Most people think of spanking exclusively in terms of sexuality. And well, certainly the buttocks are physiologically set up for a great deal of erogenous potential. However, I find that spanking is a core part of me that taps into almost every aspect of who I am, with sexuality being only one part.
I've been reading a book recently entitled Being Human that has helped me be able to articulate all the different ways spanking is a part of my being. The authors synthesize comparative religion, biology, neuroscience, and psychology to form a model or construct for explaining the different aspects of what it means to be human that includes four basic aspects or forces. The material aspect relates to our genetic makeup and family history. The vegetal force is made up of the sensory information we translate into feelings as well as our connection to the Divine. The animal force is that part of us that is protective, always alert to danger, is ambitious, aggressive, and manifests our sexuality. The human aspect is the steward of the first three and is the part that takes all that exists in those lower three forces and combines them with analysis, thought, and language. Integrity or wholeness is what links all of them together in proper order and proportion.
Spanking touches on each of those four. It was someting I first learned of in the setting of my family and whether it's environment or genetics (or both), it is something I have inherited. Spanking is a sensory celebration. I relish the pain/pleasure dynamic, the explosion of endorphines, the feel of the hand, wood, or leather on my skin, the care, trust and love it requires. Not only does it tap into my sexuality, but I have also used it to try and enforce my ambitions through discipline. It encourages, and indeed, demands that I reflect, analyze, and discuss.
Yet it is in regard to integrity where I have found myself thinking about spanking the most lately. While I like to think of myself as a person with integrity in the normal sense of the word -- honest, principled, good -- I lack the sense of wholeness the authors mean when they talk about integrity. When I try to imagine myself as one whole person, I can't. Instead I imagine a number of dissperate shards strewn about or a disjointed, abstract Picasso. The very purpose of my blog is to give voice to one of those shards -- a quite significant one that I often think of as an entirely different person called "Natty."
There's a reason for it, of course. It's what I have done to survive. I separated certain parts of myself that were not safe in my environment or that impeded me from doing those things which felt safe. In the Being Human model, my animal force is completely dominant. My ears are always pricked up waiting for danger, whether that be emotionally from years of child abuse or physically from years of chronic pain and illness. I've been constantly striving to be better than my peers academically for the sake of my career, as well as for the approval of my advisor, professors, etc. or striving to be a better Christian for the approval of God or my priest or the people at church. Approval that I've falsely equated with self worth.
A couple of weeks ago I was sitting talking to myself as I am prone to when I'm alone. At one point, I stopped and thought about what a silly habit it was as obviously no one else is listening. At that moment, my gaze happened to stop upon my small, laminated, paperboard icon of Christ above my computer, and I had one of those moments of Grace that those of you who are not religious will find quite possibly a bit uncomfortable to read about (and for which I'm not entirely unsympathetic), but during which I felt Christ remind me that He is always listening. Suddenly I felt that feeling of wholeness that I've been made aware I lack. Like all the pieces of me just suddenly lined up. Like I could feel them snap into place. Almost palpably down my chest. It was an amazingly profound moment of wholeness. A profoundly healing moment. Like Jesus had just extended his hand and healed me. Like someone-from-the-Vatican-was-going-to-be-
visiting-me kind of moment.
Later that evening I was waiting for my boyfriend to call. One of those days when I just really missed him. When he didn’t call, I felt very annoyed. I was desperately craving attention. And I think a part of me was a tiny bit envious of some of the recent experiences of my fellow writers at the Punishment Book. So, I decided that I wasn’t going to do any of the things on my list that I was supposed to do. Instead of reading and meditating and going to bed on time, I web surfed and hung out at chatrooms until the wee hours of the morning. But by the time I went to bed, I felt very embarrassed for what I’d done. What an absolutely silly, irrational, ineffective thing to do! I mean, it’s not like it really affects him if I don’t do what I’m supposed to do – *I* lose out. And if he’s in England, it’s not like he can give me that attention I was trying to get anyway. I was rather angry with myself. I’m 32 years old, not 8.
A few days later it occurred to me that I had done something similar last summer and wrote about it in my journal. Sure enough, on August 12th, I wrote:
"...Last night when I was reading for a review essay I need to write and having a hard time concentrating, I found myself doing something that I often do when it comes to academic stuff: I pretend I’m Natty and should be doing my homework and will get a spanking if I don’t. And often I’ll seek out a spanking for not doing my work as a way of giving Natty attention. Just like how real kids act up when they aren’t getting enough attention, even if the attention they get is not quite what they really want."
I had written about it in terms of *Natty* not doing her work in order to get spanked. As I thought about this, I smiled. What I had done that night when my boyfriend didn't call I did as *Michelle* not Natty. Maybe Jesus did heal me. Maybe I’ve finally integrated her into who I am as Michelle instead of some compartmentalized, separate piece of myself.
And it's not just "Natty." My body has also been a separate shard. I have become increasingly aware that almost from the day I was born there has been a full scale attack on who I am as a physical being. The more I think about it, the more I understand how my body and my mind/soul became separate. My body was clearly bad. It was fat and therefore clearly not reflecting the "victorious life in Jesus" my evangelical Protestant upbringing said I should have nor the healthy body my doctors bullied me about not having. It developed sexually too early when I finally had to start wearing a bra when I was nine years old because my breasts were large enough to fill a C cup. It hurt and was ill in ways laboratory tests could not explain.
But in my heart I was desperate to be a good girl. To follow the rules. Since my body was bad, I had to separate it from me. There was my deviant, disobedient body and my ever so obedient mind/soul craving what I understood to be "normal." As I’ve begun to appreciate the cultural, familial, medical and possible sexual violence done to my body, I’ve been able to integrate it into who I am as Michelle.
Who is fat.
And short.
And has a beautiful smile.
And soft, luscious skin.
And voluptuous curves.
And large, droopy breasts.
And a jiggly ass.
And a heart that breaks.
And hands and feet that hurt.
And a brain that thinks too much.
A body I want to protect. And nourish. And love. Not be drafted into, or even actively enlist myself into hating.
Spanking has been such a powerful way of integrating my body into me. It has provided a link between the physical sensation that I get from spanking and my soul. A way of loving my flesh, as ironic as it may be to others, by embracing the deviance of both my mind and my body.
It also becomes a tool that can remind me that I’ve lost that sense of wholeness, that connection to myself. An external way of connecting me back to whatever part of me I disconnected from, whether it be the academic, or the CFIDS/ME patient, the needy child or the protective adult. Or perhaps a means of putting back into proportion one of those aspects or forces that has come to dominate the rest of me. That makes me drive aggressively or push myself beyond what is healthy.
However, it is *a* way – not *the* way. A method I chose because it feels right for me. It has nothing to do with being an emotional female who requires a rational male to set me straight. It is genderless, as the amazing diversity of spankophiles demonstrates. Indeed, for me, spanking transcends sexual orientation. While the sexual aspect connects on a heterosexual level, the other parts of me find the same connection regardless of whether it is a man or woman who has me over his or her knee.
It's Lent now and in the Eastern Church we say a prayer each day by St. Ephraim of Syria that includes "Grant to me, your servant, a spirit of wholeness of being..."
Who would have thought that God, in part, would answer my prayer with a good, hard spanking.
[Cross-posted at The Punishment Book]
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Friday, March 11, 2005
Emotional house cleaning
I figured out why I was so desperate for a spanking last week and why it went into remission this weekend and why it's been back in full force this week.
The last few weeks I've been doing some emotional house cleaning of sorts. Lots of old emotions that haven't been dealt with, etc. Many of them, as regular readers of this blog might imagine, have to do with trauma and loss from my childhood, or lack of one.
Last week I had this desperate need to be a little girl. And, well, when you're bare bottom over someone's lap with your legs dangling down the side, you certainly feel like a little girl. But on Saturday I finally figured out enough html and how the Blogger template worked to be able to add links to this blog, as well as another blog I write for. I could zone out on all the little girl feelings and just stay in my brain.
It finally occurred to me tonight that in order to reach a point where I can actually feel those really intense emotions, I have to sort of regress back into being a child. I wanted a spanking because it would be a way of feeling childlike without actually having to feel those extremely unpleasant emotions. Which, of course, would not be a good thing as I have to get them all out. Clean them from my system.
It also occurred to me that my spanking kink is not really about being taken in hand but rather about being taken care of.
The last few weeks I've been doing some emotional house cleaning of sorts. Lots of old emotions that haven't been dealt with, etc. Many of them, as regular readers of this blog might imagine, have to do with trauma and loss from my childhood, or lack of one.
Last week I had this desperate need to be a little girl. And, well, when you're bare bottom over someone's lap with your legs dangling down the side, you certainly feel like a little girl. But on Saturday I finally figured out enough html and how the Blogger template worked to be able to add links to this blog, as well as another blog I write for. I could zone out on all the little girl feelings and just stay in my brain.
It finally occurred to me tonight that in order to reach a point where I can actually feel those really intense emotions, I have to sort of regress back into being a child. I wanted a spanking because it would be a way of feeling childlike without actually having to feel those extremely unpleasant emotions. Which, of course, would not be a good thing as I have to get them all out. Clean them from my system.
It also occurred to me that my spanking kink is not really about being taken in hand but rather about being taken care of.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
A few IRC chat thoughts
I go through extroverted phases where being semi house-bound gets a bit lonely. So, often I end up at certain spanking chat servers just to hang out while I'm doing mindless stuff on my computer.
Often it's quite entertaining watching so-called "Doms" make complete asses of themselves. Like the guy (as others before him have) the other night who asked me if I was into spanking.
"No," I replied. "Gardening."
He then informed me, bless his little heart, that I was on a spanking chat server.
"No, really? How shocking!"
But, he decided he would talk to me about gardening, so I filled him in on all the herbs I plan to plant this spring (which will probably be next week when the herb starts arrive). He then again tried to fill me in on the purpose of the chat server I was on.
"This isn't Better Homes and Gardens you know."
"No? But I get the best gardening advice here."
"From who?"
"Oh those nice ladies at The Garden," I said, giving him the name of a ladies only room on this particularly chat server.
"Are you married?"
"I have a boyfriend."
"So, does he get into all this gardening stuff?"
"Oh yes, we both enjoy organic produce."
At which point he apparently became bored with gardening and disappeared.
Yes, I know. I'm quite naughty to mess around with their little minds. But, damnit it's so much fun.
One of the other common stupid questions I'll get asked is "what do you look like?" Or sometimes it's not even a question but a command: "describe yourself." To which I respond, "I look like me." Tonight when I gave this answer, I was told I was cheeky. Yes, perhaps so. Though I could just lie and tell you I'm a tall, thin blonde, but frankly, if I'm going to do that, then you can damn well pay me $1.99 a minute.
A lot of the people on these chat servers are on a mission to find Mr/Miss Perfect Spanko (indeed one guy tonight told me that exactly), and I suppose that's a reasonable activity to pursue there. I find I tend to wander in there wanting to have a conversation with people that may or may not include spanking, but with the freedom to talk about spanking if I so choose.
Often it's quite entertaining watching so-called "Doms" make complete asses of themselves. Like the guy (as others before him have) the other night who asked me if I was into spanking.
"No," I replied. "Gardening."
He then informed me, bless his little heart, that I was on a spanking chat server.
"No, really? How shocking!"
But, he decided he would talk to me about gardening, so I filled him in on all the herbs I plan to plant this spring (which will probably be next week when the herb starts arrive). He then again tried to fill me in on the purpose of the chat server I was on.
"This isn't Better Homes and Gardens you know."
"No? But I get the best gardening advice here."
"From who?"
"Oh those nice ladies at The Garden," I said, giving him the name of a ladies only room on this particularly chat server.
"Are you married?"
"I have a boyfriend."
"So, does he get into all this gardening stuff?"
"Oh yes, we both enjoy organic produce."
At which point he apparently became bored with gardening and disappeared.
Yes, I know. I'm quite naughty to mess around with their little minds. But, damnit it's so much fun.
One of the other common stupid questions I'll get asked is "what do you look like?" Or sometimes it's not even a question but a command: "describe yourself." To which I respond, "I look like me." Tonight when I gave this answer, I was told I was cheeky. Yes, perhaps so. Though I could just lie and tell you I'm a tall, thin blonde, but frankly, if I'm going to do that, then you can damn well pay me $1.99 a minute.
A lot of the people on these chat servers are on a mission to find Mr/Miss Perfect Spanko (indeed one guy tonight told me that exactly), and I suppose that's a reasonable activity to pursue there. I find I tend to wander in there wanting to have a conversation with people that may or may not include spanking, but with the freedom to talk about spanking if I so choose.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Relief
Not sure why, but my overwhelmeing, all-consuming, first-thought-when-I wake-up and lulls-me-to-sleep-at-night and the-beginning-and-end-of-just-about-every-waking-thought need for a good, long spanking went into remission yesterday.
Phew. Relief. {big breath in and out}
Now I might actually be able to get something done this week.
Though may I say just one more time that the whole 8 time zones thing is a real bitch.
Phew. Relief. {big breath in and out}
Now I might actually be able to get something done this week.
Though may I say just one more time that the whole 8 time zones thing is a real bitch.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
One more reason to love Picasso
Picasso's "The Spanking"
Thanks, Robert, for this little bit of culture from this website, as well as this one.
Concentrations problems
I went to a talk by Yonatan Shapira of the Refuser Solidarity Network this afternoon and as I'm sitting there listening to him talk about why he decided to refuse to serve in the Occupied Territories, all I could think of was how much I really wanted to be over my honey's lap, my knickers down around my knees, getting my backside smacked good and hard.
Sigh...
I did manage to actually take some notes.
Sigh...
I did manage to actually take some notes.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
More Auntie Natty tales
My five-year-old nephew stayed over last night.
I'd either forgotten about stuff from my boyfriend's earlier stay or figured it was out of the way enough that it wouldn't matter.
Well, both my memory and my judgment were a bit lacking.
My nephew had just been to a birthday party before and had a bag of goodies. Lots of small toys and candy. Like a bouncy ball. And little dinosaurs. And Sweetharts candies.
Which, of course, fell under the bed on several occasions (I live in a studio apartment) causing him to fish around looking for them.
And what should his pudgy little hands grab hold of under the bed?
Why, a line of wrapped condoms, a riding crop, and the bath brush.
"What are these 'Chell?" he asked, holding up the condoms. I thought for a second to think of something to say that would not make him even more curious.
"Um...they're...uh...like a kind of medicine."
He promptly threw those back under the bed.
He didn't ask about the riding crop, but clearly didn't understand its intended use as he kept using it to poke me. Though frankly, most of the time I wish that was all my boyfriend used it for... ;)
Then he pulled out the bath brush.
He knew EXACTLY what that was for.
"Hey! You getting a spankin' 'Chell. Stand up." And no, while I was a bit embarrassed, I did not let my nephew spank me. Just gave him a rather annoyed look. So then he tried to tickle me with the bristles.
"Yep," my boyfriend said when I told him about it on the phone this afternoon. "That's what happens to boys with too many sisters (my nephew has four - two older and twins 15 months younger; my boyfriend has five -- all older). They end up being tops so that they can finally beat on someone."
I'd either forgotten about stuff from my boyfriend's earlier stay or figured it was out of the way enough that it wouldn't matter.
Well, both my memory and my judgment were a bit lacking.
My nephew had just been to a birthday party before and had a bag of goodies. Lots of small toys and candy. Like a bouncy ball. And little dinosaurs. And Sweetharts candies.
Which, of course, fell under the bed on several occasions (I live in a studio apartment) causing him to fish around looking for them.
And what should his pudgy little hands grab hold of under the bed?
Why, a line of wrapped condoms, a riding crop, and the bath brush.
"What are these 'Chell?" he asked, holding up the condoms. I thought for a second to think of something to say that would not make him even more curious.
"Um...they're...uh...like a kind of medicine."
He promptly threw those back under the bed.
He didn't ask about the riding crop, but clearly didn't understand its intended use as he kept using it to poke me. Though frankly, most of the time I wish that was all my boyfriend used it for... ;)
Then he pulled out the bath brush.
He knew EXACTLY what that was for.
"Hey! You getting a spankin' 'Chell. Stand up." And no, while I was a bit embarrassed, I did not let my nephew spank me. Just gave him a rather annoyed look. So then he tried to tickle me with the bristles.
"Yep," my boyfriend said when I told him about it on the phone this afternoon. "That's what happens to boys with too many sisters (my nephew has four - two older and twins 15 months younger; my boyfriend has five -- all older). They end up being tops so that they can finally beat on someone."
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Story: Why Tommy Lee Jones Spanked Natty [M/F]
And this, my gentle readers, is the fruit of spanko daydreams.
And to you my dear, Mija, I dedicate this most mediocre spanking story. ;) (I promise that someday I'll write a much better one to dedicate to you lol)
*************************
Story: Why Tommy Lee Jones Spanked Natty [M/F -- like you couldn't have guessed]
One night Natty and her Uncle Tommy cuddled on the couch watching "Law and Order." It's a sad show (and sometimes scary), so it's important to watch while cuddling.
As they watched, there were the usual commercial breaks to woo them with Toyotas, Whoppers, and Carnival Cruises. Then a commercial for Uncle Tommy's new movie, "Man of the House."
"Oh, oh your new movie is out! I can't wait to see it."
"Nope. You're not watching that. Not a good movie for my Natty to watch."
"But why not? It's only rated PG-13."
"Baby, it's not the rating that's the problem. It's that it's a stupid movie and you're too smart to see it."
Natty laughed.
"Oh that's just silly, Uncle Tommy. How can you be too smart for a movie?"
"Easy. Most movies are crap."
"But you're in it."
"Yep. That's cause your Uncle Tommy has to do stupid movies sometimes so we can have this nice house. And a big tv to watch "Law and Order" on. And your pony, Snickers."
Natty smiled when she thought of her pony. Then pouted.
"But I want to see it, Uncle Tommy. It looks funny...sorta.. I mean, Cedric the Entertainer is funny...sometimes."
"Nope. You're not to see it and that is final, young lady."
Hmph.
The next day, Natty's friend Anna-Maria called.
"Hey, let's go see your uncle's new movie."
"I can't. He told me I couldn't watch it."
"What? Why wouldn't he want you to see his movie?"
"He says it's too stupid. That I'm too smart for it."
"But that's ridiculous. I mean, most movies are stupid. That's the point. What does he expect? That you're going to 'expand your mind' all the time?"
"I dunno," Natty shrugged. Rolled her eyes.
"Well, if we go to the mall and then see it there, how will he know?"
"Hmm...that's true. Yeah, we could see it there."
It was settled. They would meet at the mall in an hour.
Except that Uncle Tommy was passing Natty's room while she talked with Anna-Maria.
"Miss Natty, did I just overhear you planning to disobey me and go see that ridiculous movie?"
"Umm..." Natty thought for a moment.
Should she lie? Could she make up a story fast enough?
She nodded slowly. She was a horrible liar and not a very fast thinker.
"Well, young lady, you just got yourself grounded. You can just stay here in your room for the rest of the night."
Hmph.
Natty couldn't bear the thought of calling Anna-Maria to tell her she was grounded. It was so embarrassing.
Maybe if she just turned her stereo on so that Uncle Tommy would think she was there... And snuck out the window...The movie was less than two hours. She would be back before he came to tuck her in.
Uncle Tommy was right about the movie. As she sat there with Anna-Maria, they could almost finish every line. And they groaned at all the silly cliches and bad jokes. And hardly laughed at all. And even felt a little embarrassed for Uncle Tommy.
And the popcorn didn't even taste that good.
And the Milk Duds sat like rocks in Natty's stomach because she worried the whole time about getting caught.
Which she did.
Just like a bad movie plot.
"Young lady, just where have you been?" Uncle Tommy stood beside Natty's big canopy bed with his hands on his hips as Natty lifted herself up to her window and straddled the window sill.
She gasped. Gulped. Bit her lip. Brought her other leg over the sill and stood upright in her bedroom.
"To the movies," she mumbled.
Now it was Uncle Tommy's turn to hmph.
"I'm very disappointed in you," he said as he paced the carpet. "I thought you had better taste than that. That you were smarter than everyone else who pays $10 to see such drivel. Had more sense than to waste two hours of your life with something so utterly banal."
Natty stared at the carpet. Teared up. Sniffled a little. Felt a guilty, sad tingle all over.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Tommy. You were right about the movie. I wish I'd never seen it. Never snuck out. Never disobeyed you and disappointed you." With that Natty began to cry.
Uncle Tommy sighed. Walked over to his niece and put his arms around her.
"I know you're sorry, Baby." He kissed the top of her head. "I try very hard to protect you from all the mindless mediocrity out there. That's my job. And to make sure you understand that, I'm going to have to give you a good, hard spanking."
The mere thought of which made Natty cry even harder.
Especially once she was across his lap with her jeans and panties down around her knees. And the old, thick, cherrywood hairbrush was smacking her backside.
And she cried really really hard when after that he made her bend over the bed while he spanked her with his belt for sneaking out.
But after the spanking was all over, and Uncle Tommy cuddled Natty, and she had gotten ready for bed, they decided to watch "The Fugitive."
At least in that movie, Natty didn't have to feel so embarrassed for her Uncle Tommy.
Copyright 2005 Natty
And to you my dear, Mija, I dedicate this most mediocre spanking story. ;) (I promise that someday I'll write a much better one to dedicate to you lol)
*************************
Story: Why Tommy Lee Jones Spanked Natty [M/F -- like you couldn't have guessed]
One night Natty and her Uncle Tommy cuddled on the couch watching "Law and Order." It's a sad show (and sometimes scary), so it's important to watch while cuddling.
As they watched, there were the usual commercial breaks to woo them with Toyotas, Whoppers, and Carnival Cruises. Then a commercial for Uncle Tommy's new movie, "Man of the House."
"Oh, oh your new movie is out! I can't wait to see it."
"Nope. You're not watching that. Not a good movie for my Natty to watch."
"But why not? It's only rated PG-13."
"Baby, it's not the rating that's the problem. It's that it's a stupid movie and you're too smart to see it."
Natty laughed.
"Oh that's just silly, Uncle Tommy. How can you be too smart for a movie?"
"Easy. Most movies are crap."
"But you're in it."
"Yep. That's cause your Uncle Tommy has to do stupid movies sometimes so we can have this nice house. And a big tv to watch "Law and Order" on. And your pony, Snickers."
Natty smiled when she thought of her pony. Then pouted.
"But I want to see it, Uncle Tommy. It looks funny...sorta.. I mean, Cedric the Entertainer is funny...sometimes."
"Nope. You're not to see it and that is final, young lady."
Hmph.
The next day, Natty's friend Anna-Maria called.
"Hey, let's go see your uncle's new movie."
"I can't. He told me I couldn't watch it."
"What? Why wouldn't he want you to see his movie?"
"He says it's too stupid. That I'm too smart for it."
"But that's ridiculous. I mean, most movies are stupid. That's the point. What does he expect? That you're going to 'expand your mind' all the time?"
"I dunno," Natty shrugged. Rolled her eyes.
"Well, if we go to the mall and then see it there, how will he know?"
"Hmm...that's true. Yeah, we could see it there."
It was settled. They would meet at the mall in an hour.
Except that Uncle Tommy was passing Natty's room while she talked with Anna-Maria.
"Miss Natty, did I just overhear you planning to disobey me and go see that ridiculous movie?"
"Umm..." Natty thought for a moment.
Should she lie? Could she make up a story fast enough?
She nodded slowly. She was a horrible liar and not a very fast thinker.
"Well, young lady, you just got yourself grounded. You can just stay here in your room for the rest of the night."
Hmph.
Natty couldn't bear the thought of calling Anna-Maria to tell her she was grounded. It was so embarrassing.
Maybe if she just turned her stereo on so that Uncle Tommy would think she was there... And snuck out the window...The movie was less than two hours. She would be back before he came to tuck her in.
Uncle Tommy was right about the movie. As she sat there with Anna-Maria, they could almost finish every line. And they groaned at all the silly cliches and bad jokes. And hardly laughed at all. And even felt a little embarrassed for Uncle Tommy.
And the popcorn didn't even taste that good.
And the Milk Duds sat like rocks in Natty's stomach because she worried the whole time about getting caught.
Which she did.
Just like a bad movie plot.
"Young lady, just where have you been?" Uncle Tommy stood beside Natty's big canopy bed with his hands on his hips as Natty lifted herself up to her window and straddled the window sill.
She gasped. Gulped. Bit her lip. Brought her other leg over the sill and stood upright in her bedroom.
"To the movies," she mumbled.
Now it was Uncle Tommy's turn to hmph.
"I'm very disappointed in you," he said as he paced the carpet. "I thought you had better taste than that. That you were smarter than everyone else who pays $10 to see such drivel. Had more sense than to waste two hours of your life with something so utterly banal."
Natty stared at the carpet. Teared up. Sniffled a little. Felt a guilty, sad tingle all over.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Tommy. You were right about the movie. I wish I'd never seen it. Never snuck out. Never disobeyed you and disappointed you." With that Natty began to cry.
Uncle Tommy sighed. Walked over to his niece and put his arms around her.
"I know you're sorry, Baby." He kissed the top of her head. "I try very hard to protect you from all the mindless mediocrity out there. That's my job. And to make sure you understand that, I'm going to have to give you a good, hard spanking."
The mere thought of which made Natty cry even harder.
Especially once she was across his lap with her jeans and panties down around her knees. And the old, thick, cherrywood hairbrush was smacking her backside.
And she cried really really hard when after that he made her bend over the bed while he spanked her with his belt for sneaking out.
But after the spanking was all over, and Uncle Tommy cuddled Natty, and she had gotten ready for bed, they decided to watch "The Fugitive."
At least in that movie, Natty didn't have to feel so embarrassed for her Uncle Tommy.
Copyright 2005 Natty
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
How spanko daydreams start
So, I've been seeing these commercials for the upcoming movie "Man of the House." It looks like an absolutely abysmal movie about five cheerleaders who witness a murder and are then guarded by Tommy Lee Jones in some sort of witness protection program. I still haven't figured out what Cedric the Entertainer's role in the movie is.
Yet, every time I see the commercial for it, I feel strangely attracted to it.
Well, you know, I'm practicing mindfulness these days and so I sat for a moment with my feelings about this movie. I'm repelled by what looks like bad acting, bad writing, bad plot, bad etc. But Tommy Lee Jones. Stern. No-nonsense. Protective.
Mmmm yeah. That's it.
I could certainly imagine being put under his protection.
And then when I, say, snuck out to go watch some B movie, he'd give me a stern, no-nonsense lecture about how it's his job to protect me and in order to ensure that I understood this he was giving me a good, hard spanking...with my hairbrush...or maybe his belt. He does have on that cowboy outfit in the commercial...
Yet, every time I see the commercial for it, I feel strangely attracted to it.
Well, you know, I'm practicing mindfulness these days and so I sat for a moment with my feelings about this movie. I'm repelled by what looks like bad acting, bad writing, bad plot, bad etc. But Tommy Lee Jones. Stern. No-nonsense. Protective.
Mmmm yeah. That's it.
I could certainly imagine being put under his protection.
And then when I, say, snuck out to go watch some B movie, he'd give me a stern, no-nonsense lecture about how it's his job to protect me and in order to ensure that I understood this he was giving me a good, hard spanking...with my hairbrush...or maybe his belt. He does have on that cowboy outfit in the commercial...
Friday, February 18, 2005
That's alotta paddles at work...
Interesting statistic from Tom Heymann's book On An Average Day (New York: Fawcett Columbine, 1989):
"5556 schoolchildren are spanked in schools on an average school day."
Now, granted, that was fifteen years ago and a number of states have outlawed spanking in schools (in fact, I think Oregon outlawed corporal punishment the very year this book was published), but, wow.
A friend of mine worked as a librarian in Oklahoma about three years ago and while leaving after doing a talk in a high school, witnessed two girls being paddled in the hallway. He overheard the teacher say that if they got in trouble again, they would be sent to the office. When he inquired from a co-worker what that meant, his co-worker said that the girls would be paddled "on the bare."
Damn.
I only thought that happened in ShadowLane videos or at Spankedschoolgirl or whatever.
But what I want to know is how many adults get paddled on an average day. Or caned. Or tawsed. Or flogged. Or...well, whatever's a bit more consensual.
"5556 schoolchildren are spanked in schools on an average school day."
Now, granted, that was fifteen years ago and a number of states have outlawed spanking in schools (in fact, I think Oregon outlawed corporal punishment the very year this book was published), but, wow.
A friend of mine worked as a librarian in Oklahoma about three years ago and while leaving after doing a talk in a high school, witnessed two girls being paddled in the hallway. He overheard the teacher say that if they got in trouble again, they would be sent to the office. When he inquired from a co-worker what that meant, his co-worker said that the girls would be paddled "on the bare."
Damn.
I only thought that happened in ShadowLane videos or at Spankedschoolgirl or whatever.
But what I want to know is how many adults get paddled on an average day. Or caned. Or tawsed. Or flogged. Or...well, whatever's a bit more consensual.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Blogging can be uncomfortable
I've had a rather uncomfortable blogging day today.
I was looking through my visitor info at StatCounter today and noticed that there were several visitors who came from a certain blog I've never seen before. So, being the curious individual that I am, I clicked on the link to that blog and discovered that her post for today was about my blog. Apparently, she discovered it randomly (the "next blog" feature on Blogger? "Randomly"?) and found it to be "the strangest damn thing." She actually went through the archives and found the picture of me with my spanked (yes, really Mija and Sugarpie!) behind at the Grand Canyon, then linked it in her post. There were several comments, most of which were about my derrierre and were not particularly kind.
She was making fun of me.
My first reaction was to feel ashamed. Both of my kink and my ass. Though, more about my ass. Then a bit angry and defensive. Especially when she felt it important to say she thought I was of Middle Eastern decent (I'm not, though my research field deals with the Middle East and my Arab friends tease me that I might as well be Arab, something I would not at all be ashamed to be counted as). And I may be fat, but my blood pressure, my lipids, and my blood sugar are all at normal, healthy levels reflecting the fact that I eat properly. Then the teacher part of me came out and wanted to post something about the fact that she is indeed sheltered if she doesn't know anything about spanking fetishes as it's something well known in the national popular culture, seen on shows from "Sex and the City" to "Friends." Then I thought of making a kind comment on her blog. Express empathy with her having a boyfriend in Iraq as I have a brother-in-law in Iraq and it's scary as hell. That I know how hard it is to have a boyfriend far, far away. That I'm glad she works at a wildlife refuge as protecting habitat as well as the planet is important to me.
Then I decided fuck it. Why the hell should I care what a self-described "freak" who lives 2500 miles away and brags about her fluent use of the word "fuck" thinks about me and/or my ass?
As my Pop, who served as a Navy cook in an aircraft carrier in the South Pacific during WWII told me, "you be your own person." This blog is part of being my own person. One who likes to be spanked for whatever strange, sick reason.
But it came on an interesting day for me as earlier I also happened to click on another link I hadn't seen before in an email this morning: Women's Global Connection. It looked really cool so I registered and began perusing the discussion boards and stumbled on a thread about honoring our bellies.
The last week or so I've been going through a new round of "I hate my body." Yeah, most women do it. It's not a particularly original thought, though it carries with it many levels for me. Recently it's been because I've been dealing with a number of pain issues. I pulled a muscle in my neck a couple of weeks ago when my hand slipped on my yoga mat as I went into downward dog position. Then the tendonitis in my right foot has worsened to the point I can hardly walk on it as a result of the orthotics I just got a few months ago (which are supposed to make my foot pain go away!). And the other night a pinched nerve in my right thigh that I've had for about 15 years suddenly got really really painful so that I couldn't be comfortable in any position. Thankfully an increase in Neurontin has helped lessen it enough to be bearable until I see my doctor on Friday (though every time I increase my Neurontin dose, it costs me another $20 a month -- from a Canadian pharmacy). I've felt angry. My body has taken so much from me: my career, my income, my social life, my ability to go hiking or spend time playing with my nieces and nephews. Now it must make me suffer in what feels like never ending cycles of pain (and not the good kind either). Not to mention the fact that it doesn't look the way I want it to look. Or fit into normal clothes. Or even let me do anything to really remedy that. It's like a prison. My own Abu Ghraib.
So, when I saw the thread about honoring our bellies, I smiled and clicked the link. And read the first post. "...I learned about hara, the Japanese word for "belly" as both our physical and spiritual center. Hara points to the belly as the source of our spiritual power." It reminded me of how a QiGong instructor I had once said to a man who made a self-deprecating joke about his belly that it meant he had lots of qi. I clicked on the woman's site and read:
I was looking through my visitor info at StatCounter today and noticed that there were several visitors who came from a certain blog I've never seen before. So, being the curious individual that I am, I clicked on the link to that blog and discovered that her post for today was about my blog. Apparently, she discovered it randomly (the "next blog" feature on Blogger? "Randomly"?) and found it to be "the strangest damn thing." She actually went through the archives and found the picture of me with my spanked (yes, really Mija and Sugarpie!) behind at the Grand Canyon, then linked it in her post. There were several comments, most of which were about my derrierre and were not particularly kind.
She was making fun of me.
My first reaction was to feel ashamed. Both of my kink and my ass. Though, more about my ass. Then a bit angry and defensive. Especially when she felt it important to say she thought I was of Middle Eastern decent (I'm not, though my research field deals with the Middle East and my Arab friends tease me that I might as well be Arab, something I would not at all be ashamed to be counted as). And I may be fat, but my blood pressure, my lipids, and my blood sugar are all at normal, healthy levels reflecting the fact that I eat properly. Then the teacher part of me came out and wanted to post something about the fact that she is indeed sheltered if she doesn't know anything about spanking fetishes as it's something well known in the national popular culture, seen on shows from "Sex and the City" to "Friends." Then I thought of making a kind comment on her blog. Express empathy with her having a boyfriend in Iraq as I have a brother-in-law in Iraq and it's scary as hell. That I know how hard it is to have a boyfriend far, far away. That I'm glad she works at a wildlife refuge as protecting habitat as well as the planet is important to me.
Then I decided fuck it. Why the hell should I care what a self-described "freak" who lives 2500 miles away and brags about her fluent use of the word "fuck" thinks about me and/or my ass?
As my Pop, who served as a Navy cook in an aircraft carrier in the South Pacific during WWII told me, "you be your own person." This blog is part of being my own person. One who likes to be spanked for whatever strange, sick reason.
But it came on an interesting day for me as earlier I also happened to click on another link I hadn't seen before in an email this morning: Women's Global Connection. It looked really cool so I registered and began perusing the discussion boards and stumbled on a thread about honoring our bellies.
The last week or so I've been going through a new round of "I hate my body." Yeah, most women do it. It's not a particularly original thought, though it carries with it many levels for me. Recently it's been because I've been dealing with a number of pain issues. I pulled a muscle in my neck a couple of weeks ago when my hand slipped on my yoga mat as I went into downward dog position. Then the tendonitis in my right foot has worsened to the point I can hardly walk on it as a result of the orthotics I just got a few months ago (which are supposed to make my foot pain go away!). And the other night a pinched nerve in my right thigh that I've had for about 15 years suddenly got really really painful so that I couldn't be comfortable in any position. Thankfully an increase in Neurontin has helped lessen it enough to be bearable until I see my doctor on Friday (though every time I increase my Neurontin dose, it costs me another $20 a month -- from a Canadian pharmacy). I've felt angry. My body has taken so much from me: my career, my income, my social life, my ability to go hiking or spend time playing with my nieces and nephews. Now it must make me suffer in what feels like never ending cycles of pain (and not the good kind either). Not to mention the fact that it doesn't look the way I want it to look. Or fit into normal clothes. Or even let me do anything to really remedy that. It's like a prison. My own Abu Ghraib.
So, when I saw the thread about honoring our bellies, I smiled and clicked the link. And read the first post. "...I learned about hara, the Japanese word for "belly" as both our physical and spiritual center. Hara points to the belly as the source of our spiritual power." It reminded me of how a QiGong instructor I had once said to a man who made a self-deprecating joke about his belly that it meant he had lots of qi. I clicked on the woman's site and read:
"I am saying: Love your belly, lose the shame. Honor and exercise your belly as the source of your inner strength—that's the best way I know to claim your inner treasure."
What if being fat is my treasure? My source of strength? I couldn't help but think of Baby Suggs' sermon in Beloved:
"Here...in this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don't love your eyes; they'd just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them...You got to love it, you! And no, they ain't in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream from it they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give you leavins instead. No, they do not love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I'm talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms, strong arms I'm telling you..." (Toni Morrison, Beloved, New York: Penguin, 1988, p.89)
I thought a bit more about my picture from the Grand Canyon. When I posted it, it was because I thought how cool it was to be spanked at the Grand Canyon. I mean, how often do you get that chance? But I was hesitant to post it. Mostly because I was afraid of getting the kind of comments that people posted on that woman's blog. But I also didn't want to seem slutty. Indeed, I was not prepared for the emails I got in the next few weeks from men wanting pictures of me and my ass. The point wasn't to be pornographic, but to share my excitement. To share an experience that I knew other spankos could relate to and enjoy and share in.
I don't want my body to be objectified, regardless of the reason.
I do want it to be appreciated as one of the many aspects of me.
An aspect that, like Baby Suggs, holy, says, I got to love.
P.S. A bit of clarification for all you gentle readers out there. If a title of a post starts out with "Story" it is fiction. I have never been spanked by an angel or at Trader Joe's or by a nun in Jerusalem. They are all scenarios I've thought up in my head and reflect my over active imagination rather than real life.
I thought a bit more about my picture from the Grand Canyon. When I posted it, it was because I thought how cool it was to be spanked at the Grand Canyon. I mean, how often do you get that chance? But I was hesitant to post it. Mostly because I was afraid of getting the kind of comments that people posted on that woman's blog. But I also didn't want to seem slutty. Indeed, I was not prepared for the emails I got in the next few weeks from men wanting pictures of me and my ass. The point wasn't to be pornographic, but to share my excitement. To share an experience that I knew other spankos could relate to and enjoy and share in.
I don't want my body to be objectified, regardless of the reason.
I do want it to be appreciated as one of the many aspects of me.
An aspect that, like Baby Suggs, holy, says, I got to love.
P.S. A bit of clarification for all you gentle readers out there. If a title of a post starts out with "Story" it is fiction. I have never been spanked by an angel or at Trader Joe's or by a nun in Jerusalem. They are all scenarios I've thought up in my head and reflect my over active imagination rather than real life.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Letting Natty get spanked
I was being quite naughty tonight as I'm not supposed to be online much this week except for the occasional blogging. But, alas, I ended up blog and websurfing, which I said I wasn't going to do, but I think ended up having the effect that staying off the Internet was supposed to have.
No, really. Honest. ;)
Okay, I ended up at Z's Mind Candy , where longtime SSS poster Zprymantis has all of her stories. I was reading one of her newer ones, "So You Want to Call Me Mommy" (I often think about being spanked by a "mommy" or "auntie"). While the way the story/essay goes isn't quite how ageplay works for me (and I suspect ageplay wasn't necessarily the intent), it did make me think of my own ageplay experiences.
I have a dress I sewed last spring that's cotton-candy pink with blue flowers and a white rounded collar. I have frilly white ankle socks. And, of course, white cotton panties. The age I usually imagine being (the "Natty" me) is ten -- just like in Z's story. As she described giving a bedtime story, I imagined being spanked in my dress, my white cotton knickers being pulled down my fat, pale white legs while my frilly-socked ankles kick slightly. Or being in my jammies, my hair in pigtails, my flowery jim-jam bottoms being slid down to my knees and a firm hand and hard hairbrush reddening my fleshy alabaster cheeks.
And during my ageplay spanking reveries, I'm usually crying. Which, of course, has not ever happened during our real life age playing. As I sort of meditated on this tonight, I thought about how what always happens during a spanking is that the adult-me -- "Michelle" -- always takes over.
I mean, that's how I've survived. How my siblings have survived.
Michelle is the one who helped/s her mother make sense of the world. Who took care of her infant sister during the summer when she was 10 and sometimes during the school year when the babysitter was sick. Who took care of her little brother when he came home from the hospital with a heart monitor when she was 13. Who fed him through a tube in his stomach. Who gave him CPR when he had an asthma attack that left him unconscious when he was 2 and she was 14 (though managed to call 911 in time for the other attacks). Who had to always keep her abusive stepfather happy. Who learned how to live with pain and frequent illness after a severe ankle fracture when she was 10 and debilitating pain and chronic illness after a surgery gone bad on that ankle when she was 26. (And then there's the whole mess with her biological father that she didn't know about until she was 11 and he didn't know about until she was 18 -- but that's for the novel I'm writing as even Michelle didn't quite known how to handle that one.)
Michelle gets through all the hard stuff. She's the survivor.
And it's all about getting through the spanking, right?
Maybe Michelle has become the over-protective parent of Natty. Who shelters her too much. Who pushes her out of what she thinks is harm's way when really it's just what she needs.
So, I was trying to limit my time on the Internet this week in order to focus on learning more about mindfulness and meditation, as well as connect more with my emotional self (something my therapist and acupuncturist have been clamoring for me to do and seemed a good Lenten activity).
Well, I think I did the latter a bit tonight.
Even if I started out being naughty and avoiding it.
And maybe when/if I ever get spanked for it, Michelle will stand back and make/let Natty get the spanking she so desperately needs.
No, really. Honest. ;)
Okay, I ended up at Z's Mind Candy , where longtime SSS poster Zprymantis has all of her stories. I was reading one of her newer ones, "So You Want to Call Me Mommy" (I often think about being spanked by a "mommy" or "auntie"). While the way the story/essay goes isn't quite how ageplay works for me (and I suspect ageplay wasn't necessarily the intent), it did make me think of my own ageplay experiences.
I have a dress I sewed last spring that's cotton-candy pink with blue flowers and a white rounded collar. I have frilly white ankle socks. And, of course, white cotton panties. The age I usually imagine being (the "Natty" me) is ten -- just like in Z's story. As she described giving a bedtime story, I imagined being spanked in my dress, my white cotton knickers being pulled down my fat, pale white legs while my frilly-socked ankles kick slightly. Or being in my jammies, my hair in pigtails, my flowery jim-jam bottoms being slid down to my knees and a firm hand and hard hairbrush reddening my fleshy alabaster cheeks.
And during my ageplay spanking reveries, I'm usually crying. Which, of course, has not ever happened during our real life age playing. As I sort of meditated on this tonight, I thought about how what always happens during a spanking is that the adult-me -- "Michelle" -- always takes over.
I mean, that's how I've survived. How my siblings have survived.
Michelle is the one who helped/s her mother make sense of the world. Who took care of her infant sister during the summer when she was 10 and sometimes during the school year when the babysitter was sick. Who took care of her little brother when he came home from the hospital with a heart monitor when she was 13. Who fed him through a tube in his stomach. Who gave him CPR when he had an asthma attack that left him unconscious when he was 2 and she was 14 (though managed to call 911 in time for the other attacks). Who had to always keep her abusive stepfather happy. Who learned how to live with pain and frequent illness after a severe ankle fracture when she was 10 and debilitating pain and chronic illness after a surgery gone bad on that ankle when she was 26. (And then there's the whole mess with her biological father that she didn't know about until she was 11 and he didn't know about until she was 18 -- but that's for the novel I'm writing as even Michelle didn't quite known how to handle that one.)
Michelle gets through all the hard stuff. She's the survivor.
And it's all about getting through the spanking, right?
Maybe Michelle has become the over-protective parent of Natty. Who shelters her too much. Who pushes her out of what she thinks is harm's way when really it's just what she needs.
So, I was trying to limit my time on the Internet this week in order to focus on learning more about mindfulness and meditation, as well as connect more with my emotional self (something my therapist and acupuncturist have been clamoring for me to do and seemed a good Lenten activity).
Well, I think I did the latter a bit tonight.
Even if I started out being naughty and avoiding it.
And maybe when/if I ever get spanked for it, Michelle will stand back and make/let Natty get the spanking she so desperately needs.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Valentine's Day
The next best thing to having your boyfriend with you (rather than 8 time zones away) on Valentine's Day:
A nice dinner with candles and the flowers he bought you before he left
A cheesy CD you made of songs that remind you of him
His hairbrush, your vibrator and butt plug...oh and maybe a little ginger root
Ben and Jerry's Phish Food Frozen Yogurt and some chocolates (yeah it's Lent, but I think even the bishop would grant a dispensation)
A nice dinner with candles and the flowers he bought you before he left
A cheesy CD you made of songs that remind you of him
His hairbrush, your vibrator and butt plug...oh and maybe a little ginger root
Ben and Jerry's Phish Food Frozen Yogurt and some chocolates (yeah it's Lent, but I think even the bishop would grant a dispensation)
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Spanking on the "Simpsons"
Ah yet another spanking reference on the Simpsons.
When Bart went to a rap concert after he was told he couldn't, Homer takes off his belt, slaps it against his hand and says Bart is going to be "NWA" -- Not Without Ass Welts.
Sigh...good times.
One of these days I'd like to either come across a list of all the spanking references in the Simpsons or compose one of my own. In the meantime, those of you reading this blog (and I just signed up with StatCounter and know there are quite a few of you) might share your favorite Simpsons spanking reference in a comment. :)
When Bart went to a rap concert after he was told he couldn't, Homer takes off his belt, slaps it against his hand and says Bart is going to be "NWA" -- Not Without Ass Welts.
Sigh...good times.
One of these days I'd like to either come across a list of all the spanking references in the Simpsons or compose one of my own. In the meantime, those of you reading this blog (and I just signed up with StatCounter and know there are quite a few of you) might share your favorite Simpsons spanking reference in a comment. :)
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Story: Window into Heaven [MM/f, child]
As it's Lent, this seems like a good story to post. Please note that while this story does contain some autobiographical elements, it is fiction. The angel part? All made up. Not real.
Enjoy.
A Window Into Heaven [MM/f, child]
They are called “windows into heaven.” Depictions containing the energies of Christ, the Holy Mother of God, the saints, an event. As Julia stood in front of the rows of icons in that little shop, she could feel their power. St. George atop his white horse, lance stabbing at a dragon. St. John Maximovitch holding the Cathedral of San Francisco he helped build. The Theotokos of Vladimir, her head tilted toward the Christ Child, her smooth, maternal face up against his, her melancholy but caring eyes looking out. At Julia. She kissed her middle three fingers and pressed them against the Holy Mother. Crossed herself. Resumed her search. There. Between St. Michael the Archangel and the Annunciation…
His hair was longer than she remembered it being. But the eyes were the same. He was holding the hand of a small girl. With eyes remarkably like hers. In the other hand, he held a scroll: “He shall give His angels charge over you to keep you in all your ways.”
*****
The babysitter’s house was only a few blocks from school. Convenient for Julia to pick up the baby on the way home. Books on her back and baby in hand, she made her way the next several blocks to the house. Threw her backpack full of homework aside, put the baby in her walker and flopped onto the couch to watch cable reruns of Good Times and Little House on the Prairie. At 4:30 she shaked and baked the pork chops, heated the can of green beans, and mixed up the box of Stove Top stuffing. Her parents liked her to have dinner made by the time they got home. The parents who often forgot that Julia was only 11.
Dinner was done and dishes were safely in the dishwasher as Julia headed back to the living room to watch TV. Her stepfather stopped her at the doorway.
“Where’s your mother?” he growled. Julia’s eyes glazed with fear. He was mad. Dangerous.
“I…I don’t know,” she said with her most submissive voice.
“I wanna know where your mother is.” His eyes were wild. She gulped.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure…” She wanted to look around for her but she dared not look away from him. He asked again. And again. Frustrated, she raised her voice slightly. She didn’t know any other way to tell him that she really didn’t know.
“Don’t you talk back to me!” He grabbed her arm, yanked her toward his left side, and began delivering heavy, sharp blows to her bottom. Blows that did more than hurt her backside. That took something from her. That left a blackness in her soul.
“What’s going on?” Her mother asked as she walked in on Julia still in her stepfather’s grip.
“Where were you? I’ve been looking all over for you. The baby has a fever…”
“I was just in the attic – what’s the matter?” She stared at the two of them.
“Don’t interfere with my discipline.” His eyes were sharp. Narrow.
“I wasn’t. I was just asking what happened…” She glanced at Julia with a mixture of fear and irritation. Finally freed, Julia wandered toward the living room as her parents argued about whether or not to call the doctor.
Report cards came out the following week. Julia left hers on the kitchen table with anticipation tinged with guilt. She waited for her parents to scrutinize it. To ask her why she got an “A” in social studies (she liked social studies), but an “F” in math (she hadn’t done any of the homework). Two days later she found the report card in the garbage as she took the bag out to the can in the garage. They hadn’t said anything. Not about the “A.” Not about the “F.”
A strange, confusing feeling swam around in Julia’s stomach as she laid in bed that night. On the one hand, she was terrified of her stepfather and his spankings. Her whole body tensed as she heard him downstairs in the kitchen. What if she hadn’t wiped the counter right? He’d be mad…
Yet, she had really wanted her parents to be upset that she got an “F” in math. To scold her for not doing her homework. To tell her how she was capable of doing much better. To even spank her and tell her that she could not watch TV until her grades were better.
To be like real parents. To let her be a real kid.
“Dear God,” she began, her hands folded over her chest. “I wish so much I could have parents who didn’t make me scared. Who care about what I’m doing in school and all…I mean, I know these are my parents and you can’t just give me new ones or anything – not that I want them to go away. I love them. It’s just that…” She sighed. This prayer was turning into a rambling mess. “Well…maybe you could at least send me an angel to be with me or something. To sorta help me, you know?” Julia wasn’t even sure if she knew as she drifted to sleep.
Her homework had not left her backpack since arriving home with the baby the next afternoon. And it was the furthest thing from her mind as she slipped into her nightgown, brushed her teeth and headed down the hall to her bedroom. Upon crossing the threshold, she looked up to see a man sitting in a chair next to her bed.
“Do not be afraid, Julia,” he said with a soft smile as Julia opened her mouth to scream. “I am your guardian angel. The Lord has heard your prayer.” Her mouth snapped shut. Her eyes gaped. Then a smile slowly broke out across her chubby cheeks.
“You’re…really…an angel?”
“I am.” He chuckled yet maintained a distinct seriousness.
“How come you don’t have wings or anything?” Julia skimmed over his average looking khaki pants and white shirt.
“Well, you remember from Sunday School the story of the angels visiting Abraham?” Julia nodded. “Yes, I know you do,” he said. “I know how well you pay attention at Church.” She beamed. “So then you remember that the angels in that story looked just like men. When we take on human form, we look human. No wings.”
“So, what’s your name?” Julia asked as she sat down on the bed across from him.
“It would be unpronounceable to you, so you may call me Malachi.”
“Okay.” Julia glowed before him. A real angel. Her angel. He gazed back at her with that soft, gentle smile.
“The Lord knows you’ve been very lonely, Julia. And that sometimes you’re very afraid.” He lifted her from the bed and set her down on his lap. “He sent me to comfort you. To let you know that you are not really alone. Even when you’re scared.” For several minutes Malachi held Julia against his chest.
“How long will you stay?” She looked up at him.
“I’ve always been with you, Julia, even if you couldn’t see me. And I always will be with you. I’ve been given charge over you. To keep you in all your ways.” He picked her up off his lap and placed her back on the bed. “But, there are times when you really need me to be in the flesh and during those times I will take on human form so that you can see me and touch me.” He held her hands as he sat across from her. “Times like now when you really need someone to hold you. As well as to help you.”
“How are you going to help me?” Julia stared at Malachi.
“Well, what did you mean when you prayed last night for someone to help you?” He looked right inside of her. The intensity forced Julia to look at the floor.
“I dunno.”
“I think you meant someone to help raise you. That it’s hard trying to make sure you’re doing your homework all by yourself. Or being kind to the other kids at school. Or going to bed when you should.”
Julia blushed as she continued to analyze the carpet shag. Malachi cradled her hands.
“Though you’ve done such a good job so far. You’re obedient to your parents. You go to church every Sunday and listen quietly during Sunday School and the service. You even memorize all the Bible verses they give you and believe them with all your heart. You’re really a very good girl.”
Everything was still – the room, the house, the air outside – as Julia looked up at Malachi. With his warm smile. And gentle eyes.
“But, much of the reason you are good is because you are afraid. Of your stepfather. Afraid that people won’t like you. That God won’t like you. I’m here to help you not be afraid anymore. To help you be the person God created you to be – the smart, vivacious, playful, passionate person you hide away because you don’t know where the boundaries are. I’m going to help you by giving you boundaries.”
Boundaries. She had heard this word before. At Church probably. About how good parents set boundaries for their children. Rules…
“Yes, Julia. That does mean rules. With rules, you know where the boundaries are so you don’t have to be afraid you will cross them accidentally. You will know exactly where you are.”
Not like with her stepfather where she never knew where she was. When or what would make him mad.
“I will start with something you already have a good idea about: your schoolwork.” His smile faded into a stern, but not unkind look. “Your mind is a precious gift. And school is a wonderful way to grow that gift. But when you watch television after you get home from school instead of doing your homework, you are throwing away that gift.”
Malachi still held fast to Julia’s hands as she pulled her bottom lip into her mouth with her upper teeth and fixated once again upon the carpet shag.
“And so, another way I am going to help you is by disciplining you.”
It took a moment for Julia to really hear him say that. As it traveled along to the recognition circuit in her brain, she raised her gaze back to Malachi. With his firm stare.
“You mean, like…spank me?”
“Yes.” He paused as she searched his face. “It will be different than any spanking you’ve had before. For one thing, it will be on your bare skin. But the most important difference is this: it will not be done to take my anger out on you, but rather as a sign of my devotion to you. To help you.” The soft smile mixed with the firm stare.
Julia nodded. Stood. Malachi let go of her right hand and gently pulled her by her left arm to his right side. Then over his lap. Swept her nightgown up to her neck and her panties down to her knees. Set his left hand on the middle of her back. Slapped her unprotected bottom. Again. And again…
It stung terribly. Much more than her stepfather’s. But, it hurt less. Gave something to her. Brought a light to the blackness her stepfather had left.
****
“Ah, the icon of the Guardian Angel. It is a lovely one, isn’t it?” Father Demitri, in a long, black cassock with a beard that looked like St. Nicholas, studied the price on the back of the icon and punched it into the cash register.
“Yes it is,” said Julia with a smile as she pulled out some cash.
“You know, the little girl in the icon – her face looks a lot like yours.” He held it in white tissue paper in his hand. Julia blushed. Smiled again. Father Demitri grinned and finished wrapping the icon. “Don’t forget to have your priest bless it during Divine Liturgy on Sunday,” he called to Julia as she walked to the door.
“I won’t, Father.” Another smile and she walked outside to catch the bus coming up the street.
The key to her apartment had a habit of getting stuck in the lock. Julia jiggled it. Coaxed it. Pushed it.
“Damn this lock!” It came out of the keyhole then snapped back in, pinching her finger. “Son of a bitch!” Julia brought her finger to her mouth, winced, and then tried the key again. A click. A turn. She sighed and muttered as she opened the door. “Damn it I hate this lock…”
“Julia – what kind of language is this?” He was there. Sitting at her desk. Chair swiveled toward her. That soft smile with the stern eyes.
“Malachi…you’re here…” She gripped her bag holding the icon as she stood before him. Turned to look at the door, then turned and faced him again. “Oh, um…well, I was angry. The key…and the lock…it gets stuck…and…”
“You’ve developed a nasty habit of swearing lately. I thought I had helped you with that years ago.”
“Well, you had…” She fingered her keys as she looked him in the eyes. “I guess I fell back into it.”
“Apparently.” He nodded. The soft smile overtook his stern eyes for a moment. “You’re so passionate, expressive, confident – not at all like you were that first time I became visible to you. And I’m so glad.” Then he sighed. “But, part of my job has always been to guide that passion. To give it boundaries.”
Yes – those boundaries. Julia pursed her lips together and nodded. She knew where this was going.
It was during high school that Malachi started using the rod. A thin, swishy stick. Her freshman year. Julia had skipped school with her friends to go to a movie. Now as he stood up from the chair in front of her desk, he grasped the rod and motioned her toward the back of the chair. She set her bag and keys on the table, bent over the black cushioned back and grabbed the edges of the seat. He swept her skirt up to her neck and her panties down to her knees. Sliced her unprotected bottom with the rod. Again. And again…
It still stung terribly. But still gave something to her. Still left a light in her soul.
“The icon is a very nice one,” he said later as he stroked Julia’s hair while she lay on her tummy under the blankets in bed. “The icon writer did a lovely job letting you see into Heaven.” Julia almost giggled as she turned to him.
“Is your hair really that long in Heaven?”
Copyright 2002 by Natty.
Enjoy.
A Window Into Heaven [MM/f, child]
They are called “windows into heaven.” Depictions containing the energies of Christ, the Holy Mother of God, the saints, an event. As Julia stood in front of the rows of icons in that little shop, she could feel their power. St. George atop his white horse, lance stabbing at a dragon. St. John Maximovitch holding the Cathedral of San Francisco he helped build. The Theotokos of Vladimir, her head tilted toward the Christ Child, her smooth, maternal face up against his, her melancholy but caring eyes looking out. At Julia. She kissed her middle three fingers and pressed them against the Holy Mother. Crossed herself. Resumed her search. There. Between St. Michael the Archangel and the Annunciation…
His hair was longer than she remembered it being. But the eyes were the same. He was holding the hand of a small girl. With eyes remarkably like hers. In the other hand, he held a scroll: “He shall give His angels charge over you to keep you in all your ways.”
*****
The babysitter’s house was only a few blocks from school. Convenient for Julia to pick up the baby on the way home. Books on her back and baby in hand, she made her way the next several blocks to the house. Threw her backpack full of homework aside, put the baby in her walker and flopped onto the couch to watch cable reruns of Good Times and Little House on the Prairie. At 4:30 she shaked and baked the pork chops, heated the can of green beans, and mixed up the box of Stove Top stuffing. Her parents liked her to have dinner made by the time they got home. The parents who often forgot that Julia was only 11.
Dinner was done and dishes were safely in the dishwasher as Julia headed back to the living room to watch TV. Her stepfather stopped her at the doorway.
“Where’s your mother?” he growled. Julia’s eyes glazed with fear. He was mad. Dangerous.
“I…I don’t know,” she said with her most submissive voice.
“I wanna know where your mother is.” His eyes were wild. She gulped.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure…” She wanted to look around for her but she dared not look away from him. He asked again. And again. Frustrated, she raised her voice slightly. She didn’t know any other way to tell him that she really didn’t know.
“Don’t you talk back to me!” He grabbed her arm, yanked her toward his left side, and began delivering heavy, sharp blows to her bottom. Blows that did more than hurt her backside. That took something from her. That left a blackness in her soul.
“What’s going on?” Her mother asked as she walked in on Julia still in her stepfather’s grip.
“Where were you? I’ve been looking all over for you. The baby has a fever…”
“I was just in the attic – what’s the matter?” She stared at the two of them.
“Don’t interfere with my discipline.” His eyes were sharp. Narrow.
“I wasn’t. I was just asking what happened…” She glanced at Julia with a mixture of fear and irritation. Finally freed, Julia wandered toward the living room as her parents argued about whether or not to call the doctor.
Report cards came out the following week. Julia left hers on the kitchen table with anticipation tinged with guilt. She waited for her parents to scrutinize it. To ask her why she got an “A” in social studies (she liked social studies), but an “F” in math (she hadn’t done any of the homework). Two days later she found the report card in the garbage as she took the bag out to the can in the garage. They hadn’t said anything. Not about the “A.” Not about the “F.”
A strange, confusing feeling swam around in Julia’s stomach as she laid in bed that night. On the one hand, she was terrified of her stepfather and his spankings. Her whole body tensed as she heard him downstairs in the kitchen. What if she hadn’t wiped the counter right? He’d be mad…
Yet, she had really wanted her parents to be upset that she got an “F” in math. To scold her for not doing her homework. To tell her how she was capable of doing much better. To even spank her and tell her that she could not watch TV until her grades were better.
To be like real parents. To let her be a real kid.
“Dear God,” she began, her hands folded over her chest. “I wish so much I could have parents who didn’t make me scared. Who care about what I’m doing in school and all…I mean, I know these are my parents and you can’t just give me new ones or anything – not that I want them to go away. I love them. It’s just that…” She sighed. This prayer was turning into a rambling mess. “Well…maybe you could at least send me an angel to be with me or something. To sorta help me, you know?” Julia wasn’t even sure if she knew as she drifted to sleep.
Her homework had not left her backpack since arriving home with the baby the next afternoon. And it was the furthest thing from her mind as she slipped into her nightgown, brushed her teeth and headed down the hall to her bedroom. Upon crossing the threshold, she looked up to see a man sitting in a chair next to her bed.
“Do not be afraid, Julia,” he said with a soft smile as Julia opened her mouth to scream. “I am your guardian angel. The Lord has heard your prayer.” Her mouth snapped shut. Her eyes gaped. Then a smile slowly broke out across her chubby cheeks.
“You’re…really…an angel?”
“I am.” He chuckled yet maintained a distinct seriousness.
“How come you don’t have wings or anything?” Julia skimmed over his average looking khaki pants and white shirt.
“Well, you remember from Sunday School the story of the angels visiting Abraham?” Julia nodded. “Yes, I know you do,” he said. “I know how well you pay attention at Church.” She beamed. “So then you remember that the angels in that story looked just like men. When we take on human form, we look human. No wings.”
“So, what’s your name?” Julia asked as she sat down on the bed across from him.
“It would be unpronounceable to you, so you may call me Malachi.”
“Okay.” Julia glowed before him. A real angel. Her angel. He gazed back at her with that soft, gentle smile.
“The Lord knows you’ve been very lonely, Julia. And that sometimes you’re very afraid.” He lifted her from the bed and set her down on his lap. “He sent me to comfort you. To let you know that you are not really alone. Even when you’re scared.” For several minutes Malachi held Julia against his chest.
“How long will you stay?” She looked up at him.
“I’ve always been with you, Julia, even if you couldn’t see me. And I always will be with you. I’ve been given charge over you. To keep you in all your ways.” He picked her up off his lap and placed her back on the bed. “But, there are times when you really need me to be in the flesh and during those times I will take on human form so that you can see me and touch me.” He held her hands as he sat across from her. “Times like now when you really need someone to hold you. As well as to help you.”
“How are you going to help me?” Julia stared at Malachi.
“Well, what did you mean when you prayed last night for someone to help you?” He looked right inside of her. The intensity forced Julia to look at the floor.
“I dunno.”
“I think you meant someone to help raise you. That it’s hard trying to make sure you’re doing your homework all by yourself. Or being kind to the other kids at school. Or going to bed when you should.”
Julia blushed as she continued to analyze the carpet shag. Malachi cradled her hands.
“Though you’ve done such a good job so far. You’re obedient to your parents. You go to church every Sunday and listen quietly during Sunday School and the service. You even memorize all the Bible verses they give you and believe them with all your heart. You’re really a very good girl.”
Everything was still – the room, the house, the air outside – as Julia looked up at Malachi. With his warm smile. And gentle eyes.
“But, much of the reason you are good is because you are afraid. Of your stepfather. Afraid that people won’t like you. That God won’t like you. I’m here to help you not be afraid anymore. To help you be the person God created you to be – the smart, vivacious, playful, passionate person you hide away because you don’t know where the boundaries are. I’m going to help you by giving you boundaries.”
Boundaries. She had heard this word before. At Church probably. About how good parents set boundaries for their children. Rules…
“Yes, Julia. That does mean rules. With rules, you know where the boundaries are so you don’t have to be afraid you will cross them accidentally. You will know exactly where you are.”
Not like with her stepfather where she never knew where she was. When or what would make him mad.
“I will start with something you already have a good idea about: your schoolwork.” His smile faded into a stern, but not unkind look. “Your mind is a precious gift. And school is a wonderful way to grow that gift. But when you watch television after you get home from school instead of doing your homework, you are throwing away that gift.”
Malachi still held fast to Julia’s hands as she pulled her bottom lip into her mouth with her upper teeth and fixated once again upon the carpet shag.
“And so, another way I am going to help you is by disciplining you.”
It took a moment for Julia to really hear him say that. As it traveled along to the recognition circuit in her brain, she raised her gaze back to Malachi. With his firm stare.
“You mean, like…spank me?”
“Yes.” He paused as she searched his face. “It will be different than any spanking you’ve had before. For one thing, it will be on your bare skin. But the most important difference is this: it will not be done to take my anger out on you, but rather as a sign of my devotion to you. To help you.” The soft smile mixed with the firm stare.
Julia nodded. Stood. Malachi let go of her right hand and gently pulled her by her left arm to his right side. Then over his lap. Swept her nightgown up to her neck and her panties down to her knees. Set his left hand on the middle of her back. Slapped her unprotected bottom. Again. And again…
It stung terribly. Much more than her stepfather’s. But, it hurt less. Gave something to her. Brought a light to the blackness her stepfather had left.
****
“Ah, the icon of the Guardian Angel. It is a lovely one, isn’t it?” Father Demitri, in a long, black cassock with a beard that looked like St. Nicholas, studied the price on the back of the icon and punched it into the cash register.
“Yes it is,” said Julia with a smile as she pulled out some cash.
“You know, the little girl in the icon – her face looks a lot like yours.” He held it in white tissue paper in his hand. Julia blushed. Smiled again. Father Demitri grinned and finished wrapping the icon. “Don’t forget to have your priest bless it during Divine Liturgy on Sunday,” he called to Julia as she walked to the door.
“I won’t, Father.” Another smile and she walked outside to catch the bus coming up the street.
The key to her apartment had a habit of getting stuck in the lock. Julia jiggled it. Coaxed it. Pushed it.
“Damn this lock!” It came out of the keyhole then snapped back in, pinching her finger. “Son of a bitch!” Julia brought her finger to her mouth, winced, and then tried the key again. A click. A turn. She sighed and muttered as she opened the door. “Damn it I hate this lock…”
“Julia – what kind of language is this?” He was there. Sitting at her desk. Chair swiveled toward her. That soft smile with the stern eyes.
“Malachi…you’re here…” She gripped her bag holding the icon as she stood before him. Turned to look at the door, then turned and faced him again. “Oh, um…well, I was angry. The key…and the lock…it gets stuck…and…”
“You’ve developed a nasty habit of swearing lately. I thought I had helped you with that years ago.”
“Well, you had…” She fingered her keys as she looked him in the eyes. “I guess I fell back into it.”
“Apparently.” He nodded. The soft smile overtook his stern eyes for a moment. “You’re so passionate, expressive, confident – not at all like you were that first time I became visible to you. And I’m so glad.” Then he sighed. “But, part of my job has always been to guide that passion. To give it boundaries.”
Yes – those boundaries. Julia pursed her lips together and nodded. She knew where this was going.
It was during high school that Malachi started using the rod. A thin, swishy stick. Her freshman year. Julia had skipped school with her friends to go to a movie. Now as he stood up from the chair in front of her desk, he grasped the rod and motioned her toward the back of the chair. She set her bag and keys on the table, bent over the black cushioned back and grabbed the edges of the seat. He swept her skirt up to her neck and her panties down to her knees. Sliced her unprotected bottom with the rod. Again. And again…
It still stung terribly. But still gave something to her. Still left a light in her soul.
“The icon is a very nice one,” he said later as he stroked Julia’s hair while she lay on her tummy under the blankets in bed. “The icon writer did a lovely job letting you see into Heaven.” Julia almost giggled as she turned to him.
“Is your hair really that long in Heaven?”
Copyright 2002 by Natty.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Parting
So, my Mr. Stern (who isn't really all that stern but I haven't been able to think of a suitable nick name for him) went back to the UK on Tuesday morning.
He was supposed to leave on Monday. At least, that's what he thought. We got him all packed and off to the airport and up to the ticket counter. When the ticket agent couldn't find his name and looked at his itinerary, we discovered he had the date wrong. I was laughing like crazy, and quite happy to have him for another day. Can you believe he had the audacity to say he was going to spank me for him getting the date wrong because I'm the organized one? (He was kidding, just in case that's not clear.)
As we had an extra day, and we were both up, and the sun would be up in an hour or so, we went to the Oregon Coast. Drove to Cannon Beach and walked a bit along the shoreline. Though only a little bit as it was freekin' cold. Got some coffee/tea and cheesecake. Drove along the coastline to Tillamook and then back to Portland.
On the way into Portland we drove through Washington Park and walked around the Rose Garden a little (though it definitely didn't look like the picture in the link as it is winter). As we got into the car to stop by Trader Joe's on the way home, he looked through the glove compartment of the Flexcar and found the booklet with q & a about what to do if there is an accident.
"I've been speeding and my spanko boyfriend is giving me a stern look. What do I do?" "Pull over to the nearest secluded area, pull down panties and await punishment."
We both giggled.
"Hey," he said, changing from a stern voice to a lighter one. "We could be like spanko terrorists defacing different things with spanking references."
See. I'm not the only naughty one.
And you can bet this time on the way home from Trader Joe's when we got the car washed and the gas tank filled, I didn't rush at all.
Such a good girl.
Well...for a little bit. I was late to my doctor's appointment today. Normally a (very -- six strokes per minute) spankable offense.
"You're going to get so lax while I'm gone," he said when we finally got a chance to talk on the phone today.
Sigh...yeah...
He was supposed to leave on Monday. At least, that's what he thought. We got him all packed and off to the airport and up to the ticket counter. When the ticket agent couldn't find his name and looked at his itinerary, we discovered he had the date wrong. I was laughing like crazy, and quite happy to have him for another day. Can you believe he had the audacity to say he was going to spank me for him getting the date wrong because I'm the organized one? (He was kidding, just in case that's not clear.)
As we had an extra day, and we were both up, and the sun would be up in an hour or so, we went to the Oregon Coast. Drove to Cannon Beach and walked a bit along the shoreline. Though only a little bit as it was freekin' cold. Got some coffee/tea and cheesecake. Drove along the coastline to Tillamook and then back to Portland.
On the way into Portland we drove through Washington Park and walked around the Rose Garden a little (though it definitely didn't look like the picture in the link as it is winter). As we got into the car to stop by Trader Joe's on the way home, he looked through the glove compartment of the Flexcar and found the booklet with q & a about what to do if there is an accident.
"I've been speeding and my spanko boyfriend is giving me a stern look. What do I do?" "Pull over to the nearest secluded area, pull down panties and await punishment."
We both giggled.
"Hey," he said, changing from a stern voice to a lighter one. "We could be like spanko terrorists defacing different things with spanking references."
See. I'm not the only naughty one.
And you can bet this time on the way home from Trader Joe's when we got the car washed and the gas tank filled, I didn't rush at all.
Such a good girl.
Well...for a little bit. I was late to my doctor's appointment today. Normally a (very -- six strokes per minute) spankable offense.
"You're going to get so lax while I'm gone," he said when we finally got a chance to talk on the phone today.
Sigh...yeah...
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Punishmentbook.org
A little announcement: five articulate, strong, educated women have joined forces to write about disciplinary spanking at a brand, spanking new site called punishmentbook.org.
Hmm...I make it sound like the Super Friends or something. Yeah, maybe you can say we're battling the forces of misogyny in the spanko world. ;)
Hmm...I make it sound like the Super Friends or something. Yeah, maybe you can say we're battling the forces of misogyny in the spanko world. ;)
Friday, February 04, 2005
Story: Cranky At Trader Joe's [M/F]
My last post reminded me of this story I wrote a few years back, and I've been meaning to post it. So, here it is. Enjoy. :)
CRANKY AT TRADER JOE’S [M/F]
Yeah, I admit it. I was pretty damn cranky by the time I got to Trader Joe’s. I had a cold, so my sinuses were practically swollen shut. The traffic around town had been about as congested as my head. And now they were out of the cereal I had been craving – Organic Wheat Squares. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! I cursed and whined under my breath as I stamped my foot. This always happens. They just had them the other day and now that I wanted them they were gone…
Within my peripheral vision I could see the solemn man, who I had earlier cut in front of to grab a cart, looking at me with one eyebrow raised. I saw him first in the parking lot. He had his hands in his pockets, sort of strolling along. Late thirties, maybe. Gray Dockers and a stripped, short sleeved shirt. Not too much like the Reedies, leftover hippies, or soccer moms who usually patronized Trader Joe’s. I huffed and slammed on my brakes while he sauntered out of the way.
You would have thought he’d have long been in the store already by the time I got to the entrance, but I could see him perusing the produce along the sidewalk into the store as I half staggered from fatigue and half marched with purpose from the car to the door. He was one step ahead of me to the pile of carts, but I darted into the corral, pulled out a cart, and whipped it around into the store. Now this same guy had caught me in a temper tantrum over breakfast cereal. I shook it off and shrugged. Whatever. I had cough drops and chicken noodle soup to get…
I noticed him a few more times around the store. I guess he stood out because he didn’t have a cart. Not even a basket. Didn’t even seem to be really there to buy anything. Just look. Weird. I shook my head again and closed my eyes to review my mental shopping list.
I was still revisiting that list when I got in the check out line and a tight voice pricked my ear.
“You know, if you were my girlfriend…” I turned around to find that same guy holding two bananas and a baguette. Then realized I’d just cut him off again. I bit my lip and blushed. “…I’d spank you.” That one eyebrow still reached for his scalp.
“Oh really?” I asked. Half guilty. Half amused. “And why’s that?”
“I think you know why, Miss…” His face was somber. Stern. Then a slight, wry smile twinkled his eyes. “You’ve acted like a perfect brat from the moment you got here.” I smiled too. And took my turn at the check out counter.
He was coming out the exit by the time I’d parked the cart and pulled out the sack of groceries. I blushed as he brushed past me.
“Hey, I’m, um, sorry I cut you off in the check out line. I’d never do that on purpose. I wasn’t really paying attention…I’ve got this cold and…” I stood gripping the paper handles of the bag, facing him but looking down at the pavement.
“Hmm, well, colds are rather nasty, I suppose.” His face softened. “Still you should pay more attention. And cold or no cold, you should never throw a temper tantrum in a grocery store. You’re not a two-year old.” I giggled and bit my lower lip.
“I know…” I still vacillated between the pavement and up at him. Then I smirked. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing for my backside I’m not your girlfriend.”
“Yes, well, just because you’re not doesn’t mean I can’t still take you over my knee.” More raised eyebrow action. “Tell you what, put your groceries in your car and meet me in the corner of the parking lot over there.” He pointed to the far southwest corner. A forlorn crook of pavement and fence over which the first branches of spring hovered.
“Huh?” This was a joke. Had to be. Right?
“You heard me. Now get going. My car’s in front of that produce store next door, so I’ll drive over and you meet me there.” With that he turned and headed off. I stood agape as I watched him walk several cars down to a black Volkswagen Passat, pull out keys from his pocket, open the door, get in, pull out the car from it’s space and then drive to the appointed meeting spot.
It’s funny, because at that point I could have just gotten in my car and driven off without a thought. But it didn’t even occur to me to do so. Instead, I put the groceries in the back of my beat up, white Chevy Sprint and headed for the Passat in that lonely corner.
He was moving the front seats forward by the time I tottered over. First the driver’s side, then the passenger side while I stood in front of the trunk, arms folded over my chest. Then he opened the back door on the passenger side and beckoned me. He slid in onto the backseat. Patted the black leather next to him. I sat down and closed the door.
“Now, young lady, we’ve already reviewed why you deserve a spanking, so let’s just get on with it, shall we? Take down your pants and panties and lay across my lap.” I looked up at him for the first time since the exit of the store. His face was severe, but not mean. No trace of a dirty guy looking forward to some free naked ass. Just very grave. Very focused. I did as I was told and soon had an intimate view of the leather grain.
I’m not sure which registered in my brain first. That smacking sound of his hand hitting the lower middle of my bare buttocks or the pain it produced. I blinked hard. Another spank came. And another. Fierce. Unrelenting. My squeaky whimpers competed with the clapping of his hand against my skin. I clasped my hands together underneath my forehead as he slapped with precision on that spot where my bottom and thighs meet. Curled my toes inside my shoes. Pushed my feet against the door.
After a solid several minutes, he stopped. Reached over me, opened the compartment between the front seats and pulled something out.
“You’re in luck, my dear. It just so happens that I have a good, sturdy hairbrush with me today.” My breathing stopped for a moment, then I gulped and lay my head on my hands.
This is luck?
“I suspect from your behavior today that nobody’s done much of this for you.” He laid the smooth, wooden side of the brush against my bottom, which instinctively clenched. “Indeed, if anyone had, you wouldn’t be throwing a fit in a grocery store at your age. Or rudely cutting people off in the check out line.”
He lifted the brush and crashed it down hard. I started screeching before I realized I was, but settled back down to loud whimpers punctuated with “oweeee” after every couple of whacks. My legs began to fly back and forth between my bottom and the door. My stomach tried to pull my backside out of range, without success.
It had probably only been a few minutes. He probably hadn’t smacked me more than 25 or 30 times. But it felt like I had been through time and back again. I wanted to cry. Wanted tears to release some hidden hurt that lay beyond my raw behind. But as they would not come, I simply liberated the dry sobs that came. It was probably just as well. Real tears would have made my sinuses throb even worse…
“There now, it’s over…” He gently patted the back of my head. My moans subsided into deep breaths and soon I lay relaxed. Sore as hell, but relaxed. “Well, now. I think that’s enough to make you think twice before you throw another fit.” I nodded. “And I trust you’ll be kind and considerate from now on to your fellow shoppers.” I nodded again. “Alright then, you can pull up your pants and go.” He tugged them up from my knees as far as he could. I turned, slid into an upright position -- but not without visible wincing – and pulled them up the rest of the way. Took another big breath.
“I really am sorry I cut you off. I hate it when people do that…” He smiled and put the hairbrush back into that front divider. I opened the door and climbed out. He followed. “Well, uh, hmm… well, I guess, uh, have a nice day.”
“You too.” He closed the back passenger door.
“And uh …” I looked down at the pavement. Bit my lower lip. The looked up and nodded slightly. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He winked.
I giggled and headed back to my car.
CRANKY AT TRADER JOE’S [M/F]
Yeah, I admit it. I was pretty damn cranky by the time I got to Trader Joe’s. I had a cold, so my sinuses were practically swollen shut. The traffic around town had been about as congested as my head. And now they were out of the cereal I had been craving – Organic Wheat Squares. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! I cursed and whined under my breath as I stamped my foot. This always happens. They just had them the other day and now that I wanted them they were gone…
Within my peripheral vision I could see the solemn man, who I had earlier cut in front of to grab a cart, looking at me with one eyebrow raised. I saw him first in the parking lot. He had his hands in his pockets, sort of strolling along. Late thirties, maybe. Gray Dockers and a stripped, short sleeved shirt. Not too much like the Reedies, leftover hippies, or soccer moms who usually patronized Trader Joe’s. I huffed and slammed on my brakes while he sauntered out of the way.
You would have thought he’d have long been in the store already by the time I got to the entrance, but I could see him perusing the produce along the sidewalk into the store as I half staggered from fatigue and half marched with purpose from the car to the door. He was one step ahead of me to the pile of carts, but I darted into the corral, pulled out a cart, and whipped it around into the store. Now this same guy had caught me in a temper tantrum over breakfast cereal. I shook it off and shrugged. Whatever. I had cough drops and chicken noodle soup to get…
I noticed him a few more times around the store. I guess he stood out because he didn’t have a cart. Not even a basket. Didn’t even seem to be really there to buy anything. Just look. Weird. I shook my head again and closed my eyes to review my mental shopping list.
I was still revisiting that list when I got in the check out line and a tight voice pricked my ear.
“You know, if you were my girlfriend…” I turned around to find that same guy holding two bananas and a baguette. Then realized I’d just cut him off again. I bit my lip and blushed. “…I’d spank you.” That one eyebrow still reached for his scalp.
“Oh really?” I asked. Half guilty. Half amused. “And why’s that?”
“I think you know why, Miss…” His face was somber. Stern. Then a slight, wry smile twinkled his eyes. “You’ve acted like a perfect brat from the moment you got here.” I smiled too. And took my turn at the check out counter.
He was coming out the exit by the time I’d parked the cart and pulled out the sack of groceries. I blushed as he brushed past me.
“Hey, I’m, um, sorry I cut you off in the check out line. I’d never do that on purpose. I wasn’t really paying attention…I’ve got this cold and…” I stood gripping the paper handles of the bag, facing him but looking down at the pavement.
“Hmm, well, colds are rather nasty, I suppose.” His face softened. “Still you should pay more attention. And cold or no cold, you should never throw a temper tantrum in a grocery store. You’re not a two-year old.” I giggled and bit my lower lip.
“I know…” I still vacillated between the pavement and up at him. Then I smirked. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing for my backside I’m not your girlfriend.”
“Yes, well, just because you’re not doesn’t mean I can’t still take you over my knee.” More raised eyebrow action. “Tell you what, put your groceries in your car and meet me in the corner of the parking lot over there.” He pointed to the far southwest corner. A forlorn crook of pavement and fence over which the first branches of spring hovered.
“Huh?” This was a joke. Had to be. Right?
“You heard me. Now get going. My car’s in front of that produce store next door, so I’ll drive over and you meet me there.” With that he turned and headed off. I stood agape as I watched him walk several cars down to a black Volkswagen Passat, pull out keys from his pocket, open the door, get in, pull out the car from it’s space and then drive to the appointed meeting spot.
It’s funny, because at that point I could have just gotten in my car and driven off without a thought. But it didn’t even occur to me to do so. Instead, I put the groceries in the back of my beat up, white Chevy Sprint and headed for the Passat in that lonely corner.
He was moving the front seats forward by the time I tottered over. First the driver’s side, then the passenger side while I stood in front of the trunk, arms folded over my chest. Then he opened the back door on the passenger side and beckoned me. He slid in onto the backseat. Patted the black leather next to him. I sat down and closed the door.
“Now, young lady, we’ve already reviewed why you deserve a spanking, so let’s just get on with it, shall we? Take down your pants and panties and lay across my lap.” I looked up at him for the first time since the exit of the store. His face was severe, but not mean. No trace of a dirty guy looking forward to some free naked ass. Just very grave. Very focused. I did as I was told and soon had an intimate view of the leather grain.
I’m not sure which registered in my brain first. That smacking sound of his hand hitting the lower middle of my bare buttocks or the pain it produced. I blinked hard. Another spank came. And another. Fierce. Unrelenting. My squeaky whimpers competed with the clapping of his hand against my skin. I clasped my hands together underneath my forehead as he slapped with precision on that spot where my bottom and thighs meet. Curled my toes inside my shoes. Pushed my feet against the door.
After a solid several minutes, he stopped. Reached over me, opened the compartment between the front seats and pulled something out.
“You’re in luck, my dear. It just so happens that I have a good, sturdy hairbrush with me today.” My breathing stopped for a moment, then I gulped and lay my head on my hands.
This is luck?
“I suspect from your behavior today that nobody’s done much of this for you.” He laid the smooth, wooden side of the brush against my bottom, which instinctively clenched. “Indeed, if anyone had, you wouldn’t be throwing a fit in a grocery store at your age. Or rudely cutting people off in the check out line.”
He lifted the brush and crashed it down hard. I started screeching before I realized I was, but settled back down to loud whimpers punctuated with “oweeee” after every couple of whacks. My legs began to fly back and forth between my bottom and the door. My stomach tried to pull my backside out of range, without success.
It had probably only been a few minutes. He probably hadn’t smacked me more than 25 or 30 times. But it felt like I had been through time and back again. I wanted to cry. Wanted tears to release some hidden hurt that lay beyond my raw behind. But as they would not come, I simply liberated the dry sobs that came. It was probably just as well. Real tears would have made my sinuses throb even worse…
“There now, it’s over…” He gently patted the back of my head. My moans subsided into deep breaths and soon I lay relaxed. Sore as hell, but relaxed. “Well, now. I think that’s enough to make you think twice before you throw another fit.” I nodded. “And I trust you’ll be kind and considerate from now on to your fellow shoppers.” I nodded again. “Alright then, you can pull up your pants and go.” He tugged them up from my knees as far as he could. I turned, slid into an upright position -- but not without visible wincing – and pulled them up the rest of the way. Took another big breath.
“I really am sorry I cut you off. I hate it when people do that…” He smiled and put the hairbrush back into that front divider. I opened the door and climbed out. He followed. “Well, uh, hmm… well, I guess, uh, have a nice day.”
“You too.” He closed the back passenger door.
“And uh …” I looked down at the pavement. Bit my lower lip. The looked up and nodded slightly. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He winked.
I giggled and headed back to my car.
Monday, January 24, 2005
A nice spring-like day that ended in a spanking
The weather outside feels like April. Except less rain. Go figure. It was bright and sunny today and as my boyfriend and I were both up (he never went to bed, I actually got up early), we decided to go to Multnomah Falls.
Not only was the weather amazing, but I’m feeling really good as well. We took the only Flexcar available at the time, the Honda Element, which is way over on 5th and Harrison – a good 8 blocks or so. When we took this car last month, I had to drag myself through every last block. Today, we detoured through Smith Center to stop at the ATM and when we were stopped at the light waiting to cross the street, I realized that we were almost to the car. Six blocks (snapping my fingers) just like that.
School is in session, so this time as we walked to the car, I could see everyone rushing to class or to the coffee shop. Remembered and longed for that time when I was able to rush to class or hang out with my friends at the Broadway Café instead of shuffle along with a cane in my hand. But then I stopped. Decided that was the past. I’m grateful for that past. For the experiences I had. But I will live in today. Be the person I am at this moment rather than miss the past.
I drove out there, hiked all the way up a little past the Benson bridge and back to the car without even having to sit down (though, I might have sat down had the benches not all been wet). As we passed the sign showing the distance to the top of the falls, I remembered how I once hiked up there as a kid. Had that pang of longing to be able to do that again. And then stopped. Decided I would be grateful for what I had today: more energy than I’ve had in months and months. Enough energy to hike .4 miles.
Then we drove through the old Columbia Highway and stopped up at Crown Point to get the view of the Columbia Gorge. Since it was windy (as it usually is) we only stayed for a couple of minutes and then drove into Troutdale where we went out to breakfast. Since we still had a bit of time left on the Flexcar, we stopped by Limbo and Trader Joe’s. On the way back we took the car through the car wash and filled up the gas tank since I get money back on my Flexcar bill for doing so.
Fitting in that last activity cut it close for getting the Flexcar back in time and it led to what I think was the closest thing we’ve ever had to a quarrel. He was concerned about the car being late (it costs an extra $4, at minimum, if we’re late), while I was certain we’d be back within enough time as we weren’t that far away.
“If we’re late, you’re getting spanked,” he said.
Again, I was certain we would be in time but made sure not to dawdle just to be super safe. Of course, I got red lights the whole way back, but we pulled into the parking place with a minute left on the reservation.
“See, I told ya,” I said as we got out of the car.
“Oh, you’re still getting spanked for cutting it so close.”
Hey, he hadn’t said that. But then I thought, well, maybe he’s just in a playful mood or something.
When we walked in the door, he took the bag of groceries and my purse. Took off my coat and scarf. “Get on the bed. Jeans off, knickers down,” he said sternly. I thought he was just being all strict to heighten the experience. I complied quickly, as you might imagine. Though did scowl when I saw him taking out the bath brush (Ugh, again? Gawd I hate that thing!). My skin was still a bit cold from being outside and of course, my bottom was still sore from the spanking on Friday. So that damn brush hurt like hell.
First there was a discussion about how at the gas station I’d said it was only going to take 4 minutes to get home – a number I honestly meant more symbolically to mean that we weren’t that far from home (as in “we’re only like, 4 minutes from home”), while he took it literally – and it took us 7 minutes to get home. We settled that misunderstanding, but apparently that wasn’t really the main issue.
“What really annoyed me,” he said while spanking me really hard, “was that you seemed to be rushing fast to get back.”
I lay there thinking back (which is REALLY hard when you’re getting trashed) to the 7 minute drive through a very familiar stretch trying to judge whether or not I had really been rushing. It didn’t seem like it. I wasn’t really speeding (well, okay there were about 5 seconds there when I was about 6 miles over the speed limit, but that probably would have happened even if I had all the time in the world). Sure, I probably took a couple of turns a bit quicker than I might have otherwise (but then again, because it’s such a familiar bit of road, I might well have been that zippy) but compared to what I normally do when I’m in a rush, that wasn’t really all that rushed. Yet, I certainly couldn’t say THAT as I’d really get whaled on.
“Well, were you or weren’t you?” Punctuating the question with several hard smacks.
“Well, I don’t know,” I said as he smacked some more. “I mean, maybe a little bit but…OW!” He spanked me several more times, then stopped and tapped the brush against my bottom. No rubbing my bottom or my back.
“Yes or no. Were you or were you not rushing?” It seemed like an unfairly bipolar question without taking into account any sort of degree, which in this case was very minor (though I couldn’t think enough through the spanking to say it that articulately). I continued with my argument that it was only a little bit, to which he responded with more smacks and then repeated the question.
This was just being mean.
I finally conceded “Yes” though maintained that I would have still stopped to fill up the gas tank as I knew we’d still be back in time. He spanked some more than asked me if I was going to rush when I’m driving, to which I replied (albeit a bit sullenly) “No, Sir.” A couple more smacks and then he stopped. Put the brush on the bed then sat down on the edge.
I climbed up toward him expecting to cuddle, pulled up my knickers, and asked if he could put some arnica cream on my bottom. “I’ll put the cream on, but you’re not getting a cuddle as you have absolutely no remorse for what you’ve done.” He was sorta smiling, so I couldn’t help but sorta smile too as he was right. I really didn’t at that point. But when he got up and went to have a smoke, I was stunned. How could he not cuddle me? I felt completely abandoned. How could he be that mean? I curled up with my pillow and scowled. Teared up a bit.
“Look,” he said, “if you think I spanked you unfairly, just say so. I mean it.” That’s when I realized he wasn’t playing at all. He really was annoyed. But by that point, so was I.
“Think of it this way,” he said more kindly. “You’re not well. You don’t drive that often. Your spatial perception is off. No, you weren’t driving or speeding in a way that was all that unsafe. But you’ve clipped my heels three times today – which was only slightly annoying – but shows that your spatial perception is off. What might be only slightly unsafe for someone else is much more unsafe for you.”
He smoked and I lay thinking through the whole thing. The drive. Not being cuddled. His comment on my spatial perception stung about as much as the spanking. It was true, though I drive more than he does. And it’s different when I’m driving than walking, though I didn’t know how to explain that. And I’d actually been even more careful than normal in changing lanes because I’m not used to driving the Element. A part of me felt some remorse. Conceded that he might have a point. But not cuddling me was just mean.
This was a shitty way to end what had been such a great day.
After he finished his cigarette, he came over. Lay down next to me. “Okay, cuddle.” I started crying softly as he put his arms around me. Then he whispered in my ear. “Will you do me a favor? Will you promise not to rush when you’re driving?” I nodded. Smiled a bit.
“Though, it’s going to be a hard habit to break,” I said with a little giggle.
And we cuddled. He rubbed my bottom. “I don’t want anything to happen to my Shadwell” (his Welsh bastardization of my Arabic nickname, Shadiah). I smiled. A lot. Not just because what he said was very sweet, but because he’d kill me if he knew what I was normally like when I’m rushing. “You keep looking like you want to say something,” he said. I grinned and blushed a little.
“Well, if I say it, I’ll get in even more trouble.” No, he assured me, I would not. So, I told him that the rushing that afternoon was nothing compared to my normal rushing.
Which, he’d already figured was the case.
There’s such a fine line between play and discipline. It certainly makes me realize how important communication is when a relationship like this involves some sort of disciplinary arrangement. Not that all relationships don’t require good communication. But somehow when you’re giving someone else control over you to some degree, it can be easy to lose yourself, which means you have to be more assertive in setting boundaries and verbalizing your feelings. With my boyfriend it’s very easy as he regularly validates my feelings and readily respects those boundaries, usually without me even having to verbally set them. But this experience made me appreciate just what a balancing act it is.
And that rushing in the car, no matter how very little it might be, makes Mr. Stern very unhappy. And when he’s unhappy, my bottom is very sore.
Not only was the weather amazing, but I’m feeling really good as well. We took the only Flexcar available at the time, the Honda Element, which is way over on 5th and Harrison – a good 8 blocks or so. When we took this car last month, I had to drag myself through every last block. Today, we detoured through Smith Center to stop at the ATM and when we were stopped at the light waiting to cross the street, I realized that we were almost to the car. Six blocks (snapping my fingers) just like that.
School is in session, so this time as we walked to the car, I could see everyone rushing to class or to the coffee shop. Remembered and longed for that time when I was able to rush to class or hang out with my friends at the Broadway Café instead of shuffle along with a cane in my hand. But then I stopped. Decided that was the past. I’m grateful for that past. For the experiences I had. But I will live in today. Be the person I am at this moment rather than miss the past.
I drove out there, hiked all the way up a little past the Benson bridge and back to the car without even having to sit down (though, I might have sat down had the benches not all been wet). As we passed the sign showing the distance to the top of the falls, I remembered how I once hiked up there as a kid. Had that pang of longing to be able to do that again. And then stopped. Decided I would be grateful for what I had today: more energy than I’ve had in months and months. Enough energy to hike .4 miles.
Then we drove through the old Columbia Highway and stopped up at Crown Point to get the view of the Columbia Gorge. Since it was windy (as it usually is) we only stayed for a couple of minutes and then drove into Troutdale where we went out to breakfast. Since we still had a bit of time left on the Flexcar, we stopped by Limbo and Trader Joe’s. On the way back we took the car through the car wash and filled up the gas tank since I get money back on my Flexcar bill for doing so.
Fitting in that last activity cut it close for getting the Flexcar back in time and it led to what I think was the closest thing we’ve ever had to a quarrel. He was concerned about the car being late (it costs an extra $4, at minimum, if we’re late), while I was certain we’d be back within enough time as we weren’t that far away.
“If we’re late, you’re getting spanked,” he said.
Again, I was certain we would be in time but made sure not to dawdle just to be super safe. Of course, I got red lights the whole way back, but we pulled into the parking place with a minute left on the reservation.
“See, I told ya,” I said as we got out of the car.
“Oh, you’re still getting spanked for cutting it so close.”
Hey, he hadn’t said that. But then I thought, well, maybe he’s just in a playful mood or something.
When we walked in the door, he took the bag of groceries and my purse. Took off my coat and scarf. “Get on the bed. Jeans off, knickers down,” he said sternly. I thought he was just being all strict to heighten the experience. I complied quickly, as you might imagine. Though did scowl when I saw him taking out the bath brush (Ugh, again? Gawd I hate that thing!). My skin was still a bit cold from being outside and of course, my bottom was still sore from the spanking on Friday. So that damn brush hurt like hell.
First there was a discussion about how at the gas station I’d said it was only going to take 4 minutes to get home – a number I honestly meant more symbolically to mean that we weren’t that far from home (as in “we’re only like, 4 minutes from home”), while he took it literally – and it took us 7 minutes to get home. We settled that misunderstanding, but apparently that wasn’t really the main issue.
“What really annoyed me,” he said while spanking me really hard, “was that you seemed to be rushing fast to get back.”
I lay there thinking back (which is REALLY hard when you’re getting trashed) to the 7 minute drive through a very familiar stretch trying to judge whether or not I had really been rushing. It didn’t seem like it. I wasn’t really speeding (well, okay there were about 5 seconds there when I was about 6 miles over the speed limit, but that probably would have happened even if I had all the time in the world). Sure, I probably took a couple of turns a bit quicker than I might have otherwise (but then again, because it’s such a familiar bit of road, I might well have been that zippy) but compared to what I normally do when I’m in a rush, that wasn’t really all that rushed. Yet, I certainly couldn’t say THAT as I’d really get whaled on.
“Well, were you or weren’t you?” Punctuating the question with several hard smacks.
“Well, I don’t know,” I said as he smacked some more. “I mean, maybe a little bit but…OW!” He spanked me several more times, then stopped and tapped the brush against my bottom. No rubbing my bottom or my back.
“Yes or no. Were you or were you not rushing?” It seemed like an unfairly bipolar question without taking into account any sort of degree, which in this case was very minor (though I couldn’t think enough through the spanking to say it that articulately). I continued with my argument that it was only a little bit, to which he responded with more smacks and then repeated the question.
This was just being mean.
I finally conceded “Yes” though maintained that I would have still stopped to fill up the gas tank as I knew we’d still be back in time. He spanked some more than asked me if I was going to rush when I’m driving, to which I replied (albeit a bit sullenly) “No, Sir.” A couple more smacks and then he stopped. Put the brush on the bed then sat down on the edge.
I climbed up toward him expecting to cuddle, pulled up my knickers, and asked if he could put some arnica cream on my bottom. “I’ll put the cream on, but you’re not getting a cuddle as you have absolutely no remorse for what you’ve done.” He was sorta smiling, so I couldn’t help but sorta smile too as he was right. I really didn’t at that point. But when he got up and went to have a smoke, I was stunned. How could he not cuddle me? I felt completely abandoned. How could he be that mean? I curled up with my pillow and scowled. Teared up a bit.
“Look,” he said, “if you think I spanked you unfairly, just say so. I mean it.” That’s when I realized he wasn’t playing at all. He really was annoyed. But by that point, so was I.
“Think of it this way,” he said more kindly. “You’re not well. You don’t drive that often. Your spatial perception is off. No, you weren’t driving or speeding in a way that was all that unsafe. But you’ve clipped my heels three times today – which was only slightly annoying – but shows that your spatial perception is off. What might be only slightly unsafe for someone else is much more unsafe for you.”
He smoked and I lay thinking through the whole thing. The drive. Not being cuddled. His comment on my spatial perception stung about as much as the spanking. It was true, though I drive more than he does. And it’s different when I’m driving than walking, though I didn’t know how to explain that. And I’d actually been even more careful than normal in changing lanes because I’m not used to driving the Element. A part of me felt some remorse. Conceded that he might have a point. But not cuddling me was just mean.
This was a shitty way to end what had been such a great day.
After he finished his cigarette, he came over. Lay down next to me. “Okay, cuddle.” I started crying softly as he put his arms around me. Then he whispered in my ear. “Will you do me a favor? Will you promise not to rush when you’re driving?” I nodded. Smiled a bit.
“Though, it’s going to be a hard habit to break,” I said with a little giggle.
And we cuddled. He rubbed my bottom. “I don’t want anything to happen to my Shadwell” (his Welsh bastardization of my Arabic nickname, Shadiah). I smiled. A lot. Not just because what he said was very sweet, but because he’d kill me if he knew what I was normally like when I’m rushing. “You keep looking like you want to say something,” he said. I grinned and blushed a little.
“Well, if I say it, I’ll get in even more trouble.” No, he assured me, I would not. So, I told him that the rushing that afternoon was nothing compared to my normal rushing.
Which, he’d already figured was the case.
There’s such a fine line between play and discipline. It certainly makes me realize how important communication is when a relationship like this involves some sort of disciplinary arrangement. Not that all relationships don’t require good communication. But somehow when you’re giving someone else control over you to some degree, it can be easy to lose yourself, which means you have to be more assertive in setting boundaries and verbalizing your feelings. With my boyfriend it’s very easy as he regularly validates my feelings and readily respects those boundaries, usually without me even having to verbally set them. But this experience made me appreciate just what a balancing act it is.
And that rushing in the car, no matter how very little it might be, makes Mr. Stern very unhappy. And when he’s unhappy, my bottom is very sore.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
"Domestic Discipline" of a sort...
We were doing the dishes tonight and as I was putting away the small frying pan, I wondered aloud what it would be like to get spanked with one.
"Turn around and bend over," my boyfriend said as he took the frying pan.
I laughed. Did as I was told, though was a bit surprised as he had seemed like he wasn't really in the mood.
I can now report that frying pans sting a great deal when you get spanked with them. Even over jeans. Especially when your bottom is already pretty sore and bruised from previous spankings.
"Now that's what I call 'domestic discipline,'" he said as he hung the pan up and I rubbed my stinging bottom.
"Turn around and bend over," my boyfriend said as he took the frying pan.
I laughed. Did as I was told, though was a bit surprised as he had seemed like he wasn't really in the mood.
I can now report that frying pans sting a great deal when you get spanked with them. Even over jeans. Especially when your bottom is already pretty sore and bruised from previous spankings.
"Now that's what I call 'domestic discipline,'" he said as he hung the pan up and I rubbed my stinging bottom.
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Straddling the edge
It's funny how some spankings have more emotional intensity than others. Particularly disciplinary spankings.
Last night I got spanked because I didn't finish reading the book that was on my schedule last week to finish -- one of those icky evangelical Christian historical fiction novels I'm deconstructing for my thesis. The issue for my Mr. Stern was the importance of the schedule and my failure to meet all the items I'd committed to completing that week (not many, only three items as I've gotten spanked in the past for making my schedule too ambitious). When he said I was going to get a "pretty severe spanking" later that day, I argued that it was only one thing one time that I hadn't finished when I've had months of completing my schedules. But I didn't really have a good reason for it not being done. Mostly not being able to settle down and just read the damn book. Not really budgeting enough time. Letting myself get distracted, which is easy when it's something I don't really want to read in the first place and you're in a studio apartment with your boyfriend. "So, you didn't allocate your time properly." No, I didn't -- a spankable offence certainly--but it didn't seem to merit a "pretty severe spanking" in my opinion. Unfortunately, my opinion, which I certainly have a right to voice, is not what decides as apparently it's not necessarily the most objective.
Hmph.
A year and a half ago, right before we actually met in person and he was keeping track of my offenses in a little book (which he has since lost...how very unfortunate...he he he) I decided I was going to change a deadline and casually let him know that I was changing it. "Uh, no you're not going to change it or there would be no point of having a deadline," he said. I was a bit stunned. What do you mean I can't change it? I'm a grown adult and I think I can decide when I want to change a deadline, I thought. After a bit of discussion ensued, he finally said I could send him a brief essay about why I should be allowed to move the deadline. So, I sat and thought and outlined and wrote. And the next day when he came online and read the essay, he politely but firmly declined my request. I had tickets to see Ibdaa, a Palestinian dance troupe, whose performance I needed to leave for in short order which meant that I had no time to argue with him. But damn was I sulky. I enjoyed the show but sat through it stewing. He just didn't understand. He was just being mean. He wasn't being fair. And again, I'm a grown adult. Who is he to tell me I can't change a damn deadline when I want to?
Later that night my crankiness melted into resignation and then into compliance. The only reason I was pissed off was because I was not getting my way. I was the one who had always wanted structure and discipline, and now that someone was actually giving me that, why the hell was I getting sulky? He really was not being mean but actually trying to do something for my benefit. Yes, I was a grown adult and as such had chosen of my own freewill and desire to submit to the discipline of another who I respected and cared for a great deal and knew respected and cared about me a great deal.
Yesterday as I awaited the appointed time for my spanking, I stewed and sulked and pondered. While I was still a bit confused about why my offense was so grave, I began to feel fairly acquiescent about my impending "pretty severe spanking." When the time came, I quietly laid down on the bed as I was told to and waited, which has a very similar effect to standing in the corner. As I lay there, I thought about how I had indeed been very naughty. I had purposely done things like clean house to avoid my reading. Watched television when I knew I hadn't finished my reading. And if I was really honest, I had sorta not taken it that seriously, thinking that if I got a few hours done, that would be good enough (you know the old cliche, give me an inch and I'll take a mile). My thinking time was interrupted every minute or two with him calling out to tell me what new statistic he'd found in the report I'd downloaded for him (some research we're doing for a book about the US and the rest of the world), bringing me out of my meditation on my naughtiness and back into our normal relationship. As he read more and I lay there snuggling my pillows, I began to get sleepy. "I'm going to fall asleep soon," I said with what was probably a bit of a whine.
So, in he came. When he took out the bath brush, I winced. When he also took out the wooden spoon, I got that heavy feeling in my stomach as it confirmed my worst fear. The wooden spoon is usually used on my thighs. It really was going to be a "pretty severe spanking."
"Now, why are you getting spanked?" he asked as his hand started smacking my upturned bottom while my knees sunk into the bedspread and my body cradled my pillows.
"Because I didn't finish my reading," I replied.
"And why didn't you finish your reading?"
I paused for a second to think of an articulate way of describing my dereliction of duty.
"Because I didn't 'allocate my time properly.'"
And thinking of an articulate response was becoming a challenge as even his hand over my pajama bottoms was starting to really sting. I had taken a bath not quite an hour before, but I didn't think my skin would still be that sensitive. My stomach felt even heavier as I knew what was coming.
Indeed, just a few seconds later came the tug on my pajama bottoms. More hand spanks on my now bare backside. Then smacks from something wooden but fairly light. (Guess the Implement is a slightly amusing little mental game to ever so temporarily distract you from the fact that it's scalding your backside.) Then the hairbrush. A pause to discuss my infraction a bit more.
How much reading had I actually done?
About three hours or so.
Had I simply not allocated my time properly or had it been a bit much to expect to finish the book?
Hmm...both answers would be bad -- the latter being perhaps even a bit worse since I've been spanked for that before. But honestly? Well, I didn't know. At the time it seemed like a reasonable expectation that I'd finish the book. It's easy reading. Not that long (well, by grad student standards). I had a week to read. At least I thought I did. Was that the week after we came back from Vancouver? Or the week I had the unexpected extended session with the massage therapist?
Even after looking up the dates on my schedule (well, he looked it up while I remained in my er...rather undignified position) I was still unclear. It seemed like stuff had come up that week that in hindsight probably did make it a bit unrealistic to expect that I'd finish the book. But it seemed reasonable at the time.
It's hard to think clearly when you're getting spanked.
Especially with a mean old bath brush.
Which was searing my sit spot. Over and over.
Then it came. That feeling of wanting to cry. But just for a moment. That instinctive need to be stoic quickly pushed it away. Sorta.
Even as my brain was busy trying to process the pain constantly assaulting it from the south, I was becoming aware of this tug-of-war between my desire to cry and my deeply ingrained stoicism. I'd never been aware of it before. Well, that's not completely true. I've seen glimpses of it before, but I was so much more conscious of it this time than I ever had been. I would come to that edge and start to cross over, then stop. Start to cross over again, then stop. In many ways it almost felt sorta out of body. Just sitting and watching myself going back and forth.
He stopped with the brush and started spanking with his hand again. Then told me to lay flat on the bed.
Which in some ways was good because that made my bottom less tense and vulnerable.
But very bad because it made my thighs very much more vulnerable. Which was the whole point.
As he spanked my bottom more with the bath brush, he scolded me. (Boy has he gotten a lot better and mean-- er...uh...sterner -- in his scolding). How the schedule was important. How I should tell him if I'm having trouble finishing it. Combined with my pre-spanking reflection about how naughty I'd been, it made me feel very little and naughty and guilty and repentant. I just wanted to be a good girl again.
Then came those mean smacks with the wooden spoon on my thighs. And promises that if I ever failed to finish my schedule again without good reason I'd get the wooden spoon on the top of my thighs (with the memory of such a spanking adding to the horrible "eek!!" in my gut).
I crossed over the edge again. Stepped one foot fully down on the other side and started to tear up and vocally sob.
I so wanted the spanking to stop.
I so wanted to be a good girl.
I so wanted to let all that sadness and guilt and hurt out.
But it was only one foot. The other stayed firmly planted on solid stoic soil.
For this time, at least.
The bath brush came out again for six more strokes that I had to count. Then it was over. He lay down on the bed next to me. "Big cuddle." I clutched him with a foot on either side as he held me. Still tearing up. Still letting out little sobs. But not quite fully crying.
We lay there for a long time. He stroked my hair and my bottom. Softly asked me if I was going to let him know next time if I was having problems completing my schedule.
"Yes," I nodded.
"Good girl."
I had the most intense feeling of love and intimacy with any human being I think I've ever had at that moment. It was one of, if not the most amazing thing I've ever felt. As I think back on it now, all I can think is, oh my god, I soooo want to do that again. I mean, I remember that the spanking really hurt, but it seems so absolutely beautiful and profound now. And even though I have this desire to repeat the experience, I also want very much to be good.
Though good girl spankings just don't have quite the same effect.
Last night I got spanked because I didn't finish reading the book that was on my schedule last week to finish -- one of those icky evangelical Christian historical fiction novels I'm deconstructing for my thesis. The issue for my Mr. Stern was the importance of the schedule and my failure to meet all the items I'd committed to completing that week (not many, only three items as I've gotten spanked in the past for making my schedule too ambitious). When he said I was going to get a "pretty severe spanking" later that day, I argued that it was only one thing one time that I hadn't finished when I've had months of completing my schedules. But I didn't really have a good reason for it not being done. Mostly not being able to settle down and just read the damn book. Not really budgeting enough time. Letting myself get distracted, which is easy when it's something I don't really want to read in the first place and you're in a studio apartment with your boyfriend. "So, you didn't allocate your time properly." No, I didn't -- a spankable offence certainly--but it didn't seem to merit a "pretty severe spanking" in my opinion. Unfortunately, my opinion, which I certainly have a right to voice, is not what decides as apparently it's not necessarily the most objective.
Hmph.
A year and a half ago, right before we actually met in person and he was keeping track of my offenses in a little book (which he has since lost...how very unfortunate...he he he) I decided I was going to change a deadline and casually let him know that I was changing it. "Uh, no you're not going to change it or there would be no point of having a deadline," he said. I was a bit stunned. What do you mean I can't change it? I'm a grown adult and I think I can decide when I want to change a deadline, I thought. After a bit of discussion ensued, he finally said I could send him a brief essay about why I should be allowed to move the deadline. So, I sat and thought and outlined and wrote. And the next day when he came online and read the essay, he politely but firmly declined my request. I had tickets to see Ibdaa, a Palestinian dance troupe, whose performance I needed to leave for in short order which meant that I had no time to argue with him. But damn was I sulky. I enjoyed the show but sat through it stewing. He just didn't understand. He was just being mean. He wasn't being fair. And again, I'm a grown adult. Who is he to tell me I can't change a damn deadline when I want to?
Later that night my crankiness melted into resignation and then into compliance. The only reason I was pissed off was because I was not getting my way. I was the one who had always wanted structure and discipline, and now that someone was actually giving me that, why the hell was I getting sulky? He really was not being mean but actually trying to do something for my benefit. Yes, I was a grown adult and as such had chosen of my own freewill and desire to submit to the discipline of another who I respected and cared for a great deal and knew respected and cared about me a great deal.
Yesterday as I awaited the appointed time for my spanking, I stewed and sulked and pondered. While I was still a bit confused about why my offense was so grave, I began to feel fairly acquiescent about my impending "pretty severe spanking." When the time came, I quietly laid down on the bed as I was told to and waited, which has a very similar effect to standing in the corner. As I lay there, I thought about how I had indeed been very naughty. I had purposely done things like clean house to avoid my reading. Watched television when I knew I hadn't finished my reading. And if I was really honest, I had sorta not taken it that seriously, thinking that if I got a few hours done, that would be good enough (you know the old cliche, give me an inch and I'll take a mile). My thinking time was interrupted every minute or two with him calling out to tell me what new statistic he'd found in the report I'd downloaded for him (some research we're doing for a book about the US and the rest of the world), bringing me out of my meditation on my naughtiness and back into our normal relationship. As he read more and I lay there snuggling my pillows, I began to get sleepy. "I'm going to fall asleep soon," I said with what was probably a bit of a whine.
So, in he came. When he took out the bath brush, I winced. When he also took out the wooden spoon, I got that heavy feeling in my stomach as it confirmed my worst fear. The wooden spoon is usually used on my thighs. It really was going to be a "pretty severe spanking."
"Now, why are you getting spanked?" he asked as his hand started smacking my upturned bottom while my knees sunk into the bedspread and my body cradled my pillows.
"Because I didn't finish my reading," I replied.
"And why didn't you finish your reading?"
I paused for a second to think of an articulate way of describing my dereliction of duty.
"Because I didn't 'allocate my time properly.'"
And thinking of an articulate response was becoming a challenge as even his hand over my pajama bottoms was starting to really sting. I had taken a bath not quite an hour before, but I didn't think my skin would still be that sensitive. My stomach felt even heavier as I knew what was coming.
Indeed, just a few seconds later came the tug on my pajama bottoms. More hand spanks on my now bare backside. Then smacks from something wooden but fairly light. (Guess the Implement is a slightly amusing little mental game to ever so temporarily distract you from the fact that it's scalding your backside.) Then the hairbrush. A pause to discuss my infraction a bit more.
How much reading had I actually done?
About three hours or so.
Had I simply not allocated my time properly or had it been a bit much to expect to finish the book?
Hmm...both answers would be bad -- the latter being perhaps even a bit worse since I've been spanked for that before. But honestly? Well, I didn't know. At the time it seemed like a reasonable expectation that I'd finish the book. It's easy reading. Not that long (well, by grad student standards). I had a week to read. At least I thought I did. Was that the week after we came back from Vancouver? Or the week I had the unexpected extended session with the massage therapist?
Even after looking up the dates on my schedule (well, he looked it up while I remained in my er...rather undignified position) I was still unclear. It seemed like stuff had come up that week that in hindsight probably did make it a bit unrealistic to expect that I'd finish the book. But it seemed reasonable at the time.
It's hard to think clearly when you're getting spanked.
Especially with a mean old bath brush.
Which was searing my sit spot. Over and over.
Then it came. That feeling of wanting to cry. But just for a moment. That instinctive need to be stoic quickly pushed it away. Sorta.
Even as my brain was busy trying to process the pain constantly assaulting it from the south, I was becoming aware of this tug-of-war between my desire to cry and my deeply ingrained stoicism. I'd never been aware of it before. Well, that's not completely true. I've seen glimpses of it before, but I was so much more conscious of it this time than I ever had been. I would come to that edge and start to cross over, then stop. Start to cross over again, then stop. In many ways it almost felt sorta out of body. Just sitting and watching myself going back and forth.
He stopped with the brush and started spanking with his hand again. Then told me to lay flat on the bed.
Which in some ways was good because that made my bottom less tense and vulnerable.
But very bad because it made my thighs very much more vulnerable. Which was the whole point.
As he spanked my bottom more with the bath brush, he scolded me. (Boy has he gotten a lot better and mean-- er...uh...sterner -- in his scolding). How the schedule was important. How I should tell him if I'm having trouble finishing it. Combined with my pre-spanking reflection about how naughty I'd been, it made me feel very little and naughty and guilty and repentant. I just wanted to be a good girl again.
Then came those mean smacks with the wooden spoon on my thighs. And promises that if I ever failed to finish my schedule again without good reason I'd get the wooden spoon on the top of my thighs (with the memory of such a spanking adding to the horrible "eek!!" in my gut).
I crossed over the edge again. Stepped one foot fully down on the other side and started to tear up and vocally sob.
I so wanted the spanking to stop.
I so wanted to be a good girl.
I so wanted to let all that sadness and guilt and hurt out.
But it was only one foot. The other stayed firmly planted on solid stoic soil.
For this time, at least.
The bath brush came out again for six more strokes that I had to count. Then it was over. He lay down on the bed next to me. "Big cuddle." I clutched him with a foot on either side as he held me. Still tearing up. Still letting out little sobs. But not quite fully crying.
We lay there for a long time. He stroked my hair and my bottom. Softly asked me if I was going to let him know next time if I was having problems completing my schedule.
"Yes," I nodded.
"Good girl."
I had the most intense feeling of love and intimacy with any human being I think I've ever had at that moment. It was one of, if not the most amazing thing I've ever felt. As I think back on it now, all I can think is, oh my god, I soooo want to do that again. I mean, I remember that the spanking really hurt, but it seems so absolutely beautiful and profound now. And even though I have this desire to repeat the experience, I also want very much to be good.
Though good girl spankings just don't have quite the same effect.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Story: A Bedtime Spanking [M/F]
I wrote this story almost three years ago or so, before I met my boyfriend. So, it's not quite real life. We have no toy box (though I do have a naughty box he he he). No Purple Paddle -- actually, no paddle at all. And my boyfriend would never wear flannel pajamas lol. But, the rest of it is pretty close.
####
A Bedtime Spanking [M/f]
Julia sat at the end of the bed. Howie was in the bathroom doing his “getting ready for bed” rituals. Brushing his teeth. Flossing. Gargling.
Julia waited. She could hear him shuffling around. Then silence. Going to the bathroom now, most likely. Probably just a few minutes more.
She fidgeted. Brought her legs up onto the bed and sat cross-legged. Face in her hands.
Good lord, would he just come out already?
If she had to wait much longer she didn’t know if she could do it. To ask. But she couldn’t sleep…
Five minutes passed. What was he doing? Reading a Russian novel? Her fidgeting increased.
The door unlatched…
“Hey babe, what are you doing up? I tucked ya in a half an hour ago.” Howie emerged from the bathroom in his black and red Blazers shirt with red flannel pj bottoms.
“I can’t sleep…can you message my neck and shoulders?” Julia’s singing smile slithered across her face. Howie could see the subtle dimple in her cheek just right of her mouth in the light creeping in from behind the blinds.
“Of course.” Howie sat on his knees on the bed behind Julia. He kneaded the tight trapezius muscles that had knotted near her neck. Then manipulated down her spine and out towards her side. Julia gave little squeals of gratitude as his strong hands gently rubbed the lumps of rigid muscle. “There, is that better?”
“Oh yes, dear.” Julia’s smile. Warm like a summer afternoon. He encased her inside his arms. Laid his chin on her left shoulder.
“Ready for sleep now?” He kissed her cheek. She shrugged.
“I don’t know.” Ambiguous and sly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nuthin’.”
“Maybe I should just hold ya for a bit.” Howie squeezed his chest tighter against her back.
“Well…maybe…” Julia let out a happy giggle. “Or…well…um, maybe…I need…abedtimespanking…” Like popping medicine down so you don’t taste it.
“Oh yeah?” Howie’s eyebrow raised and a grin overtook his face. “Hmmm…well, then, I’ll go get the paddle then.”
“Wait, I wasn’t meaning for you to use the paddle...” Julia scowled.
“But you know that if it’s gonna put you to sleep I gotta do it right.”
“Nuh UH…You can just use your hand. It’s hard…”
“Well, I’m going to get the paddle anyway, just in case.” Howie winked and walked over to the toy box next to the closet. The khaki-brown bamboo chest Julia bought at a garage sale soon after they married. He rummaged through and lifted out the Purple Paddle. A school paddle made by a friend which Julia painted a dark lavender. With little flowers, hearts, and a butterfly or two. Just thick enough to make a point and sting like the dickens, but not so thick as to bruise. At least not too much.
Julia pouted and stood up as Howie approached the bed. He sat back on the creamy down comforter with his legs stretched out. She climbed up on the bed and laid across his lap. Her navy t-shirt clad-stomach pressed against his left thigh. Her bottom covered with sky blue knit pj bottoms sprinkled with bright yellow stars and moons faced up over his right. Julia breathed in a centering breath, laid her head on her folded arms, and waited for the smacks of sleep.
Howie brushed his left hand over the middle of her back and began spanking Julia with his right palm. Steady, certain slaps. Not too hard, but enough to make her wince. Full slaps across the middle of her buttocks. Down low near her thighs. Over to the right. Then the left…Disjointed at first. Then a steady rhythm.
The pattern paused as Howie grasped the elastic waistband of Julia’s pajama bottoms and cotton panties. The stars and moons scrunched down over her fleshy cheeks. She raised her stomach and thighs just enough for him to continue pulling the cotton sky down to her knees. He rubbed his hand over her warm, rose skin then resumed his earlier cadence. Across the middle. Down near her thighs. Over to the right. Then to the left...Stingy and strong. Jiggling the pads of fat and muscle. Julia’s wincing tightened her eyes and mouth holding whimpers of hurt.
He paused again and gripped the Purple Paddle that had sat forlorn next to him. Tapped it against Julia’s red, tender skin. Then brought it down with a hard thwack.
“Ooweee…” Julia yelped. Howie followed it up with several more hard spanks. The paddle was long enough to strike both cheeks at the same time but required a determined wrist motion to do so without punishing the right cheek and neglecting the left. After a couple years of practice, Howie had mastered it. With thoughtful, resolute spanks. Julia released her whimpers. She squealed and curled her toes. Cradled her face in her arms. The spanks came down to the intersection of her thighs and buttocks. That tender sit spot. She cried out the onomatopoeic terminology of pain. The paddle sliced the top of her thighs. Scalded. Over and over. Though there were no tears, Julia’s whimpers congealed into the sound of sobs. Howie brought the paddle back up to the fleshiest part of her buttocks. He slapped down the paddle there with a measured beat for a long while. A perpetual pulse that stung but didn’t burn. Julia loosened her rigid wincing. Took in large, full breaths. Howie softened the spanks to firm pats. Then he halted.
“You feelin’ sleepy yet?” he whispered. Julia nodded as he rubbed her soft, hot skin. She continued to pull in air with her stomach. Howie picked up the paddle and resumed his stiff, smarting taps. They crescendoed into searing smacks. Harder. Faster. Biting across the middle. Onto the sit spot. Down along her thighs. Julia sunk her face back into her arms. Cried without tears. Squealed, sobbed, and squirmed. Jerked her feet towards her bottom. Gripped the comforter between her fingers. Unknown emotions that she couldn’t name spilled out with her yelps. Emotions that had been haunting the muscles throughout her body. Released by the throbbing thud of the Purple Paddle. Howie returned to the purposeful pats of earlier then stopped and slid the paddle down onto the bed.
“Shhh…it’s alright. It’s all over now.” His hand hovered over her raw buttocks and thighs in a gentle caress while Julia continued her tearless sobs. With his left hand he stroked her hair. First with his palm, then with his fingertips. Soft and tender. Her sobs turned to whimpers and then to a cleansing gathering of air. “I’ll go get the aloe vera gel while you get into bed.” He slid his left arm underneath her chest and guided her up onto her knees. She crawled over to the top of the bed, then lay down on her stomach.
The gel made Julia shiver as Howie rubbed it over her skin in small, purposeful circles. He put the bottle on the nightstand, returned the pj bottoms around her waist, then lay next to her and resumed stroking her hair. She turned the left side of her face onto his chest, atop Scottie Pippen with a big head holding a basketball. And as she roamed off into dreamland, she smiled.
Sometimes, you just need a bedtime spanking.
Coypyright 2002 Natty
####
A Bedtime Spanking [M/f]
Julia sat at the end of the bed. Howie was in the bathroom doing his “getting ready for bed” rituals. Brushing his teeth. Flossing. Gargling.
Julia waited. She could hear him shuffling around. Then silence. Going to the bathroom now, most likely. Probably just a few minutes more.
She fidgeted. Brought her legs up onto the bed and sat cross-legged. Face in her hands.
Good lord, would he just come out already?
If she had to wait much longer she didn’t know if she could do it. To ask. But she couldn’t sleep…
Five minutes passed. What was he doing? Reading a Russian novel? Her fidgeting increased.
The door unlatched…
“Hey babe, what are you doing up? I tucked ya in a half an hour ago.” Howie emerged from the bathroom in his black and red Blazers shirt with red flannel pj bottoms.
“I can’t sleep…can you message my neck and shoulders?” Julia’s singing smile slithered across her face. Howie could see the subtle dimple in her cheek just right of her mouth in the light creeping in from behind the blinds.
“Of course.” Howie sat on his knees on the bed behind Julia. He kneaded the tight trapezius muscles that had knotted near her neck. Then manipulated down her spine and out towards her side. Julia gave little squeals of gratitude as his strong hands gently rubbed the lumps of rigid muscle. “There, is that better?”
“Oh yes, dear.” Julia’s smile. Warm like a summer afternoon. He encased her inside his arms. Laid his chin on her left shoulder.
“Ready for sleep now?” He kissed her cheek. She shrugged.
“I don’t know.” Ambiguous and sly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nuthin’.”
“Maybe I should just hold ya for a bit.” Howie squeezed his chest tighter against her back.
“Well…maybe…” Julia let out a happy giggle. “Or…well…um, maybe…I need…abedtimespanking…” Like popping medicine down so you don’t taste it.
“Oh yeah?” Howie’s eyebrow raised and a grin overtook his face. “Hmmm…well, then, I’ll go get the paddle then.”
“Wait, I wasn’t meaning for you to use the paddle...” Julia scowled.
“But you know that if it’s gonna put you to sleep I gotta do it right.”
“Nuh UH…You can just use your hand. It’s hard…”
“Well, I’m going to get the paddle anyway, just in case.” Howie winked and walked over to the toy box next to the closet. The khaki-brown bamboo chest Julia bought at a garage sale soon after they married. He rummaged through and lifted out the Purple Paddle. A school paddle made by a friend which Julia painted a dark lavender. With little flowers, hearts, and a butterfly or two. Just thick enough to make a point and sting like the dickens, but not so thick as to bruise. At least not too much.
Julia pouted and stood up as Howie approached the bed. He sat back on the creamy down comforter with his legs stretched out. She climbed up on the bed and laid across his lap. Her navy t-shirt clad-stomach pressed against his left thigh. Her bottom covered with sky blue knit pj bottoms sprinkled with bright yellow stars and moons faced up over his right. Julia breathed in a centering breath, laid her head on her folded arms, and waited for the smacks of sleep.
Howie brushed his left hand over the middle of her back and began spanking Julia with his right palm. Steady, certain slaps. Not too hard, but enough to make her wince. Full slaps across the middle of her buttocks. Down low near her thighs. Over to the right. Then the left…Disjointed at first. Then a steady rhythm.
The pattern paused as Howie grasped the elastic waistband of Julia’s pajama bottoms and cotton panties. The stars and moons scrunched down over her fleshy cheeks. She raised her stomach and thighs just enough for him to continue pulling the cotton sky down to her knees. He rubbed his hand over her warm, rose skin then resumed his earlier cadence. Across the middle. Down near her thighs. Over to the right. Then to the left...Stingy and strong. Jiggling the pads of fat and muscle. Julia’s wincing tightened her eyes and mouth holding whimpers of hurt.
He paused again and gripped the Purple Paddle that had sat forlorn next to him. Tapped it against Julia’s red, tender skin. Then brought it down with a hard thwack.
“Ooweee…” Julia yelped. Howie followed it up with several more hard spanks. The paddle was long enough to strike both cheeks at the same time but required a determined wrist motion to do so without punishing the right cheek and neglecting the left. After a couple years of practice, Howie had mastered it. With thoughtful, resolute spanks. Julia released her whimpers. She squealed and curled her toes. Cradled her face in her arms. The spanks came down to the intersection of her thighs and buttocks. That tender sit spot. She cried out the onomatopoeic terminology of pain. The paddle sliced the top of her thighs. Scalded. Over and over. Though there were no tears, Julia’s whimpers congealed into the sound of sobs. Howie brought the paddle back up to the fleshiest part of her buttocks. He slapped down the paddle there with a measured beat for a long while. A perpetual pulse that stung but didn’t burn. Julia loosened her rigid wincing. Took in large, full breaths. Howie softened the spanks to firm pats. Then he halted.
“You feelin’ sleepy yet?” he whispered. Julia nodded as he rubbed her soft, hot skin. She continued to pull in air with her stomach. Howie picked up the paddle and resumed his stiff, smarting taps. They crescendoed into searing smacks. Harder. Faster. Biting across the middle. Onto the sit spot. Down along her thighs. Julia sunk her face back into her arms. Cried without tears. Squealed, sobbed, and squirmed. Jerked her feet towards her bottom. Gripped the comforter between her fingers. Unknown emotions that she couldn’t name spilled out with her yelps. Emotions that had been haunting the muscles throughout her body. Released by the throbbing thud of the Purple Paddle. Howie returned to the purposeful pats of earlier then stopped and slid the paddle down onto the bed.
“Shhh…it’s alright. It’s all over now.” His hand hovered over her raw buttocks and thighs in a gentle caress while Julia continued her tearless sobs. With his left hand he stroked her hair. First with his palm, then with his fingertips. Soft and tender. Her sobs turned to whimpers and then to a cleansing gathering of air. “I’ll go get the aloe vera gel while you get into bed.” He slid his left arm underneath her chest and guided her up onto her knees. She crawled over to the top of the bed, then lay down on her stomach.
The gel made Julia shiver as Howie rubbed it over her skin in small, purposeful circles. He put the bottle on the nightstand, returned the pj bottoms around her waist, then lay next to her and resumed stroking her hair. She turned the left side of her face onto his chest, atop Scottie Pippen with a big head holding a basketball. And as she roamed off into dreamland, she smiled.
Sometimes, you just need a bedtime spanking.
Coypyright 2002 Natty
Monday, January 17, 2005
Bedtime Spankings
Geesh, bedtime spankings have been getting me in so much trouble lately.
Okay, I like a nice bedtime spanking. You know, something sorta over the knee. Just the hand. Maybe a hairbrush, but not too hard.
So, every once in awhile after I'm in my jammies and brushed my teeth, I sit next to my boyfriend (who is usually on the computer) and sweetly ask for a bedtime spanking.
Well, a couple of nights ago, I was feeling slightly bratty. When he came over to the bed where I was sitting to spank me, he told me to lay down. Now, I know he meant on my tummy, and he knew I knew what he meant, but like I said, I was feeling bratty. So I laid down on my back. Grinned and said, "okay, I'm laying down." Without so much as a stern look, he simply told me to turn over. And then informed me that since I didn't do what I was supposed to do, I was going to get the riding crop.
Eek! I haven't gotten the riding crop since last Spring. Since before the horrible kidney infection in September that took all my endorphines away.
I gulped. Why couldn't I have been a good girl and done what I was told?
But you know what? The endorphines came back! I mean, it hurt like it always has. But, that's the point. Like it always has.
And they've stayed around too. Which is good because the other night when I asked for one, or rather, said it would be nice to have one, I got a bit bratty again. Though, it was sorta unintentional -- well, at least not the way I meant it to be.
We were sorta sitting there web surfing. I had mentioned earlier that a bedtime spanking would be nice. Time had passed and I was thinking that he wasn't going to bother. So when he finally said that I should go to bed, I just looked at him with my steely defiant look. "You know," he said calmly, "the longer you sit here, the more severe the implement will be..."
Ugh! I jumped up then and there to go to bed. When he came over to the bed, he spanked me with the brush, then made me turn over on to my back and lift my legs up. Double ugh! Apparently he decided that such defiance had to be curbed right then and there so I got the spoon on the back of my thighs.
Very owwee.
But, much more bearable than it would have been last month.
Yay for endorphines. And for my body that's getting back into spanko mode.
####
P.S. Yes, I know you're reading my blog and thinking "wait -- I was here on January 9th and the 17th and I didn't see these posts." Yep, you're right. But God bless Blogger as it lets me put any old date on here that I want to. So, I figured I'd post them with the dates they would have had if I would have had a chance to post them then.
There are more January blog posts from my journal forthcoming...
Okay, I like a nice bedtime spanking. You know, something sorta over the knee. Just the hand. Maybe a hairbrush, but not too hard.
So, every once in awhile after I'm in my jammies and brushed my teeth, I sit next to my boyfriend (who is usually on the computer) and sweetly ask for a bedtime spanking.
Well, a couple of nights ago, I was feeling slightly bratty. When he came over to the bed where I was sitting to spank me, he told me to lay down. Now, I know he meant on my tummy, and he knew I knew what he meant, but like I said, I was feeling bratty. So I laid down on my back. Grinned and said, "okay, I'm laying down." Without so much as a stern look, he simply told me to turn over. And then informed me that since I didn't do what I was supposed to do, I was going to get the riding crop.
Eek! I haven't gotten the riding crop since last Spring. Since before the horrible kidney infection in September that took all my endorphines away.
I gulped. Why couldn't I have been a good girl and done what I was told?
But you know what? The endorphines came back! I mean, it hurt like it always has. But, that's the point. Like it always has.
And they've stayed around too. Which is good because the other night when I asked for one, or rather, said it would be nice to have one, I got a bit bratty again. Though, it was sorta unintentional -- well, at least not the way I meant it to be.
We were sorta sitting there web surfing. I had mentioned earlier that a bedtime spanking would be nice. Time had passed and I was thinking that he wasn't going to bother. So when he finally said that I should go to bed, I just looked at him with my steely defiant look. "You know," he said calmly, "the longer you sit here, the more severe the implement will be..."
Ugh! I jumped up then and there to go to bed. When he came over to the bed, he spanked me with the brush, then made me turn over on to my back and lift my legs up. Double ugh! Apparently he decided that such defiance had to be curbed right then and there so I got the spoon on the back of my thighs.
Very owwee.
But, much more bearable than it would have been last month.
Yay for endorphines. And for my body that's getting back into spanko mode.
####
P.S. Yes, I know you're reading my blog and thinking "wait -- I was here on January 9th and the 17th and I didn't see these posts." Yep, you're right. But God bless Blogger as it lets me put any old date on here that I want to. So, I figured I'd post them with the dates they would have had if I would have had a chance to post them then.
There are more January blog posts from my journal forthcoming...
Sunday, January 09, 2005
A New Spanking Year
I rang in the New Year with a spanking.
Well, okay, actually I rang it in throwing up. Not because I was drunk or anything. Never even got that far. I came down with a touch of the stomach flu.
Didn't feel good on New Year's Eve, but had a dinner date at a friend's and dragged myself there. I mean, it was New Year's Eve. I didn't want to stay home. Plus, I wanted my boyfriend to meet one of my best friends.
So we went. Ate dinner. Watched "Seinfeld" on DVD. My boyfriend and I planned to watch fireworks at Waterfront Park and stop off at a bar for some New Year whiskey. So, we caught the bus back downtown, by which time I was feeling really icky and feverish. But, you know, I like to be tough. And well, I have Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome so I feel like crap most of the time anyway. So, I just dragged myself along without saying I felt sick.
Turned out, there were no fireworks along the river. Just some lame ones six blocks to the west of us at Pioneer Courthouse Square behind all the office buildings. But, we'd sat there in the cold waiting for them. You know, while I was feverish and feeling icky. I finally said I wasn't feeling that well, so we went home.
It wasn't until I threw up a few hours later that he realized just how sick I was. When I heard him say "you shouldn't have been sitting out in the cold if you were this sick," I knew we'd be continuing the conversation later. Probably with a wooden spoon.
I got sorta lucky. It was only the belt. Which hurts, but is a much more manageable pain for me than a wooden spoon on my thighs.
Well, okay, actually I rang it in throwing up. Not because I was drunk or anything. Never even got that far. I came down with a touch of the stomach flu.
Didn't feel good on New Year's Eve, but had a dinner date at a friend's and dragged myself there. I mean, it was New Year's Eve. I didn't want to stay home. Plus, I wanted my boyfriend to meet one of my best friends.
So we went. Ate dinner. Watched "Seinfeld" on DVD. My boyfriend and I planned to watch fireworks at Waterfront Park and stop off at a bar for some New Year whiskey. So, we caught the bus back downtown, by which time I was feeling really icky and feverish. But, you know, I like to be tough. And well, I have Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome so I feel like crap most of the time anyway. So, I just dragged myself along without saying I felt sick.
Turned out, there were no fireworks along the river. Just some lame ones six blocks to the west of us at Pioneer Courthouse Square behind all the office buildings. But, we'd sat there in the cold waiting for them. You know, while I was feverish and feeling icky. I finally said I wasn't feeling that well, so we went home.
It wasn't until I threw up a few hours later that he realized just how sick I was. When I heard him say "you shouldn't have been sitting out in the cold if you were this sick," I knew we'd be continuing the conversation later. Probably with a wooden spoon.
I got sorta lucky. It was only the belt. Which hurts, but is a much more manageable pain for me than a wooden spoon on my thighs.
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