Kinky Santa at FetLife

So I'm pimping FetLife's "Sitting on Kinky Santa's Lap Giveaway" here on the blog to get my name in the hat an extra time. Shameless, I know. Especially as it probably won't increase my chances of winning all that much given the sheer number of people at FetLife. But hey, just might get lucky.

What did I ask Santa for?

• A Strapped Satin Jacquard Corset from BigGalsLingerie   (who have a number of hot plus-size dresses -- including cute and sexy holiday outfits!)
  
• An Impact Play Kit from Maui Kink
  
• A Custom Cane Case and Canes from Maui Kink   (be sure to check out their amazing and unique collection of toys, including one I've got my eye on - the Victorian Rug Beater Paddle [scroll down on the link to view])

The pickings are a bit slim for those of us who identify primarily as spankos rather than more extreme BDSMers. Though if you fancy a corset or a flogger, you're set.

I wonder if next year Kinky Santa might be able to fill his bag of toys from these vendors:

• The London Tanners (been drooling over Ian's toys for years now)
• Bobbies Drop Seats (I want the sailor dress...and the Emily dress...and...and)
• Adam & Gillian's (who doesn't need a sjambok?)
• Academy Wear (The headmaster says I need a gym slip and bottle green undies)
• Medical Toys (er...just...::blush::)
  

I'm sure I'll think of a few more later. Feel free to add some you think are missing from Kinky Santa's toybag in the comments section.

The great spanko dorm

I have been having the most surreal dreams lately. Here' s my latest addition to the REM cycle spanking file.

All us spankos lived in a sort of communal setting, like a dormitory that was somewhat rustic, as if it were a giant log cabin.

Everyone was away at a Shadow Lane party except me as I was in bed (geesh, I’m even sick in my dreams). A. was with me, as was someone else who I can’t quite name now (Nanny Bea? Casey? Indy?). I was waiting for everyone to return so I could get spanked. I was specifically waiting for sparkle, Chris, Adele Haze, Mija and Pablo, who were stuck in traffic (note that everybody rode around in hovercrafts).

The great spanko dorm was in California, I believe. But it was so cold I didn't want to pull back the covers and get out of bed.

I'm sure there was more narrative but all I can remember now having just waken up was that I thought I had found sparkle already in bed and I was feeling very disappointed that I might have missed my spanking.

Spanking the monkey?

A. found this picture from Do-While's "WtF photos from Old Times" page. While this one was the most relevant to the topic of this blog, there were a few others with shades of kink.

I can't tell if she's wishing she were in the stuffed monkey's place or if she's thinking about getting this young man home and spanking him. I mean, she does kind of have a just you wait sort of look...

Kinky twitter

The good folks at Tweet Cloud have made a handy list of the top words in my tweets over the last month. A nice mix of the banal and the kinky, wouldn't you say?

HNT: Birthday spanking

Or all nekkid, as the case may be.

In the end, it was 37 strokes of the cane. No uniform or dress. Just rattan and my naked flesh -- which I can't believe I'm showing here -- after a warm up with the rubber paddle and his hand.

It was far more serious than I expected it to be. And I was a total baby throughout. If I ever figure out how to edit with iMovie, I'll try and post all 3:04 minutes of it.

After the spanking, my wicked A. tied me to the bed with the Under the Bed Restraints* -- though I did give him a bit of a fight. Upon subduing me, he affixed my ankles to our spreader bar with the ankle restraints, lifted my legs up and wide, and violated me with the Anal Vibe, the Silver Bullet, and the Miracle Massager.

It was one of the nicest, stingiest birthday spankings I've had and the best birthday orgasm ever.

______________________

*The Under-the-Bed Restraints will be reviewed in an upcoming post. Note that VibeReview is having their Winter Sale at the moment and gives me a little kickback if you purchase items at their site by clicking on a link from my blog. 

Hang on

A few days ago I was reading the (non-kink) blog of a fellow Portlander with the title "Hanging Blog Syndrome." I immediately recognized the malady. Despite having my shiny new Macbook for almost a month now (thank you again, dear friends who donated it!), you can almost hear the creaking of this poor blog as it hangs forlornly in cyberspace.

My blogging is always rather meager when A. is here -- as is his productivity also. Two people sharing a 400sq foot studio for an uninterrupted two and a half months is not particularly conducive to introspective composition.

And, of course, that chronic illness I'm always whining about makes writing* difficult when my brain has turned to cream of wheat and I'm too weak to sit up in bed, drag my fingers across a keyboard and input all the thoughts I've had during the hour upon hour of laying in bed (as has been the case off and on these last few months).  You have no idea how jealous I am of those of you who can blog every day or even every week. And even more jealous of those of you who get to read all those brilliant blogs (like this new one from Queen of the commenters, Indy).

If I could write via mere thought, my hanging blog syndrome would be a thing of the past. Though the brevity and immediacy of Twitter has made reporting fresh spankings and random pervy thoughts less onerous than blogging. I suspect you will continue to find me Twittering my kinkiness more than I blog it.

But A. is leaving on Thursday. Bad for cuddles and spanking (among other things) yet more promising for blogging, as is the recent return of my writing head. Just in time to write about the birthday spanking that I'm sure to get later this evening.

My British A. is still adjusting to the whole concept of birthday spanking. He has suggested that because I didn't get my birthday spanking on my birthday last year, it didn't count and should be added to this year's spanking. But...but...hang on here. This could just get silly rather quickly. Do we add all the years I didn't get a birthday spanking? Er...maybe I shouldn't be giving him ideas.

So I appeal to you, oh sacred jury of the spankosphere, oh International Court of Correction.** Am I not right that a birthday spanking given -- regardless of whether it's on the actual birthday or not -- means I have fulfilled my birthday spanking debt to the universe?

_____________________
*Not to mention spanking and sex. We never have gotten to our Rules of the Lashes game. And I was chagrined to note last night after bathing that I think I've only been clean shaven down there twice the entire time A. has been here. So wrong.

**I have been warned that the Court of A. is a higher authority than the International Court of Correction. Though you all could help set precedent, no?

A jolly good time

Geesh. It's been so long since I stopped by Blogger that the compose interface page has changed!

It's mostly Microsoft's fault. On October 14th I downloaded the ginormous security updates from Microsoft and haven't been able to open Windows on my laptop since. My dad spent two days last week working on a system restore to no avail. As you can imagine, I've been cursing Microsoft with the crudest expletives I can think of since.

It had to happen just after the most amazing research development in ME/CFS history. Not only have I been wanting to read obsessively about it and can't, but the ME/CFS group I hand-moderate went crazy. Instead of spending a combined total of 10 minutes a month moderating in the comfort of my bed, I've been sitting up in the kitchen on the broken down Averatec I'm sharing with A. for a half-hour to an hour a day approving posts and trying to keep everyone in line (with mixed results).

Unfortunately I can only handle sitting up in the kitchen for a maximum of a half-hour to an hour most days. So, you know, there wasn't much energy for anything else like, oh say, reading any of my other email. Twittering and/or blogging, of course, came to a screeching halt.

Moreover A. and I have been passing a cold of some sort back and forth. It's meant a stuffy nose and chest for him and vertigo for me as it affected my inner ear. For the last month we've been in a cycle where I'd start to feel better on Friday. We'd play gently on Saturday.  I'd crash on Monday and be so sick for the rest of the week that I didn't really care that I was jonesing for Twitter and didn't have a laptop with which to get online.

Last week the vertigo finally settled down, but then I started having problems again with my sacroiliac joint and left hip slipping out of place. Sitting at the computer in the kitchen was excruciating. And spanking was out of the question.

Yep. It's been a jolly good time.

But things are starting to look up. I'm sitting and walking fairly comfortably now and the world is no longer spinning, though I think we both still have a bit of stuffiness in our lungs and noses. My moderation duties have quieted back down as our group returns to its usual tepid level of discussion.

Alas, however, blogging will have to wait for a bit. Some incredibly generous friends are donating a used MacBook but it will be another week or two before it will be in bed with me (hehe that sounds so kinky).

Usually such breaks from the computer mean I have a lot to write when I finally come back. And this break, I suspect, will be no exception. So, I'll see you all in a couple of weeks with lots of naughty thoughts and stories.

Lurk out loud 4.0

Last year I promised a picture of my beaten ass had the number of lurkers commenting reached a certain number (which sadly, it did not). However this year I decided to go ahead and just post the picture first. So here is my freshly spanked bottom (a mere 30 minutes ago) along with the implements A. used.



If you look closely, you will notice that the wooden spoon is broken. I believe that is the forth wooden spoon A. has broken on my backside (and I really liked cooking with that one!). You will also note the lack of welts from the cane. Since I'm on Coumadin, A. uses the cane with light but rapid fire strokes that accumulate pain quickly (sheer agony, I tell ya!) but don't leave the deep bruises for which canes are notorious. Similar to the way Nurse Bea uses a nursery willow switch in this story that my dear friend Casey wrote just for Natty.

So dear friend, thank you for reading. Whether you leave a comment (good or bad) for this feedback whore or just lurk, I always appreciate your time and interest.

Too much wood

"Oh you stupid cow," A. cried out from behind his laptop the other day.

A few weeks back, he had sent an email to a publisher along with a synopsis of the book he had just finished as well as the book itself. Two weeks later the publisher's contact replied asking if his book was similar to a couple of other books coming out on the same topic. A. responded that no, his book dealt with different material (something she would have known had she merely bothered to read his original email). After another two weeks, she replied again and asked if he could send her a synopsis.

"Her name is Michelle, so maybe I ought to spank you for her inability to read her email," A. said as he sat down on the bed next to me. "It would make me feel better."

"Don't you have enough reasons to spank me?" I asked.

There are plenty of spankings on the agenda now that he's here. There's the small matter of my past schedules that have yet to be addressed. I was also seven minutes late for my school day the other day before canceling it because I was too worn out from cramming for the test I was suppose to take (I forgot how good at procrastinating I am) -- not to mention spanking would be part of the school game anyway. I believe there is another spanking planned, but I can't think of it at the moment.

"Yes but it's a bit like firewood, isn't it?" he quipped. "You may be all sorted for the winter with a stack of wood in the garage (pronounced "GAIR-idge"), but you're always on the lookout for that next felled tree."

Yep. A girl can never get too much wood.

When play is work

Sometimes play is just...hard work. An ordeal in which the forces of the Erotic and Encumbrance battle throughout. You know, the sort hyped by some over-the-top announcer. "Tonight on the Michelle's Sorry Life channel, watch a special Kink versus Illness smackdown! One horny girl. One debilitating illness. Who will win?" Except at the end of the whole thing, both sides are usually able to claim some amount of victory.

Such was the result of a phone spanking a couple of weeks ago. I had awaken even later than my normal mid-afternoon reveille and was just finishing up breakfast at 4:30 pm (yes, that's really PM) when A. called.

"Heya dear," I answered blithely.

"Oh. Did you get my email with your instructions?" he replied with a mixture of restrained formality and genuine uncertainty.

Instructions, eh? There was a familiar -- and pleasurable -- tightening of my pelvic muscles at this most obvious declaration of impending tele-erotic activity, even as the rest of my body whined with weariness.

"Actually I was just turning on my computer," I explained as I hastened to open my inbox, still a little disoriented given that I had only waken up an hour earlier and was feeling the inevitable crash following a rare day of jittery, almost euphoric energy.

"Well, then, I think you better open your email."

My face flushed not only from excitement, but also embarrassment that I wasn't prepared. He had ended our conversation the day before noting that he might be sending me instructions -- not to mention I had emailed him a fragment from my journal before going to sleep detailing my kinky fantasies of late. I also felt a twinge of annoyance at how what was going to be my first phone spanking since May was starting out rather awkwardly.

"I said in the email that I was going to call you at 4:30, but how about I give you a call at 5pm?

"Okay --er, Yes, Sir."

This, dear reader, is what I found in my inbox:

I want you to put on a little girl's dress, flowery knickers and white socks as soon as you have finished reading this email. Nothing else will be worn until I grant permission. The following items will be laid out on the bed:

1. a wooden spoon
2. a table tennis paddle
3. the long brush
4. a razor
5. shaving gel / foam
6. a box containing sex toys,* butt plugs and a nipple clamp.

At 4.30pm (your time) you will stand in the corner of the room and await my phone call.

My pelvic muscles tightened further, along with those of my abdomen. My bottom tingled with anticipation. And I couldn't help but gulp. However I quickly swallowed that anxious lump in my throat along with my giddiness and set about attending to his instructions, as well as letting those following me on Twitter know I was about to get spanked.

Except as I got up to fetch the various items and dress myself accordingly, I quickly realized there was more to my elevated heart rate than mere excitement. One of the peculiar quirks of my illness is that the more weary I am, the higher my heart rate gets both during activity and at rest. Pulling on my dress and arranging my bra-less breasts, sorting through my sock drawer, grabbing my razor, digging out implements from under the bed -- all of it, of course, was shooting my heart rate higher and higher, making me feel dizzy and icky.

Should I tell A. I can't do this? It wasn't so much that I was worried about disappointing him, but rather Natty. My alter ego had obligingly endured months of setbacks and downright neglect as a result of my ill health and A.'s work. I sighed. I am going to get spanked, goddamnit.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I did some diaphragmatic breathing, bringing my heart rate down a bit. Once the dizziness wore off, I stood and made my way to the corner where I was to await A.'s impending phone call.

How bad would the spanking hurt? It had been such a long time since my last one. The high ceilings of my apartment, which drew my gaze after I became bored with a fragment of chipped paint, made me feel particularly small and childish.

But the little feeling did not last long. My heart rate was creeping up again. I tried some more diaphragmatic breathing as I stood facing the corner -- so very un-childish -- but it just would not drop down below 120.** I absolutely had to lay down. I made my way to the bed, where I lay with the full skirt of my bubble-gum pink dress draped over my belly and legs in a less-than flattering spread when A. finally called.

"Hello, Sir."

"Hello, there. Where you standing in the corner as you were told?"

"I did stand in the corner after I was ready, Sir. But I had to lay down after a few minutes."

There was a pause as we both sought to figure out how to proceed. Should I tell him I could manage a spanking but no shaving? Was I even in any condition to consider orgasming? Would I be okay so long as I was laying down?

"Are you still laying on the bed?"

"Yes, Sir."

Please don't break the spell. Don't ask me if I'm alright. Let's just keep going. Let Natty keep going...

"What sort of knickers are you wearing?" A. asked after another moment of silence.

"Pink flowery knickers," Natty declared with vigor.

"Well, let's get them off."

With pleasure. Even if I did feel a bit dizzy standing up to take them down as well as rearrange the cord to my headset so it wouldn't interfere with spanking.

He had me start out with the ping pong paddle. It's a good thing it makes a lot of noise even when I'm not whacking that hard because I don't know that I could have made myself hit any harder given how tired I was and how much it stung.

"What's that on the pain scale?"

It was a momentary lull in the magic. Given the circumstances, I figured A. probably needed some reassurance that I wasn't dying on the other end of the phone, even if I always find giving a number to my pain level a difficult thing to do in a Natty frame of mind.

"Um...about an 8 -- 8 1/2."

While the whacking was draining me a bit, my heart rate was staying down. I just had to stay flat.

"I think it's about time you got that butt plug in. Have you got your Naughty Box there?"

"Yes ::gulp:: Sir."

Just typing the word butt plug makes me blush. Saying it out loud makes me blush even more. Hearing A. order me to take it out of its box and put it in my hole with a deep, imperious, British-accented voice not only makes me blush but gives me that piquant constriction of shame in my belly. If he ever moves on to enema bags (another word I can barely utter), I tell you, dear reader, the embarrassment alone will be both painful and orgasmic.

"We're going to have to get your bottom warmed up before I get there."

"Yes, Sir." I bit my bottom lip. Grinned demurely into the phone even as my cheeks continued to flush.

"Pick up the wooden spoon. Give yourself twelve on each cheek."

Oddly enough, the spoon didn't hurt nearly as much as it usually does. Probably because the handle is narrow and thin, making it difficult for me to grasp with ease. So A. switched me to the clothesbrush (long brush), with a nice thick handle. It made a much more satisfying sound across the trans-Atlantic phone line when it smacked against my bare skin. After a dozen or so strokes, endorphines began to take the edge off the sting. But they did not keep my arm from wearing out.

"Tell me about your cunt. Is it shaved?"

"No, Sir." I swallowed hard.

"Pick up the razor and shaving gel. I want you to shave yourself, but I only want you to shave one strip down the middle..."

The razor was cold as it scraped against the stubble covering my labia. But it did not feel as laborious to shave as it felt like it would just fifteen minutes earlier.

"I expect your cunt to be completely bald when I arrive in three weeks."

"Yes, Sir." I finished shaving my swathe smooth and patted my cunt dry.

"You may finger yourself now."

"Can I use my vibrator?" I can be such a greedy girl.

"Not yet. Just swirl your finger around first."

I led my index finger back and forth between my increasingly saturated cunt and my increasingly swelling clitoris. Around and around the slicked, sensitive tissue. Awakening nerves from their hibernation with each revolution around my rosebud.

"Now you may use your vibrator."

With giddy delight I burrowed the Silver Bullet into my vulva and set the plastic black heart knob at medium speed. After several minutes of rocking my pelvis gently, I turned the vibrator up to full speed. After several minutes more produced no orgasm, I placed it directly onto my clitoris, then pulled it off again when the stimulation was too much. After a few more minutes, after all the weariness and worry, all the whacking and whirling, all the work, there were, finally, those familiar contractions pushing endorphines, blood, and happiness out into my ear lobes and fingernails and toes. Only then did my heart rate momentarily surge again. And after that...a uniquely benevolent fatigue.

True, within half an hour the fatigue returned to its customary tyranny. The following day my muscles -- particularly my pelvic muscles -- were more cantankerous than usual. And I can't help but look back with a little bitterness that a mere spank and wank over the phone was so damn arduous.

Yet I also can't help but just be grateful that I did it. That I made it through and Natty got her spanking. Illness and poverty do that to a person. Make you appreciate every little bit of life you can grab hold of. Especially the hard bits.

_______________________
*Aka, "The Naughty Box." A wooden, rattan-covered box A. bought for me initially for its ostensible decorative value. However its size rendered it the perfect container for butt plugs, particularly as it also fits so nicely under the bed.

**One of the primary means of treating ME/CFS is pacing, including using a heart rate monitor to help patients stay below their remarkably low anaerobic thresholds (generally between 110-90 bpm). For a longer explanation of how this works, see this video (requires Quicktime; about 30 minutes) from exercise physiologists at the Pacific Fatigue Lab.

Rules of the Lashes

A. finds the darnedest things while websurfing. Like this list of rules from a nineteenth-century American school -- along with the number of lashes delivered should the rule be broken -- in a manifesto about what's wrong with public education.

"We're going to play a game," he said when he first told me about the table below. "You'll have to memorize each of the rules and number of lashes. And if you get the number of lashes wrong, you will, of course, receive that number of lashes."

He's not kidding either. Once he gets here next week, he's planning a session with these rules, a cane, and me in my school uniform. I can't wait.

Except I don't know which will part of me will win out -- the Lisa Simpson in me or my spankophilia. Indeed that's always my problem when playing a schoolgirl: I can never decide if I want the "A" more or the spanking. However A. assured me this afternoon that there are always plenty of spankings for being a smarty-pants.

I wonder how many lashes Wm A. Chaffin would ascribe to that misdemeanor?

oOo

Rules of the Stokes County School, November 10, 1848
Wm A. Chaffin, Master (click on the table to see it in full)

I think the biggest shocker in this list was the penalty for playing cards. I mean, why the hell is playing cards worse than betting in any other form?

Why does Natty need a spanking?

The Wooden Anniversary contest ends tonight at 11:59 pm Pacific Savings Time (give or take a few minutes). I've been getting a trickle of entries, but suspect many of you are like me and procrastinate (Natty has definitely been spanked more than once for that, lemme tell ya!). So here's your friendly reminder. Put yer thinkin' caps on and submit a clever reason to convince A. that Natty needs a spanking (ha! like he needs a reason...). Multiple submissions are totally cool.

I might even throw in some of my famous chocolate chip cookies as a prize now that I've figured out how to ship them so they stay fresh...

The perfect body for three-minute porn

Last year A. requested I make a few sexy videos of myself for his birthday including both dominant and submissive themes. Eager to grant my beloved's birthday wish, I set about creating story lines and writing scripts for the three minutes of video my camera will shoot.

I did so with a muggy dread at seeing my body in all its fullness and folds on camera, peppered with carbuncles, cellulite and bruises in their multicolored stages of healing -- so very unsexy when they aren't on my backside. The video of me as a slave in which I was completely naked was -- and remains -- the most difficult for me to watch. However upon checking myself out in the mirror when I was dressed up in a black lace bra, black stockings, and black garter belt for my dominatrix character, I was surprised to find myself thinking that I looked, well...hot. Neither was I adverse to watching myself in this costume on video.*

For one of only a few times in my life there was symmetry between my body and the construct. Between the ideal depicted in popular culture, in this case the full-figured dominatrix, and what I was trying to attain in my imagination. It was then I realized that one of the reasons it has been so hard for me to accept my body over the years has been that as someone who has lived much of my imaginary (and sexual) life as a little girl, seeing a fleshy woman with mountainous breasts and lavish hips in the mirror has always been a source of tremendous dissonance.

It's not that my body is devoid of "little" characteristics. I'm 5' tall. My feet can fit into shoes as small as size 5 1/2 if they're wide enough. The fingers on those miniature stretchy gloves are often still too long when fitted onto my tiny hands. And the hair stylist I used to go to referred to my hair as "baby hair" because it's so thin it slides right through "adult-sized" barrettes.

However I did not have the body of a child for much of my childhood. I can remember watching Annie as a nine-year-old, with Aileen Quinn dressed in dainty cream and navy sailor suits and perky royal blue rompers with puffed pants and wanting terribly to dress like that. To look like that. Except I would have looked laughable in them. Despite being the same age as Aileen/"Annie," I had finally resigned to wearing a bra that year as my C-cup-sized-breasts could not longer be allowed to hang about. A few months ago my grandma presented me with a picture of my 11th birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese. I suddenly understood why strangers were so shocked when I told them how old I was. In a my black and white flowered dress with the collar dipping down to breasts bulging against the cotton fabric, I would have sworn I was in my mid-20s.

Being a woman who is sexually submissive is about being small. Easily overpowered and dominated. You do not see many tall, fat submissives in BDSM porn. Not only is there the cultural aesthetic favoring the thin, but large women also take up too much space with estrogen-rich fat that the male dominant should be filling with testosterone, muscle, and patriarchal authority.

Yes, I'd like to see porn with more fat -- and tall -- women playing submissive characters along with their traditional roles as dominatrices. Though if I'm honest, I know I'm being more than a little hypocritical as I personally would not feel comfortable putting my own body on film for more than my lover to see. It may be that there are spanking porn producers out there who are more open to various body shapes and sizes but simply do not have many larger women auditioning.

I suppose I could say I have the perfect body for a switch. I'm short enough that my feet dangle above the floor when I'm over his knee and I have enough weight to throw around as the demanding domme. The perfect body for my dearest to both pet and worship. The perfect body for three-minute porn just for A.

_________________
*Needless to say, neither was A. He was quite pleased with all three.

Your potty mouth has a point

The word fuck never crossed my lips until I got sick. Until I got vertigo, to be exact. I had just started my first grown-up (i.e. non academic) job in June 2000. I even had my own cubicle and business cards. Then I woke up the day after Independence Day with everything spinning. When the doctor diagnosed me with labyrinthitis, telling me there was nothing that he could do and I just had to wait up to 6 weeks for it to leave on its own, I walked to the bus stop across the street from my clinic and let out a torrent of Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Turns out, it may have been a good coping mechanism. Indeed, this study shows that swearing actually can help reduce the intensity of pain -- something else that increased a great deal once I got sick. And needless to say, I swear like a sailor now. Though, according to the psychologist who did the study, the more you swear, the less effective it may be.

So now you have a very good excuse the next time you yell out a fuck! or a shit! during a particularly painful beating. I mean, it's scientific evidence!

A new, more substantive post about body size and kink is forthcoming. Illness and other events have conspired to limit my blogging of late, but not my thinking. Hopefully I'll be sharing some of those thoughts I've been itching to blog about in the next day or so.

And there are only a few more days left in the Natty's Spanking Blog Fifth Anniversary contest. I'd so love it if you'd stop by and help me celebrate my half a decade of blogging!

Five fantasies I'd like to forget

There are some spanking fantasies that have been with me for decades and are still as powerful as the day they first emerged from my psyche.

Like a medieval monastery fantasy I dreamed up during my sophomore year in high school that is woefully inaccurate historically, but still makes an appearance some nights when the lights are out (and begs to be written down). Come to think of it, there were a number of medieval fantasies that I had during high school -- all of which I still enjoy to this day.

But there are some fantasies I had when I was younger and less politically aware that make me cringe now. Or were even embarrassing at the time but my spanko imagination couldn't help itself. Below are five fantasies I'd like to forget:

1. Binyamin Netanyahu

You have to appreciate my non-kink life to understand how embarrassing this one is. Prior to becoming ill, I was an academic who studied an aspect of the Israel/Palestine conflict and at one point in grad school protested in front of the Israeli Embassy in Washington chanting "Netanyahu hey hey hey, how many kids did you kill today?!." My politics have changed substantially from 8-9th grade when I was a good little Evangelical Republican who woke up at 6am during summer vacation to swoon over Ollie North at the Iran-Contra hearings (though, oddly enough, I don't remember having spanking fantasies about him).

The fantasy I had about Netanyahu went as follows: I'd be in Jerusalem studying...something (you must indulge me regarding specifics as this was a fantasy from over two decades ago). For reasons that are utterly lost on me now, I'd end up amnesiacal in front of the Netanyahu residence where they would take me in and I'd become their adopted daughter and he'd be the strict daddy. I have some vague memory of doing something naughty that merited a severe spanking, but I'm afraid I can't remember exactly what it was (being out late maybe?).

So there. That is my most bizarre and embarrassing fantasy ever. Ever.

2. Mu'ammar al-Qadhaafi

This one is a very close second as Qadhaafi is the kookiest damn "Leader and Guide of the Revolution" ever to grace the League of Arab States. But it was 1986 and we'd just bombed Libya and I'd heard about how his adopted daughter had been killed. The idea that he had adopted a daughter -- and was mourning her loss -- gave him a sort of "caring daddy" image. Yet I was also a devout Evangelical girl with martyr fantasies. Combine devoted patriarch with cruel Oriental sheikh and a fantasy emerged where I was captured and forced to renounce my faith. When I refused, I was beaten severely. However I was able to finally win him over with my sensitive attention to his grief. It filled many a night with warm, tingling feelings I didn't understand; I just knew I kind of liked them.

Though I wish it might have been a real Oriental sheikh rather than some loony, flamboyant, wannabe Maoist.

3. Ronald Reagan

Again this was during my Republican youth and is a bit convoluted. It starts with a story that involves a crusty, stern grandfather and generous big brother who goes off to war and dies. This story would then be bought by Hollywood and I would be cast as his errant granddaughter (who would be getting spanked, of course) and Ronald Reagan, deciding to do a bit more acting after leaving the Oval Office, as the grandfather.

Not only is this fantasy utterly ridiculous, but as a pinko commie liberal (actually I'm too left wing to even be a liberal) the idea of being spanked by a guy who beat protesters, was economically reckless, subverted the Constitution to fund death squads, and dissociated Americans from the very government they comprise (to name just a few of my problems with his presidency) makes me wince a bit now.

4. A College Group Pastor

I have fantasized about almost every single pastor I've ever had save for a few. However one of the college group pastors I had was a guy I had very little respect for as a person (he was arrogant, thick, and manipulative), and when I fantasized about him spanking me, I couldn't help but feel a bit dirty. He had small children and we were Baptists so the topic of spanking was sprinkled throughout conversation, which invariably led me to imagine him spanking me for various misdeeds. When he left his wife and kids to run off with a girl from our college group a few years later (actually both of the college pastors I had went on to do this), I felt even dirtier.

5. Professor and Skipper from "Gilligan's Island":

I couldn't have been older than six, but might have been as young as five. It's not so much that I'm terribly embarrassed about who I was fantasizing about. They aren't your typical strict daddy stereotypes, but they can certainly work in a spanking fantasy. It's that my enthusiasm for this fantasy to be realized led me to tell some kids at the playground I was actually going to be on "Gilligan's Island," which was especially difficult given that the show was no longer being filmed. It only took me another year or so before I was old enough to understand what an ass I'd made of myself with the neighbor kids.

Unusual fantasies that I'm not necessarily ashamed of but are, admittedly, weird:

Supreme Court Justice David Souter: He was a single man who spent his nights alone reading law texts when George H.W. Bush appointed him, giving him an Atticus Finch sort of aura. The fact that he moved to the left over the years with me made that aura even stronger.

Uncle Jesse from the "Dukes of Hazzard": I was seven. He threatened to give Bo and Luke a whipping. I think I even thought up a whole fantasy but can't remember it now.

John Sager: When I was in sixth grade I went through a phase where I was obsessed with all things related to Marcus and Narcissa Whitman. In reading about them, I also read a lot about the Sager orphans they adopted, the oldest of whom was John, who had to parent his younger siblings on the Oregon Trail until they reached the Whitman Mission. In one story I read, he gave one of his younger sisters a spanking when she got out of bed to play while she was sick -- not to mention was spanked himself in that book if I remember correctly (I should also note the book was so historically inaccurate it might as well have been fiction). Needless to say, I was in love, albeit with someone who had died 140 years earlier.

A father ant: In fourth grade I wrote a seven page story about a family of ants with a father who was so real in my mind that I imagined being his naughty little girl ant. I'm not even exactly sure how one ant would spank another ant.

So there you have it, dear reader. As if getting spanked isn't embarrassing enough, I've now outed my very active but remarkably strange imagination.

oOo

And don't forget the 5th blogiversary contest continues. Please come help me celebrate my half decade of blogging about spanking.

The wooden anniversary

(A birthday bum)*

The traditional gift for the fifth anniversary is wood. Or something made of wood. Both of which seem entirely appropriate for the fifth anniversary of a blog about spanking.

For most of those five years A. and I have talked about having a contest on this blog but have never quite gotten around to it. However since someone should get a present being that it's a birthday -- not to mention a spanking -- we decided this would be the perfect occasion for a contest.

Why Should Natty Get A Spanking?

To enter this contest, you must complete the following sentence in 10 words or less (for a maximum total of 15 words):

"Natty needs a spanking because _______________ ."

I must warn you that A. is a curmudgeon of an editor (which I always find yummy hot) so make sure your entry is grammatically correct, spelled properly, apostrophes are in the right place, etc. Entries will be judge on creativity and general cleverness (i.e. it's totally subjective). You can submit entries either in the comments section of this post or you may email them to me at nattyspanked [at] yahoo [dot] com.

The deadline for entries is August 31st at 11:59pm, Pacific Standard Time (8 hours behind UK time; 3 hours behind the East Coast). A. arrives on September 28th so he'll be here to help me pick the winner sometime in early October and administer the prize.

And what is that prize? You get to direct A. in spanking me over Twitter with accompanying TwitPics. You get to pick the implement(s), the position(s), and the number of strokes. Note that my health issues (i.e. being on blood thinners) will present some constraints, which I will appraise the winner of before the spanking commences.

OR

A handmade wankin' spankin' tool similar to the one pictured in this post but with a handle in your choice of cording or ribbon. It can, of course, also be used by a partner, but it will hurt more. ::grin::

AND

I'm in the process of putting together a book compiling my best posts and all of my stories, including one or two that have not been previously posted. The winner of this contest will receive the first copy, which should be out around December.

oOo

You may have noticed that I finally got around to completing what I hadn't quite finished for last year's anniversary, namely, creating a banner of my very own. It's only taken me a year to get a working scanner (though I still can't get the printer part to print black text...but I digress). The header of this blog now sports a cute drawing by A. referencing a popular pin-up girl from his youth.

Now I just have to figure out how to make my banner available for others to use (i.e. toplists)...

______________________
*Yes, that really is my bottom with a lit candle between my cheeks. I took the picture for A.'s birthday a few years ago. It seemed more appropriate for this post than a cake

VibeReview Fantasy: Anal Douche

"I know a little girl who's about to have her bottom washed out and spanked."

This was Nanny Bea's traditional remedy for crankiness. Though its initial effect was to further deepen the scowl clouding Natty's face.

"No!"

"Then I suggest you eat your dinner, young lady."

"But...I had chicken soup last night. And we never have pizza."

"You're still getting over a cold and soup is better for you."

Natty glared at her soup. Folded her arms. Kicked her feet, one after the other, against the legs of the chair.

"That's it," snapped Nanny Bea. "Off to the corner, please."

"Okay, okay. I'll eat my soup!"

"Indeed you will after you've had some time in the corner and over my knee."

Natty gulped. Pursed her lips. Contorted her face into the most pathetic of pleas.

"I'm not going to ask you again, young lady," stated Nanny Bea, who was already halfway to the bathroom.

With a sigh and a whimper, a truly melancholy Natty stood slowly from her chair and shuffled over to the familiar meeting place of the north and west walls. Hearing the water running in the nearby bathroom sink made her tummy twitter and tighten, not to mention gave her bottom a rather foreboding tingle.

"Natalie Samantha, come here please." Nanny Bea was always polite, even when she was very stern.

Natty straggled over to the sofa where Nanny was sitting with a towel draped over her lap. Next to her on the end table was a hairbrush, an anal bulb syringe, two latex gloves, a slender red butt plug, and a tube of lubricant. At least it wasn't a full bag. But...it – the bulb and its contents – were still going inside her and it gave Natty a shiver.

"Take off your pajama bottoms and panties and lay over my lap, please."

Natty pouted as she slid down her red flannel bottoms and pink knickers. Even though Nanny had seen her naked many, many times, Natty always felt self-conscious when her nakedness was combined with...The Thing.

"Please don't spank me and...do...you know...I promise I'll eat my soup." It was a quiet plea accompanied by sad, imploring eyes and tight, drawn together lips.

"Over my lap, please."

With a huff and a snivel, Natty climbed onto the sofa, sat on her legs, and then lowered herself over Nanny's lap. Nanny Bea picked up the hairbrush. Smoothed and patted Natty's bottom. Delivered twenty sharp smacks to her white, fleshy cheeks leaving Natty kicking and squirming and crying.

Once Natty's crying had petered to a whimper, Nanny Bea grabbed the latex gloves next to her and put them on. Flipped open the top of the lube and squeezed a small dab onto her index finger. Spread Natty's cheeks and smeared the lubricant on and in her hole. Picked up the bulb and slid the nozzle tip inside Natty's hole.

"It's so poky," Natty whined.

"You'll survive."

It took a moment before Natty felt the water flowing inside her. And it just felt...wrong. On so many levels. It left her feeling vulnerable, helpless and little, especially being over Nanny's lap. But she did like it when Nanny stroked her hair and patted her bottom once all the water was inside and her bottom was plugged. Natty knew that the cleaning out was meant for her own good. Meant to make her feel better and cleaner and cared-for. And Nanny Bea did care for Natty a great deal.

Yet why did something that was supposed to be so good for a person feel so dreadful?

oOo

While all the other bloggers are reviewing the sexiest -- and priciest -- new vibrators out there, I have taken it upon myself to appraise the lowly but ever so utilitarian anal douche. Though I can't claim to be all that altruistic as I (and many others) find that the humble anal douche can be a lot more erotic than a fancy vibrator. For others, it is simply a way to make back door lovin' cleaner and more enjoyable. So how does VibeReview's Anal Douche measure up to these tasks?

This is as simple an anal bulb syringe as you will find. The one I received from VibeReview has a thick phthalate-free rubber bulb or reservoir, a thin white plastic tube or nozzle that goes on top (and glows in the dark!) and is held in place by a thin, white disc that acts as a washer of sorts. You put the water in the reservoir, attach the nozzle, stick the nozzle in your hole, squirt the water inside, hold it for a bit, and then visit the loo.

Aside from it's glow-in-the-dark nozzle, this douche has no frills, like, say a rounded edge on the nozzle that the Fleet enemas you buy at the grocery store have, making plenty of lube an absolute necessity as it is damn pokey (especially should one, say -- and I'm just speaking theoretically here -- suffer from the chief side effect of opiate medications...um...namely, constipation, which leads to the chief side effect of constipation...er...um...hemorrhoids). And I found the rubber bulb tough as hell to squeeze multiple times (have I mentioned what a weakling I am?) and keep compressed so the water doesn't get sucked back into the reservoir.

But if you want something cheap that does the job, the anal douche from VibeReview will suffice.

Stay tuned

Good lord, has it really been a month since I last posted? It feels like it was just last week! How the time flies when you're sick and in pain and your dad's in the hospital and you've got to find a new caregiver (again). Especially when you sleep 12-15 hours a day.

At least I'm still doing better than 94% of bloggers, who, according to this month's Harper's Index, haven't updated their blogs in four months. Not that I'm competitive or anything.

My sacroiliac joint is doing a lot better, and I'm definitely spankable again, even if most of my play has been of the wankin' spankin' sort.* I've been working on a new VibeReview fantasy (though at this point it may be long enough to stand alone) that should be posted in the coming week, along with (hopefully!) a post about some spanking fantasies I'd rather forget.

Mostly I just wanted to say thanks for hanging in there with me and continuing to stop by. And stay tuned. While I may not be the sexiest of sex bloggers, I do have some upcoming posts that I think will be erotic, entertaining, and perhaps even a little enlightening.
__________________

*Don't look at me like that. You know you've done it too. And besides, I gotta toughen my ass up before A. takes a crack at it again.

And it was good

So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them...And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good.

"Me and my body are not on speaking terms at the moment."

I backtracked as soon as I said it. Even before I saw the strange look Nurse K. gave me.

"Well, I mean, obviously I can't not listen to my body. It's just that between all the pain lately and this fresh freaky hell with the morphine not showing up, I've just been really pissed with it."

The pain I've already explained here. The morphine was in reference to the drug screen I'm required to have every six months to show I'm actually taking my morphine (as opposed to, say, selling it). For some reason, while the hydrocodone I take for break-through pain did show up in my system, the morphine did not even though I take the both, along with 16 other daily medications, every morning and evening in carefully allotted doses in two separate pillboxes (actually four pillboxes in total, which those of you who follow me on Twitter hear me whine about filling every Sunday night). And, of course, this had to happen right as I was undergoing one of the worst pain episodes of my life.

I really hate my body sometimes. It can't just be normal and do what it's supposed to do. It has to be complicated, enigmatic, anomalous.*

My godfather would scold me right about now. "You shouldn't hate your body, habibti," he would say. "Your body is made in the image of God."

So God is diseased, fragile, painful and utterly inexplicable?

Well, okay, I'll give you that last one.

Thankfully Nurse K. was able to report to me that day that the morphine -- along with the hydrocodone -- did show up in the more sensitive opiate screening my doctor did during my next visit. But it didn't do a whole lot to end my rage.

It's hard not to become almost gnostic when you live in chronic pain and illness. Hard not to think of your body as the enemy. The entity that keeps you bound in suffering and debility. A prison from which you hope you will someday be released.

Yes I know. It's the illness that's the enemy. But neurons and viral DNA and freaky biochemistry are so intangible and disparate. I can see -- and worse -- feel my body, that entirety of neurons and DNA and biochemistry, not to mention sacroiliac joints and shoulders and hips, making it a much easier target for my fury and frustration.

I can't even enjoy sex. My sexuality involves pain but for the last month the mere thought of spanking has made me nauseous. Why couldn't I be into feet or balloons or squirrel costumes? Why does it have to be about getting beaten? I got the bad pain genes; why did I have to get the whip-me genes too?

Though it's not only about spanking.

The last few weeks as my sacroiliac joint has slowly healed, my bottom has been abuzz with desire. I couldn't quite put my finger on what it wanted. God knows, it wasn't for spanking. Mostly just some sort of touch or caress, I think.

My hole in particular has been agitating for attention and soon my fantasies started turning to rectal thermometers and enemas. With a thick, strong nurse who was both strict and affectionate. Or with A., using the embarrassment that accompanies such an intimate and invasive procedure to punish me for whatever misdeed.

Enemas fascinate me, despite my lack of experience with them. They're invasive and dominating like anal sex, but with a softer, more infantalizing, and more embarrassing edge. Done for your own good rather than the good of the fucker.

I also found myself thinking about the P-Spot Vibe. How wonderful it feels in my hole and how it could be used as a sort of punishment (or pseudo-punishment as it would never work as a deterrent for me).

I imagined being a student in a school that utilizes creative -- if sexually abusive -- punishments.** A. would be the strict -- if dodgy as hell -- headmaster. I'd have been caught for some terribly stereotypical infraction like smoking in the lavatory. My punishment would be an hour with The Probe (aka the P-Spot Vibe). The school matron and secretary would drag me struggling and pleading to a Lupus-esque bench, the only thing said struggling and pleading accomplishing is threats of more time with The Probe. And maybe the substitution of a more uncomfortable lubricant.

There would be the helplessness as I'm strapped down to the bench. The humiliation as the secretary pulls up my skirt and pulls down my panties. The tightness in my gut and my hole as I hear the snap of the latex glove on the matron's hand. The chill of the secretary's hands pulling my cheeks apart. The matron's gooey finger invading my hole. The discomfort of the hard silicone penetrating what should never be penetrated. The degradation of having my most intimate orifice on display for these three relative strangers. And finally the shame that accompanies arousal...

By Sunday night as I headed for bed I was randy enough to think about wanking. But it was getting late and my medication was kicking in and, well, it's not like it wouldn't be there tomorrow. I slipped under the covers with sleep encroaching when the epiphany struck. Not a particularly profound one, mind you. Indeed it was more like reality smacking me in the face.

I need a body to feel that delicious tingle of arousal. I need a body to feel the wonder and explosive joy of an orgasm. There may be no dislocated sacroiliac joints in a bodiless soul, but there is also no ability to feel your lover caressing your ass. Or the taste of a fresh Oregon strawberry. Or the grainy sound of Bob Dylan. Or the smell of frankincense at Divine Liturgy.

Suddenly I could feel my whole body. The quilt against my calves. The mattress and underquilt beneath my bottom. The breeze from the fan against the skin of my arms. And yes, the sharpness in my right SI joint and the pinched nerve in my right thigh and the mysterious pain in my lower right abdomen and the achiness in my lungs.

My body and I were most certainly on speaking terms.

And it was very good.

____________
*And, of course, like all women, I have the traditional issues with my body because it's not pretty enough or thin enough or (insert unreasonable cultural expectation for the bodies of women of your choice).

**This fantasy would work just as well in a prison scenario, like this one.

A couple of reading assignments

Before the horror detailed in the last post, I was going through a bad illness spell and forgot to give a shout out to Blog Nosh, which featured an old post of mine about the rather elitist nature of porn. Blog Nosh is an online magazine that publishes a variety of quality, archived blogging. It does tend to be heavy on the mommy blogging, but you will find much there to enjoy whatever your gender or offspring situation.

And since I'm unspankable -- for the moment! -- I thought I'd direct you to a new blog syndication site in the spankosphere, named aptly enough World's Top Spanking Blogs but with a bit of a British flavor. What I like about this site is that it's nicely laid out, easy on the eyes (no flashing ads), and focused on text.

Off you go now. You have some reading to do.

Unspankable

My ass has been so sore the last several days that it hurts to sit much, even on my bed (aka The World's Softest Bed). And unfortunately, it has nothing to do with spanking.

On May 29th, I woke up feeling as if someone had driven a railroad spike through the base of my spine. I couldn't walk, sit, stand, or turn over in bed without excruciating pain. A week later at 6:30pm, it abruptly stopped, allowing me to sit again and walk a bit (aided by a cane...or two), though it still hurts quite a lot to stand or turn over in bed.

This has happened once before, also right before my period and also during a month when I'd gotten an extra dose of estrogen (that time I had gone off the progesterone-only pill but this time God only knows why I got the extra dose of hormones). However unlike last time, I had a good idea this time around what exactly was causing my pain because my physical therapist had recently identified weakness in my right sacroiliac joint (where the sacrum at the base of the spine attaches to the pelvis) and given me exercises to strengthen the muscles surrounding the area (which I have been doing religiously, especially as I can do them laying in bed and if that's not enough incentive, there's always A. with a clothesbrush). That extra batch of estrogen made my ligaments even more lax than they already are, leaving my sacroiliac joint even more unstable.

In normal human beings, this is a very, very stable joint with super thick, strong ligaments to keep it in place. In me, it slips and slides around like a kid on wet plastic in the hot summer sun. It's not my only joint that does this. I've had two surgeries to correct unstable joints (right ankle and knee). My fingers, elbows, hips -- all pop in and out of place. And since junior high I haven't been able throw a ball over hand using either arm without the shoulder coming completely out of joint and then popping back in.

And yes, it feels just as icky as it sounds.

After talking with my physical therapist, she's recommending I start using a walker until it heals up (though my insurance company at the moment won't approve said walker). I also have a brace to help it stay in place, but the brace presses down on an already pinched lateral femoral cutaneous nerve in my right thigh.

I'm a real piece of work.

At any rate, it means no spanking. Though my pain level has dropped enough that I can actually think about spanking again. As well as, maybe, a strict nurse with an enema bag...

Putting me in my place

I've been having the same fantasy for months now. It's a fairly straight forward one: a punishment that begins with A. sending me to the corner to think about what I've done while he gets out the implements and straight-backed chair.

Initially I spent my reveries working out the details of going to the corner, draping myself over his lap, being whacked with the ping pong paddle (or rubber paddle -- implements that cause only surface bruising), squirming and kicking, crying. And of course, because it's fantasy, the spanking gets more and more severe. Involves more implements. An extra sojourn to the corner. Time over pillows on the bed.

However after awhile I noticed my focus had shifted to the dialogue. Each night I drifted off to sleep concentrating on what would be said and in what order. Editing the language to make it more stern, more infantalizing, more cheeky or more desperate. And the sharper it got, the more tingly things got between my legs.

Eventually I'd honed the conversation to a point where I simply had to write it down. Remembering it each night was getting to be a pain. It's nothing particularly clever or original. And the language isn't an exact match of what A. and I really sound like (though it's remarkably close). But it does articulate the place I imagine going emotionally and physically. And the more child-like I'm treated, the hotter it gets for me.

oOo

"Tell me again why you are going to be punished?"

"Because I didn't go to bed when I was supposed to..."

"And how late were you?"

"Just three minutes on Tuesday. But, um, an hour and a half on Friday and an hour and forty minutes on Saturday."

"And why were you up so late on those two nights?"

"Cause, um, I was online..."

"Did you forget to set the alarm?"

"No, Sir. I just kept thinking that I only needed a few more minutes."

"So you disregarded the alarm?"

"No. I hit the snooze button cause I thought I just needed a few more minutes."

"How many times did you hit the snooze button?"

"Um...uh...um...7 or 8 times I think."

"Seven or eight times?! That sounds a lot like disregarding the alarm to me."

"No. I just...I mean, I didn't mean to. I wasn't intending to disregard it."

"How do you do something 7 or 8 times without intending to?"

"I...I, um, I...I dunno...I just...I didn't mean to..."

"It would not be a good idea to argue with me, young lady."

"I'm not arguing, Sir. Just...explaining how -- "

"--You're arguing."

I pause. And scowl. And purse my lips tightly together in an effort to choke back the reasonable explanation/cheeky argument dying to come out. And look down at the carpet.

"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir."

"Look at me." A. grabs my chin and pushes it up so that my eyes meet his. "Now explain again, why is it important for you to go to bed on time?"

"Cause I feel more sick if I don't get enough sleep."

"That's right. Little girls who are sick need to rest. And when was the last time I had to punish you for going to bed late?"

"Last week." Sigh.

"Tsk, tsk. So clearly last week's punishment wasn't hard enough."

"It was hard enough. I just -- "

"-- Are you arguing with me again?"

I'm not sure how to answer this question. If I say "yes, I am arguing," it almost sounds defiant. But if I say no, well, that would definitely be arguing even more. So I just hang my head, purse my lips, and look at the carpet. A. grabs my chin and snaps it up again.

"If I have to warn you about arguing with me one more time, you're going to be holding a bar of soap in your mouth during your punishment, is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir."

"So, was last week's punishment severe enough?"

"No, Sir," I say just above a whisper.

"No, it wasn't. And what happens to naughty little girls who continually miss their bedtimes – not to mention are cheeky and contrary?"

"They get punished."

"And how do they get punished?"

"They get spanked."

"That's right. They have their jimjams and knickers taken down, are taken over the knee and get their backsides tanned. Lift up your shirt." (In another variation of this fantasy I'm wearing my pink dress and have to lift that up rather than my pajama top.)

"Please don't spank me! Please! I promise I'll go to bed on time this week," I plead even as I lift up my top.

"Oh, you'll be going to bed on time after I get through with you." He grabs hold of my pajama bottoms. "Let's get these down." With a quick tug, they are swimming around my ankles. "Right. Over my lap, please." Without hesitation, but without a great deal of speed either, I step to his right side and drape myself over his lap. "This, I'm afraid, is really going to hurt," he declares while stroking my hair.

There's no warm up. Using the ping pong paddle, he peppers my fleshy panty-clad cheeks with hard, sharp whacks all the while deploring my cheekiness and bemoaning my poor choices. The pain is searing and surprising. I start to panic somewhat as he turns to lamenting the less than dignified position in which I find myself.

"How very shameful, having someone take down your jimjam bottoms and spank you like a child. Just disgraceful." He keeps whacking with a fast, heavy hand. "And since your last spanking was so clearly a waste of time, I'm going to make sure I get every last inch of your bottom and thighs with this paddle in the hope that I won't have to do it again any time soon." That's the cue for him to stop just long enough to pull my panties in between my cheeks giving him a bare canvass to paint with the ping pong paddle.

And paint he does. There's no counting. Just minute after agonizing minute of hot pain accompanying a stern lecture about how disappointing it is to see that I've chosen to waste my precious energy on roaming the internet late into the night rather than getting the sleep I need to get stronger. About my shocking lack of deference when being addressed. When I'm asked a question I'm to answer respectfully and without quarreling. About how this penchant for arguing demonstrates the same unrelenting willfulness that keeps me from going to bed when I should, or keeps me on the computer for longer than I should be, or frittering away my energy when I should be saving it. And if it takes all afternoon, he's going to beat that willfulness out of me.

oOo

Of course, when I did get spanked over the phone with the ping pong paddle earlier this week for exceeding my allotted time online (which I'm doing again at this very moment, ugh!), I'd forgotten just how much that damn thing hurts.

"It never seems to hurt as much in the fantasy," I pouted as my backside smarted.

A., who too has experienced the dissonance between beatings in fantasy and reality, concurred.

"No. No it doesn't."

Come to bed with ME

(I love tag line, but I wish the poster were a bit more kinky)

Today is International Neuroendocrineimmune Disorders Awareness Day -- including ME/CFS -- during a week dedicated to ME/CFS Awareness. A couple of years ago I used this day to talk a bit about what ME/CFS is. At my non-kink blog I've commemorated the day in years past by listing what I've lost due to this illness, as well as what I've gained from the experience of illness. This year I thought I'd describe what it's like to have ME/CFS, in addition to the example of an X-Files phenomena I used a few years back.

Here in bed with ME/CFS, you feel like you have the flu. Your throat hurts. Your joints burn. Your heart beats like mad and sometimes in very peculiar ways. You feel chilled, profoundly weak, slightly nauseous, light-headed, mushy-brained, and just...icky. I wish I knew a better word to replace icky (aside from the bland, non-specific, slightly psychological-sounding term "malaise"). It's almost like your blood has been replaced with poison. You feel dreadful. Vile. Horrible. Nasty.

And on top of that...

You feel as though you've got a hangover. Every smell is too strong. Every light is too bright. Every noise grates on your last nerve, as well as that throbbing in your head just behind your eyes and at the base of your skull. And you might still be a bit tipsy because your spatial perception is off (I struggle with the "touch your finger to your nose" test), not to mention you can't walk a straight line. And then there are the times the room just spins.

And on top of that...

It's as if you've got jet lag. You fall asleep at weird times and wake up at weird times and you wish you could just go to bed at a normal time and get up at a normal time, but your body runs on its own clock that, unfortunately, is not during normal business hours.

And on top of that...

Someone is giving you low-grade electric shock torture and doing voodoo on you with a knitting needle. Most of the time it's a constant burning sensation throughout your whole body punctuated by arbitrary 5-30 second jolts of sharp sharp pain in completely random places -- your ear, your belly, your right arm, your left heel. (The burning sensation and the arbitrary jolts get markedly worse whenever I have an acute infection, especially if I have a fever.) And you have this weird buzzing sensation in random places too. As if a bumblebee or hummingbird were just beneath your skin. It doesn't hurt, but it's...weird.

And on top of that...

If you also have fibromyalgia (which up to 70% of ME/CFS patients do), you feel like you just had your first day on a chain gang breaking rocks in a quarry. Or that you went to the gym yesterday and worked out harder than you ever have in your entire life by far. Every muscle in your body burns and aches and is so stiff you can hardly move. You want to curl up in bed and sleep, but the kicker is you can't. You just lay there, though eventually you get up just to move a bit because your muscles have petrified and the stiffness is agonizing.

All of that. All the time. That's what it feels like in this bed. That's what it's like to have ME/CFS.

One million Americans have it -- more than have MS or breast cancer -- but it's among the bottom in diseases funded by the National Institutes for Health. The main reason for that is because most people don't take a disease named "chronic fatigue syndrome" seriously. However, as you can see, it's not just being tired. It's as/or more debilitating than congestive heart disease, multiple sclerosis, lupus, or end-stage renal disease.

So what can you do?

1. Donate money to fund research into what's causing this disease and how to treat it. Organizations include:

• CFIDS Association of America - great advocates who have funded great research
• Whittemore-Peterson Institute - first clinic devoted exclusively to research and treatment
• IASCFSME - the main professional organization of ME/CFS clinicians and researchers
  
• Invest in ME - a UK organization doing superb advocacy and research
• CFS Research Foundation - UK group doing cutting-edge genetic research

2. Let your elected officials know you want them to fund more biomedical research into the causes and treatments of ME/CFS. The CFIDS Association has a great "Virtual Lobby Day" page to make this as easy as possible.

If you're still reading, thank you. If you can help out, thank you even more! You can bet that if I ever get my hands on a treatment for this disease, there will plenty of spanking (both getting and receiving) and kinky writing to keep us all happy for a very long time.

Will you please call me Cordelia?

"Will you please call me Cordelia?" she said eagerly.

"Call you Cordelia! Is that your name?"

"No-o-o, it's not exactly my name, but I would love to be called Cordelia. It's such a perfectly elegant name..."

"...Unromantic fiddlesticks!" said the unsympathetic Marilla.

oOo

"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are? asked Anne wide-eyed.

"No."

"Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss -- Marilla, how much you miss!"

"I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away."

Anne Shirley has been a kindred spirit ever since I first watched the Kevin Sullivan production of the classic book by L.M. Montgomery. The first time I heard her talk about "so much view for the imagination," I remember thinking, someone else thinks like that too? followed quickly by oh but you're not supposed to say that out loud! Like Anne I spend a lot of time in my imagination. And when you spend the overwhelming majority of your time alone (and in bed to boot) the imagination can become your permanent place of residency.

For the last four years now I have required an in-home caregiver. I don't know why, but I always imagined she'd be a thick Germanic sort of woman. Probably based on a character in a cartoon or TV show that I've long since forgotten. She'd be no nonsense, of course. A bit like Marilla, though more affectionate. She'd have hands as hard as bed slats, to borrow Harper Lee's phrasing. With the personality of, say, Thelma Ritter in Rear Window. Or my nurse when I was in the hospital with my first pulmonary embolism (Nurse K. might well fit too, though she has some subby inclinations). She'd be discerning, dependable, and devoted. And she would definitely be the one in charge, with the hairbrush to prove it.

The reality, of course, is completely different. It's having a total stranger come into your home when you've just waken up and every dish you own is scattered about the kitchen counters and the laundry is a smelly mound Sir Edmund Hillary would have found a thrilling climb. It's having a total stranger who doesn't understand that while you may look perfectly healthy because you're young, not paralyzed on one side, and still have most of your wits about you, you're not. It's having a total stranger handle your belongings both precious and intimate.

Indeed the very first day with my very first caregiver ended with laundry soap all over the bathroom, a hardwood floor stripped with dark grime after being mopped, and a LCD screen sporting a giant crack after she tripped over the cord and sent my laptop flying (to be fair, that last one was mostly my fault for leaving my laptop in a precarious position). I burst into tears upon her departure. The agency actually fired her a couple of months later after she repeatedly failed to show up for work. I felt badly for her because she had no telephone but did have a child with a father who wasn't particularly helpful with childcare. Yet she was obviously in the wrong line of work.

It got better after that. Her replacement, J., was as perfect a non-kinky caregiver as I could want. Her first day she simply went about tidying up the disarray of my home without needing a great deal of instruction. And when she came across kinky toys that I had forgotten to put away, she never said a word. Just set them aside and went about her work. I was heartbroken a year and a half later when the agency she worked for dumped all of us county-paid clients. The county then moved us all to the only other agency they were contracted with and J. wouldn't work for them. I didn't blame her. The pay was shit and they effectively didn't provide health insurance. Which meant that her replacement wasn't nearly as good.

This last January I was switched to a different program which doubled my monthly allotment of caregiving hours. But with this new program, I have to hire my caregiver. And I hate calling strangers on the phone. With the old program, the agency just sent me someone. If I didn't like the person, I could ask for a new one but the agency was really the boss. Now I am and it feels...weird.

The first woman I hired, G., had the potential to be another J. But she had to quit after three months when she got a job that provided health insurance. I quickly hired S. as she worked for a woman just across the hall. S. could sense the ambivalence in my direction and promptly decided to take charge herself, which, on her second day, included replacing my old laundry baskets and handing me the bill. I hate conflict and since it was only $4.50, decided that was cheaper than mustering the energy to say no. Later that day she decried the clutter in my apartment and, after asking me if it was because of my illness that I'd "let the place go," notified me that she wanted to completely reorganize everything. Yes, there is clutter in my apartment though, while not nice to look at, it is neatly piled on shelves and out of the way.

This was not exactly the sort of bossy I was looking for.

So I mustered the energy to sit her down the next day and explain that I appreciated her ambition but I needed to channel that ambition based on my priorities, not hers. In addition, if she made me feel self-conscious about everything, she was not going to work out. She apologized, acknowledged that I was the boss, and agreed to follow my agenda. I thought it was going to work out after that. But, alas, she switched to a more passive-aggressive approach, telling me how I needed to replace this or that, including my vacuum as it hurt her shoulder. When she emailed me a few days later to tell me she was quitting because her shoulder hurt and her doctor told her to cut back on work, I was relieved. Fake excuses do make the world a happier place, no?

But that left me needing to hire yet another new Home Care Worker. And calling more strangers from among a list of names. It took me almost a week before I even looked at the HCW list and a few more days before I started calling potential caregivers. While my phone phobia could explain some of my procrastination, there was clearly more to my dawdling.

As I sat and thought about my feelings, I realized that, along with my continuing resentment over not being able to do my own cooking and cleaning, was fear and vulnerability. Will the new HCW understand that I really am sick, despite my seemingly healthy exterior? Will I have to prove I'm truly deserving of in-home care? Being fat makes me particularly paranoid about being seen as lazy. And what if she happens upon my toys? Will she freak out? I'm tired of putting together task lists and care plans (I haven't ever even bothered with creating a job application or seeking/checking references as apparently I'm supposed to). Being my own HR person is exhausting. I just want someone to simply take care of me already.

In the end, here alone all the time, it's so easy to slip into my imaginary world with my imaginary caregiver who already understands how ME/CFS works and will make me rest. Who understands and shares my kinkiness. Who doesn't need me to list every last thing that needs to be done but just...knows.

While I don't know if it was God, karma, fate, or whatever that put me in the circumstances that I'm in, Marilla's point that I'm not meant to imagine them away has a great deal of merit. Once I awake from my reverie, the real world is still here requiring my action. I can whine all I want about how hard it is. And like Anne begging to be called Cordelia, I can beg for life to be like it is in my imagination, but at the end of the day she was still Anne -- with an "e" -- and I still need to hire somebody to come do my laundry.

Tonight will be my first day with my newest HCW. I'm sure she won't be the caregiver of my imagination. And I don't even know if she'll be as perfect as J. was. But so far we've talked on the phone so much this week I feel like we're already friends. She cheerfully agreed to work my dream schedule and even volunteered to call my caseworker to make certain her pay is arranged (at least I don't have to deal with paychecks and tax withholdings), so I feel hopeful.

However it will be the alarm on my cell phone telling me when to go to bed tonight, the heart monitor I will be getting in the mail soon to telling me when I need to rest, and the good folks at LibriVox telling me bedtime stories.

Though I can imagine it's a strict nurse slapping a hairbrush against her palm...

The UN Spanking Court

Bit of a startle on Jon Stewart last night in a segment entitled "Sh#it That's Never Gonna Happen" in which he details how conservatives are so worried about the UN telling them they won't be able to spank their kids, that our fair nation has yet to sign the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child -- the only other country that hasn't being Somalia. "The UN Spanking Court?" balked Stewart in response to the fears of conservatives. "Not gonna happen."

Though an international court that utilized spanking...Now that one has a bit of fodder for fantasy...

Actually I had a friend, K., who was from Sweden, a nation which had banned the spanking of children. K.'s father was a policeman who would be ostensibly enforcing said law. However when young K. pointed out to his dad that his ass was now safe, his father promptly replied that he would continue to take K. over his knee whenever he damn well felt it was merited. Interestingly enough, K. grew up to be a UN peacekeeper where he learned first hand how (in)effective UN treaties are.

I must confess that my lack of blogging this last week is probably a result of my having developed a Twitter fixation. It's like being able to hang out with friends without having to expend the energy required for instant messaging or actually going out. However while it may meet some of my socialization needs (which cannot be underestimated when one is housebound), it's ultimately not a replacement for proper blogging which I hope to return to in the coming week.

Though Twitter isn't exclusively to blame. I am in the process of analyzing my activity level and how best to balance my need for rest with my need to interact with the outside world. Can't say I've come to any concrete conclusions yet, which is why my posting has been so erratic lately. I can say my blogging will continue; I just don't know how much and how frequently yet.

I'd talk more, but my medication has kicked in and I don't know how much longer I'll be coherent. ;-)

I'll probably get spanked for this post...

Ah, dear reader, I have not forgotten you. Indeed I have missed you all a great deal these last few weeks as I've padded the blog with obligatory repostings.

Recently I've been trying out a new internet regime as part of my effort to rest more. My time online is limited to two and a half hours and damn does it go fast. The new regime has produced results. I've felt stronger and had less pain this last week. Now I just have to figure out how to spend less time reading every fascinating thing I stumble upon (not to mention Twittering), and more time strategically spending my allotted minutes blogging.

In the meantime I thought I'd link (yes...more padding) you to a prize-winning story I read awhile back that those of you who like schoolgirl stories might enjoy. No, there is no spanking. It's a contemporary story. But the main character is indeed a naughty girl who gets herself into trouble. The writing is rich, sensual, and truly wonderful. And I really loved the ending.

Right. I'm 40 minutes late for bed and I think...oh dear, maybe an hour over my limit? I haven't been paying enough attention tonight...

Pleasurists #23

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