. has taken in the view of me on the bed with my ass in the air a gazillion times, I found myself horribly self-conscious as he administered the prescribed enema. Which somehow made it more arousing. Which then made me more embarrassed. Which then...well, I think you get the idea. I suspect there will be more enemas in my future as they will most likely accompany any further buggery in an effort to avoid going through this again. You know, when I'm no longer quite so traumatized by the whole thing and finally feel up to a bit of buggery.

The whole affair ended up making me even sicker than the cold did. At times I could barely even sit up in bed and spent the first day or so just crying softly because I felt so dreadful. I'm not sure how to describe it. I always describe having ME/CFS as feeling like you have the flu. You just feel icky all over. But this was icky to the tenth degree. Icky and then being run over by a truck and then being trampled on by a pack of horses. Why this made me so damn sick is anyone's guess. The severity of my symptoms was far and away out of proportion to how much I overdid it activity-wise, as well as to the actual affliction -- constipation. I have a theory or two about why, but it's pure speculation on my part (as so much often is with this disease).

A week or so later when I started to feel a bit better, we tried playing around a little. A. used the strap because normally I like it, and compared to some other implements, it's fairly light. But, alas, it was a bit too soon. For the first time ever I started crying while I was getting spanked -- in fact, after only three strokes! I yelled out "Wait! Wait! Stop!" and he immediately dropped the strap and pulled me to himself (yeah, we probably do need to work on a formal safeword). "Here we go, big cuddle," he said as I cried into his chest. While the spanking, or rather, the return of the icky feeling and inability to handle an increase in sensation was horrible, I loved crying into his chest like that. It's the way I always fantasize about spankings ending. But I have to say, what it took to get me like that was far too high a price.

My Marks

Last spring, before Tarte had to take an apparent hiatus from blogging, I made some comment on one of her posts about finding that there is a dommey side to me but that it has usually expressed itself outside the bedroom. At the time she wanted me to expand on that but I think illness and other activities got in the way and I never quite got back to it.

At the time I had just taken over the moderator position of a (non-kink) online group and my job was basically to crack the whip with certain members and maintain order for the good of everyone else. What I found surprising was how much I enjoyed it. I liked creating order. I liked politely but firmly enforcing the boundaries.

In the past, teaching was the normal outlet for my toppish side. Students sometimes whined that I was hard, but they always agreed that I was just. Indeed, they really would describe me with that phrase that seems so cliched to us in the spanking world -- "tough, but fair." But, of course, I'm no longer teaching and, in fact, spend a great deal of my life now in a sort of subordinate position as a patient. Not only do doctors and nurses tell you what to do, but everybody else always seems to jump in and tell you what to do as well -- what to eat, what to take, even what to think. And, well, what can I say? It gets a bit old after awhile.

Now, on at least one occasion I've mentioned that A. gets into a sort of subby mood at times and the more we switch, the more I'm finding that there is definitely a domme inside of me. Granted it's taken some coaxing from A. on occasion to bring her out, mostly involving threats of punishment and administering of said punishment when I've failed to be brutal enough. But my as-yet-unnamed top is floating around somewhere inside of me along with Natty, though sometimes she might be more of a sort of spoiled, cruel version of Natty.

So one night in February A. was in one of his rare subby/masochistic moods and asked if I was up to topping. Often the problem is more a physical one as it takes a lot of energy to thrash someone, but that night I felt like giving it a go. However, as I always end up on the business end of the cane later on for not hitting him hard enough, I decided he was going to get it good this time. Believe it or not, I'd even practiced with the cane a little bit during his last time away.

And, I'm pleased to say, it showed. Yep, this time I whipped his ass good. Lemme tell ya, I was in real top mode too. I relished each wince, each cry, each flinch. And when the loopy toy made these brilliant purple loops on his pasty limey legs, I couldn't help but think of a line from Paul's (Pablo) beautiful essay regarding topping about appreciating the "warm body beside us carrying marks that we've put on its skin." For the first time I was so proud of the marks I'd made. My marks. Different somewhat from the way that Paul was talking about because what we were doing had nothing at all to do with discipline or punishment. For me it was more like visible marks of both domination and adoration. That and, well, they just looked wicked cool. ;)

Oh, and this time I finally avoided a beating afterwards. ::grin::

So, go figure. While I don't see myself wearing stiletto heels anytime soon (or ever given my weak ankles and horrible lack of balance), I am finding myself a bit more comfortable on the other side of the cane enjoying the weals I put on the warm body next to me.

Kama Sutra Spanking

Though it was awhile ago, I thought I'd share highlights from Valentines Day as I wasn't able to at the time. They included some ridiculously over-priced chocolates in a velvet heart-shaped box (cliched, I know, but something I've always wanted but had never actually got), a delicious salmon and pesto dinner, Erasure (at my request -- what can I say? I had a hankerin') and a very nice Two-Buck Chuck chardonnay (which is actually three bucks here). It was one of those wonderful evenings that is now in my happy memories box -- a sort of mental toolbox from which I draw during times of breakthrough pain or ickiness to distract me and contains things like funny scenes from the Simpsons, or cute things my brother, nieces and nephew have done, one of the first times A. and I made love, etc.

But warm and fuzzy aside, our Valentine's Day evening, of course, included some after-dinner luvin. Being the sick perverts that we are, luvin involved beating and buggery and I'd recovered enough from the last time to engage in such sick and lewd acts again. In fact, I think we invented a new spanking position -- at least, I don't believe it's in Ecstagony's list of spanking positions which I'd always assumed was fairly exhaustive.

So what was this innovative position? Well, it involved A. and I on our knees on the bed facing each other. His, um...member was pushed through the bottom of my bra and up between my breasts while I then sort of twisted around his right side -- my left -- so that my bottom was in perfect position for him to rain down as many blows as he would were I over his knee. It felt so very Kama Sutra.

I dunno. There's probably somebody or maybe even many bodies who have done this. But it was new to us.

Stay tuned...there are more highlights to come, most likely tomorrow night. :-)

The first highlight from my blogging sabbatical

When the hell is that girl going to finally post something already?

Yep, I know you've been thinking it. Hell, I've been thinking it. Each week I'd think that at some point during the coming seven days I should finally feel well enough to post about our recent spanking-related activities. And then those seven days passed, and I moved onto another hopeful but post-less seven days. Ultimately, I had only enough energy to either get spanked or blog. As you can see, I chose the former. Though the later wouldn't have been very interesting without the former.

Basically that cold really knocked me on my ass. I've had a handful of viral infections over the last few years since my ME/CFIDS became more debilitating but I've never had quite the level of post-viral exhaustion like I've had the last two months. At one point a month ago I was starting to feel a bit better, but then activities related to our "fundamental obsession" hurled me right back into bed with a vengeance and in a most mortifying way. But I'll get to that later.

I've been working on a single post highlighting our spanking play during the last two months of A.'s visit. Having started this on March 19th, I was expecting that it was going to get posted before he left last Tuesday on the 27th. But, well, five pages into it at this point, I've realized that putting it all in one post would be a bit unwieldy. And besides, now that A. is back in England, I also thought it'd be kinda nice to spread out the memories in a series of posts. In some ways the ten weeks he was here went faster than they ever have because he was working a lot and I was so sick so much of the time. Yet somehow, we also ended up playing a lot more than we probably even did when he was here last summer.

At any rate, first, about that cold...

[...]



NyQuil Sex and the Return of the Endorphines

So A. and I got a really bad cold towards the end of January. For A. it was an annoying, lethargic two weeks with a cough that lingered longer. For me, along with the lingering cough, it was a week or so of glands so swollen one was pressing down on a nerve that shot pain through my right arm, and I kept feeling like I was breathing through a straw. After a few days of my herbal cough tea with slippery elm bark and licorice root not really making much of a dent in my sore throat, I asked A. if he could go to Safeway and get me some NyQuil. "It's gotta be green and WITH alcohol," I instructed as NyQuil is apparently not as well known in England.

Indeed, I was instructing and insisting on a lot over that week or so and after waiting on me pretty much hand and foot, A. started feeling the need to express his own demanding side. One night when my throat was feeling better thanks to an entire giant bottle of NyQuil, he smacked me on the backside.

"Your ass needs some attention," he stated as he started pulling out implements from the craft box under the bed.

I sat up in bed and gulped. And with good reason too. He was pulling out the strap, his belt, the flogger and loopy toy, the cane and the riding crop.

But lemme tell ya, the endorphines were sooo back! While I don't believe he used all of those implements (it was quite awhile ago now and my memory is fuzzy at this point), whatever he did use should have been enough to have me squealing and wishing it would end already. Except it felt like more of a warm up by the time he quit.

After the spanking, he started looking for the condoms.

"I'm getting fucked up the ass, aren't I?" I said, biting my lower lip.

"You are SO getting fucked up the ass." He grinned malevolently.

And, I tell you, dear reader, I did. Hard.

It was absolutely delicious.

"Mmm...I like NyQuil sex," I said in that dreamy sort of state that only a good orgasm can produce.

The next morning my spanking mojo was still hungry. Plus, I was in a bratty little girl mood, so A. awoke to find me in my little girl dress -- a cotton bubble-gum pink dress with blue flowers and a white collar. As you might imagine, within a few hours (I would never start bratting first thing in the morning -- that would just be too cruel!) I was bent over the bed getting the cane, and then the hairbrush, which I believe was its first appearance since the advent of blood thinners.

This was it. I was finally going to get it good. Except soon he had to stop because I was really starting to mark and could start bleeding too much. Indeed, the cane was already drawing blood. Not much but enough to say my spanking was over.

But I didn't wanna stop. I wanted it hard. I wanted it to be overwhelming. I wanted to be taken to my limit. And I was just so not anywhere near my limit.

I realize most people would be happy to have those endorphines. During spankings over the last several months I've wondered where the hell they had gone. Yet on the other hand, I liked the fact that we could reach my limit pretty quickly before a lot of bruising set in. However, methinks those days are over (with some exceptions...see forthcoming post).