The Strictologist is in

A. has decided he is going to be a strictologist.

It started a few weeks back when he rearranged a chair in his sister's living room. While I wasn't there to witness it, it was apparently one of the single greatest acts in the history of interior design.

"I have a gift," he told me afterwards. No matter that he can't tell the difference between periwinkle and plum if his life depended on it. I'm no longer allowed to make decorating decisions about the apartment without his approval. And I'm most certainly not allowed to shop at Ikea. Ever. "You will not confuse Ikea with good taste," is his new mantra, which he's threatened to make me write 1000 times.

And you thought that last story was just fiction...

Then there was the other day when the owners of a particular website asked his opinion about their site. "Well, since they asked..." A. proceeded to list several major problems he found.

"Maybe you should be a website design consultant," I said. "Yeah and you could be like those management consultants and make lots of money."

"I would be a great consultant. Especially if I could use a cane." A. then laid out his scenario as yet another bossy Brit, in this case one who goes in and critiques both interior design and web design, with his trusty cane in tow, of course. "You've been very naughty with your drop down menus...And these chairs are disgraceful!"

"I suppose it's sorta like a pro-dom, in a way," I suggested. And according to a story I was reading this afternoon about the self-help industry, there is the common theme of those seeking out these bossy books and TV shows having "a penchant for punishment."

"Yes," said A. "A pro-dom, interior designer, web design consultant...a strictologist."

It does seem like a nice, catch-all title, no?

And how would one become a strictologist, I wondered. Well, hell, there are degrees in sexology, so why not strictology?

I can imagine it now. Training in scolding (perhaps even a minor -- with further coursework in an upper class British accent). Proper caning techniques. Implement care. Psychology of brats and subs.

Perhaps there might be a TV show in the making here, like, say, "Super Strictologist".

Yikes! Imagine a caning from somebody with that title...

Story: Porn [M/F]

I've been holding this story back for a dry spell, but after the last post, this seemed like a good time to post it.

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Story: Porn [M/F]

They were spread out over the metal coffee table with a couple of tiny yellow Post-It pads supporting one leg. Glossy pages of careful, luscious poses.

"I found these under the mattress," said Adam, nodding to the contraband.

Melissa could feel the hot color warming her cheeks as she faced the blue-gold shag.

"Didn't imagine I'd ever find them there, did you?" he asked.

The instinctual gulp before she found her words. "No, Sir."

Adam sighed. Shook his head.

"I must say, I'm disappointed in you. Your lack of creativity. Allowing someone to exploit your fantasies for their own financial gain -- not to mention the people who work for them."

"But these people are Swedish," insisted Melissa as she pointed. "They always treat their workers well. And they don't cost much!"

"Excuse me?" The sharpness of his voice stunned Melissa back into silence. Back to staring at the blue-gold shag. "I think leather would be most appropriate on this occasion. Fetch me the strap, please."

"Yes, Sir." Melissa bit her bottom lip as she went to the bedroom. Pursed her lips as she returned to the living room and handed the strap to Adam.

"Right, then. Bare bottom, please. Over the back of the sofa." Adam unbuttoned and rolled up his right shirt sleeve while Melissa removed her trousers and panties and draped her voluptuous creamy buttocks over the plain, brown couch.

"I'm going to give you fifty."

She gasped but swallowed the protest filling her lungs.

"Count them, please," Adam instructed.

"Yes, Sir."

Adam's strokes were sharp, rapid splats that were hard for Melissa to keep up with.

By eight she began to panic knowing that forty-two more loomed ahead.

By seventeen she began to release her grip on the bottom of the sofa back.

By twenty-nine she was shutting her eyes tight and stumbling over the numbers.

By forty she was moving her hips back and forth to at least move the burn around.

Finally it came.

"Fifty," she squeaked out. Adam helped her stand up and led her around to the front of the couch.

"Alright, big cuddle for my girl," he said as he laid down and pulled her to him. Melissa smiled. She always smiled when it was over and he said that and they cuddled. "You and your furniture porn," tutted Adam.

"But look..." Melissa pointed to the bed on the cover of the Pottery Barn catalog. "So pretty! Oh and this..." She picked up the Ikea catalog and flipped to a coffee table. "...Would look perfect in our living room, see? And look at the price!"

"Fecking Ike-er," Adam sneered. "I see you've learned your lesson well."

About as well as the British have learned to pronounce words that end in an "a" without adding an "r." But saying that would be too cheeky.

"Yep," Melissa replied with a grin, "I need to hide my porn better."

There's always room, however, to be a little cheeky.

Copyright 2007 Natty

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While I wrote the story for the annual SSS Short Story Contest last summer, I also happened to write it on the occasion of Ikea finally opening here in Portland last July. Gawd I love their kitchens...

The Lady Jane bench

My very favorite on-screen spanking of all time is in Lady Jane. You remember the one (I mean, how can you forget?). Her mother tells the staff to "prepare the gallery." Young Jane (played by Helena Bonham Carter) is escorted to a u-shaped bench and given the birching of her life.

If I owned the movie (which I should but, sadly, don't), I would show you a picture. However, MovieSpanks over at YouTube has the clip along with nine others in his list of the top ten spankings of the 1980s. Lady Jane is ranked seventh (?!) and as the list is M/F F/F oriented, it's also lacking one of my other favorite spankings, the paddling in Dead Poets Society.

Um...right, I can't help it; one of the spankings in his list takes place on a plane and all I could think of was, hey, Spanks on a Plane...

So back to Lady Jane. It came to mind just now as I was looking at a household catalog online and came across this:


I know! You can own your very own Lady Jane bench for less than $25!

The castle and costumes needed to make the recreation complete, however, might set you back a bit more.

The phone calls of doom

There was some discussion of my last post on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgoup (I generally try to cross-post there for friends who can't make it to the blogosphere) and at one point during the ensuing thread, I mentioned that, aside from the ick factor of discussing my sexuality with her, I would never want to tell my mom about my disciplinary arrangement with A. because she (and my grandma) would totally be trying to get me spanked.

Not only can I point to the linked post above as proof, but I would also cite the first Christmas A. was here. I was taking pictures of my super-adorable nieces and nephew during Christmas dinner and, apparently, holding up the flow of food around the table. My mom complained, prompting A. to grab my camera and set it to the other side of him, making it impossible for me to reach. Both my mom and grandma clapped their hands together and giggled with glee. It made my skin crawl.

At any rate, one poster as S.S.S suggested that there could be fodder for fantasy there.

If it wasn't your mom, if it was someone else, how would the fantasy play out? I mean, the idea of knowing that when you met your boyfriend, he might have received a note or phone call suggesting that you definitely needed to be soundly chastised? Would it be a man or a woman who'd have the authority to make that request? And what would be the terms?

Once the heebie-jeebies at the idea of my mom wore off, and I could think about it a bit more clearly, a few candidates did come to mind: my former caregiver, or perhaps Nurse K. Indeed, I could imagine Nurse K. calling A. to tell him that I hadn't had enough of my leafy greens so my INR was elevated this week. (If you need an explanation of what an INR is, see this post and/or this post. And, of course, if my INR was high, A. would have to be extra carefully about bruising me...but hey, to hell with pesky real-life details, on with the fantasy!)

Once off the phone, he'd probably order me to stand in the corner while he fetched the straight-backed chair and the clothesbrush. After several minutes, A. would call me to him, look me in the eyes and tell me that my nurse has told him that perhaps some disciplinary assistance from him would make certain that I eat my leafy greens like I'm supposed to. That keeping my INR at a consistent level is important for my own safety (which is true: the higher my INR, the higher my risk of bleeding to death).

Then he might ask me if I had done my physical therapy exercises. I'd bite my lower lip and slowly shake my head. "Yes, I know you haven't. Earlier I got a call from your physical therapist," he'd say with his deep, stern, British-accented voice. I would gulp as he'd tell me how she too thought I'd benefit from the business end of a hairbrush. I'd try to think of an excuse for why I hadn't done them, but before I could think of anything remotely adequate, I'd be ordered over his knee.

And, well, we know what would happen there. Lots of hard, wooden splats and me kicking and squirming and promising to eat my greens and do my PT.

I might just be sent to the corner again, with my panties around my knees and red blotchy bottom on display. You know, to think about what I'd done -- or rather, hadn't done.

He might even set me some lines to write. Fifty about how I will eat my greens regularly and fifty about doing my exercises. And I would have to take them to my next appointments with my nurse and physical therapist to show them that I'd been adequately chastised. Perhaps they would have to sign them, so I could verify that I had indeed demonstrated that they had seen, if only in part, my punishment.

oo0oo

Interestingly enough, I can only imagine women doing the tattling. Trying to imagine my GP -- a man -- totally doesn't work for me. Go figure.

Also I actually like eating my greens (if properly prepared) so the only time there's a problem, it's because I'm physically incapable of eating them (indeed, sometimes I eat too many -- it's a very fine balancing act). Though there have been times I've just forgotten to eat them, especially as my meals aren't planned out (hell, I have a hard enough time just trying to remember to take this one medicine a half-an-hour before I eat -- not to mention keeping all the other 20+ drugs straight!).

However, I have been spanked once already for not remembering to do my physical therapy exercises, which strengthen my hip flexor and trans-abdominal muscles and take about five minutes while laying in bed, along with playing around with some "theraputty" in my hand for a few minutes to strengthen that finger I broke back in November.

Speaking of which, I better get this posted and get my exercises done before bed. ::grin::

The spanko tutor is in

In the last two days I have found myself in the position of tutoring someone on the topic of S/M and spanking.

The first tutorial was brief and, er...uncomfortable as my tutee was my mother. See I've strongly suspected that part of the reason her current (fourth) marriage is not working out is that her husband may actually be submissively oriented, as is she.

Now why would I even know enough to deign passing judgment on my mother's sexual life? Well, because I get to hear about it in intimate detail.

Yes, I know. EWWWWW!!!!

My mother cannot grasp the concept that children do not want to think of their parents as sexual beings and has always shared freely with me about her sexuality. Not to mention, has always felt it her duty to share sexual information with us. I'm still traumatized by our discussion regarding blowjobs. I was in the car. Nauseous. Begging her to please...stop...talking...

I've gotten more comfortable over the years (not totally comfortable but, you know, I don't completely want to vomit) as she and I have been much more like sisters than parent-child anyway (hence my hunger for some sort of parental figure). So yesterday as she was driving me to Trader Joe's and talking about her husband, I finally just blurted out, "why doesn't he just go to a dominatrix already!"

"What's a dominatrix?"

Was she serious?

"You know, a woman a guy pays to have order him around and often, you know, whip him and what not...you know, S/M and what not," I tried to explain.

"What's S/M?"

My jaw dropped. For a woman who has always seemed to be this fount of sexual information, I was shocked.

"You know dominance and submission. Where one person's sorta in charge in the bedroom...In fact, I've often thought that you, with your obsession about having a husband who is the head of the household and takes care of you, would totally be into domestic discipline..."

"What's that?"

I took a deep breath. Then shook my head.

"I should probably talk about this later and do my shopping," I said grabbing the car door handle. "You can look it up on the Internet."

"Good idea."

The Loving Domestic Discipline page probably had a few hits from Clackamas, Oregon last night.

I've actually been toying with talking to my mom about the whole DD thing for awhile. Yet aside from the ick factor, there's also the concern that if she did totally get into the whole thing, I'd never be able to go to a spanking event in Portland again without my mom being there (yes, she's little Miss Outgoing).

Then again, it could solve my transportation problems getting to and from said events. Just kidding! The gross-out factor would always, always override my mobility problems.

Still, I often wonder if she'd finally find happiness if she did start looking into DD. But I'm not sure I feel comfortable talking anymore with her about it. That's what Google is for, right?

oo0oo

The second conversation was this afternoon with my godfather. That was less uncomfortable as my godfather is my gay best friend (if we lived closer and I didn't have a boyfriend, I'd totally be his hag) and very familiar with deviant forms of sexuality. It was the logistics of how it worked that he was a bit mystified about, especially when I explained that often it is the act of being spanked (or playing pony, which was what started our conversation) that provides sexual gratification, not necessarily penetration. Indeed, penetration may not even come into it at all. When I was first coming out, I got spanked by many guys but it never involved sex.

"So, what does the top get out of it?" he asked.

"A lot of it is about sadism. About being able to hurt someone and getting pleasure out of that as well as pleasing the person you're hurting. And controlling how the scene is going to play out once you've negotiated the ground rules." As a newly practicing switch, I actually had an answer to that question which as a bottom I'd always sort of wondered about myself.

"I have to say, it's all about penetration for me," he stated. "...I wouldn't really know what to do in that context."

"Well, while I do think there is a lot about our sexuality that can be learned, I also think a lot of it is inbred. A form of sexual orientation, if you will."

"Interesting."

After that we talked about how wrong a certain professor of ours was when he used to go on about how the Internet was going to create political revolutions throughout the Arab World when, in fact, the revolution really has been in sexuality. I don't see the monarchy changing in Saudi Arabia anytime soon, but dating certainly has (i.e. it actually happens) thanks to instant messaging.

I'm sure that you, dear reader, can relate to that last point. Google has almost single-handedly changed our lives and blogs like this help both writers like me and readers like you know that we're not alone.

oo0oo

At any rate, those have been my spanking tutorials over the last two days. The weird and the interesting. The disturbing and the thoughtful.

If I'm not careful, I'm going end up teaching community college courses on spanking and D/s. Then again, I do miss teaching, so that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Just as long as my mom doesn't enroll.

Yay!

Just got off the phone with A. and after an ambitiously austere January, a short-term loan, and a few tips (see bottom of left sidebar) here and there from readers (one in particular saved our ass with a very generous donation -- you know who you are!), A.'s been able to book his ticket back here to Oregon. Basically he either had to return by the end of April or the price was going to go up significantly, leaving us with, potentially, another 8-month separation like last time. But thankfully, he'll be back on April 29th. Only three months apart, per the loose "guidelines" border agents follow (don't get me started on the bizarre arbitrariness of US Visa policy...unless, of course, you happen to be a border agent, in which case, have I ever told you what beautiful eyes you have...how brilliant you are...how brave and strong?).

Seriously. Finding that out made today a lot easier to get through.

Playin' (slightly slutty) school

Sigh. My last post before A. leaves. ::pout::

Not sure if we'll get a chance to play tonight before he leaves, especially as I've got a chest cold. (Though who says you can't get caned if you've got a cold? That's what NyQuil is for, right?) But now that I've caught up on my sleep and the Super Bowl is over (of which we shall no longer speak...grrr) and house guests are back home, I figured it was time to catch up on blogging. Especially as I promised a post in my last post about playing school.

Yes, last week A. set me some schoolwork: I was to learn about the seventeenth-century British monarchy (prompted by a discussion regarding the chronology of that period which was prompted by...er, I can't really remember now). He went out to the shops and I was to get dressed into my school uniform. By the time he got back I was dressed except my tie (the very tie A. wore to school when he was a lad -- something I think is most cool, but got no attention when I mentioned it at the Punishment Book). It had been so long since I had to tie a tie that I had forgotten.

"Here we go." He towered over me and held the tie around my neck. "The thin side goes over here..."

"Ohhh, right. I forgot."

"Don't worry. I'll make sure you remember."

I didn't doubt it.

I settled down with Wikipedia on my laptop. As well as Yahoo Messenger. New PB friend, Bridget, and I chatted when A. had his back turned or went out to smoke. Not to mention, I read her delightful blog and chatted with another spanko friend.

But it was not my lack of studying that caused me to get spanked.

No, it was a surprise inspection that got me in trouble. I was wearing an official white shirt. My tie was clearly on and tied correctly. I had my blazer with correct school badge (also from A.'s childhood uniform). White knee socks. Black shoes. White bra.

"What are these?"

"Um, my red lace panties..."

That's right. I was wearing red lace cheeky panties. What can I say? I wanted to be at least a little slutty. ::grin::

Well, the headmaster was not pleased. Without a word A. closed my laptop and set it on the floor. Moved my over-the-bed table. Ordered me to take off my blazer, then lay myself over his knee. Needless to say, I was quickly stripped of my forbidden panties.

"Right," said A. after a number of increasingly stingy smacks. "Twelves strokes on each cheek. Count them please."

"Yes, Sir."

It wasn't the hardest spanking I've ever received, but his hand sure does hurt.

There was some groping after my spanking. Some practice tying a tie. And a more intimate inspection which revealed that I wasn't, um, shaved.

"Very, very naughty," A. said before fetching the razor and shaving gel.

That's right. I had to lay down on my back on the bed, pull up my skirt, spread my legs and present my cunt to be shaved.

What can I say? This school has very strict rules about grooming.

And not only was my cunt shaved, but then I had to turn over onto my belly and present my ass to be shaved.

It was embarrassing to say the least. But not half as embarrassing as it would have been had it been atop a large oak desk with a large stern school matron doing the shaving. (One of these days we hope to have both the large oak desk and the large stern school matron. ::grin::)

If all that wasn't embarrassing enough, A. got out the medical tape. My ass cheeks were spread far apart and a small butt plug inserted. It was time to punish my bummy hole.

Now, I've always fantasized about having my bummy hole spanked. Lemme tell ya, it HURTS. And A. was only softly spanking me.

After my butt plug fucking and bummy hole spanking, A. began to play with my newly shaved cunt. Between all the anal play and being on my tummy (as opposed to my back), I managed to come. It wasn't the best orgasm ever, but hey, it's better than what I've been getting.

Oh, um, right. We never did get around to my test on the seventeenth-century British Monarchy. Who knows? Maybe we'll get to it in the next four hours before he leaves. If not, I'll certainly have plenty of time to study.