One of those nights

[Warning: this is a bit more graphic than my normal posts, so if you're not into that, well, don't click on any of the links.]

Gawwd, don't ya just have those nights where you're randy as hell and all you can think about is how you just want to have your ass beaten good and proper?

Of course you do, or you wouldn't be reading this blog. ;)

But, alas, my boyfriend is 8 time zones away at the moment, though only for a month or so and then he'll be HERE and my ass will be attended to properly and thoroughly I can assure you.

So, what to do in the meantime?

Well, on those nights like tonight (eep! this morning rather) I end up wandering the 'net.

And that's where those good people at Rigid East Films are so very handy. You can click on any of their movies and see a gallery of still shots from the film. Lots of shots.

Now, most of the time I tend to fantasize about nice, cozy, over the knee type of spankings. But on nights like tonight, I think about them rough. With me very exposed. Sorta like this. Or like this. Oh, and I so want to get a spanking bench like this.

Lately I've been fantasizing about enemas (I can't believe I'm talking about this out loud). I'm still not sure I'd like it in real life. But when I think about having to lay on my bed, with my butt up in the air, having a large nozzle pressed into my anus, then a good, thorough spanking, well...I do get a bit tingly {giggle}.

And I so want a governess like this (that's ginger root she's taking from the maid).

Yes, there is a part of me that always feels a bit queasy about spanking porn. One of the things I like about RGE is that they show galleries of preparation and shooting so you see shots of everyone out of role, sometimes laughing or making silly faces. Not that it means for certain that these women are doing this because they like being spanked, but I guess it makes me feel a bit better about it.

Oh, and they have the BEST costumes. I mean, I LOVE fancy, frilly dresses. Hell, *I* might even be willing to do a spanking movie just to get to wear those dresses. :)

Consent

After a discussion last night with someone in a spanking chatroom about the issue of consent, I felt the need to write a bit about the importance of consent in a disciplinary relationship over at the Punishment Book.

I hate to be cliched and all, but, you know, the whole "safe, sane, consensual" thing. Your partner has to want to be in a disciplinary relationship. If he or she doesn't, then you can't force it on them.

A naughty schoolgirl?

Well, as I mentioned a few posts ago, I registered for classes this Spring term. Normally I do by-arrangement (independent study) coursework for my thesis because I haven't been able to handle making it to a classroom, and I've needed the student loan money to pay for medical treatment not covered by Medicaid (that’s a rant for another blog).

[...]

However, I wanted to get to know some professors who might be useful for my thesis, and since I've felt a bit healthier since January, I registered for three classes this Spring term: American Cultural History -- a Monday/Wednesday/Friday class at 10 am, Israel/Palestine through Film -- Tuesdays and Thursdays from 4:40 to 6:30, and a one day class on John Wayne in June.

I was so excited. I was going to get to be around other people. I was going to get to wear something other than my pajamas.

But I also had my concerns. I didn't have quite the energy level that I had two years ago. I'm still averaging three medical appointments a week that I would have to attend in addition to class. I would be going somewhere EVERY day, which I haven't managed on a consistent basis in recent memory.

But...school!

The week before I bought my books and a spiral notebook for classes. New pens. Remembered the excitement I use to have about buying school supplies.

I forgot how much energy sitting in a classroom takes. The fluorescent lights. The uncomfortable chairs (though better than the wooden side desks of before). How being around large groups of people sucks the vitality from me like a kid with a pixie stick. How my short term memory is so slow now I struggle to remember what the professor said long enough to write it down in that new spiral notebook. And even with my swanky new $6 pen endorsed by the Arthritis Foundation, my hand aches if I take notes constantly throughout the class.

The fatigue set in pretty quickly. By Thursday of the first week I barely managed to stagger to class. Once I sat down, the professor announced he wanted us to get into small groups and talk about what we believed to be the cause of the Israel/Palestine conflict. You mean I have to actually *talk*? Afterwards I had that ache in my lungs that every since the pulmonary embolism I get when I'm really really tired. Friday I had to skip class and rest. By Tuesday of the second week I could barely make it from the bed to the bathroom and the kitchen. The next day I decided to drop my American Cultural History course. I can get to know that prof another time. The other classes are far more useful for my thesis. And these days, utilitarian is the key.

It's funny though because the minute I talk about skipping class, I think about being a naughty schoolgirl who needs a spanking. Of course, in that situation I think I would have gotten spanked if I hadn't skipped. My tendency is to push and push because I want my way, which in this case was to go to class and not drop any courses. In fact, my boyfriend is coming in a month or so (yay!!) and we're planning a holiday. At first he wanted to go midweek in May as it will be cheaper. When I said that I have class, he was the one to say "well, you can blow it off for one day can't you?"

And he's the one who's supposed to make sure I'm being a good girl...geesh. ;)

But it's made me think of how much my perspective has changed in the last few years. I'’ve hardly done any reading the last two weeks, but I know that I haven’'t because I've been too tired. A few years ago when I didn't understand yet that I had Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome (CFIDS/ME), I just thought I was being lazy. Why the hell can'’t I get my work done? Why the hell am I spending so much time online that I should be using to read for class?

So, I constructed myself as a naughty girl who didn’'t do her homework because she was naughty. It was appealing being the naughty girl. In reality I’'m a very good girl because throughout my life being naughty meant either the rage of my abusive stepfather or fear of abandonment by people who liked me because I was a good girl. With other spankos, I can be a naughty girl and be liked for being naughty. Plus, the punishment I got would not be one of unfettered rage but controlled and consensual. It was safe. Like I could be that willful “"Natty"” part of me.

It was also a way of not having to face the more frightening reality that something was wrong with me. While I didn'’t understand that I had a chronic illness, I did understand, though not fully, that life was different than before surgery. But I didn'’t want it to be. I was certain that if I just told my body to be better already, if I just acted like it was better already, if I just thought that it was better already, then certainly it would be. I so have to laugh at those handful of doctors who still think that CFIDS/ME is psychosomatic. I’'m the poster child for how it’'s not but acted like it was and wanted so much for it to be just "all in my head". I have control over “"all in my head”" (unless I'm a lot sicker mentally than I thought...)

A naughty schoolgirl who thinks that if she's just pushed hard enough then everything will be better eventually finds a disciplinarian. Which I did. We'd set some goals and then I'd email him to say whether or not I'd met them and if I hadn't, we would meet and he'd spank me. I represented myself as the naughty schoolgirl doing half-assed work who just needed a good spanking as motivation. It’'s not like I intentionally misrepresented myself. I really believed that at the time. Though a part of me began to question why doing half-assed work was so bad, the part of me that understood that I couldn’'t possibly do what I was expecting myself to do.

Yet, I could never ask why I was questioning. Mostly because I didn'’t know how to do that yet. I really had that little self awareness then. But it would have also meant having to confront what my therapist finally made me confront a few months later: that I was too sick too much of the time to possibly be a grad student and a teacher. And that realization was so horrible for me to come to terms with that it’'s only been within the last year -- perhaps even the last several months -- that I'’ve finally accepted it and let go of having to be a grad student and academic.

And I suppose this term is sort of a test to see just how well I've let go. The Israel/Palestine class is in a building I've not been in much since my undergraduate days, so the inevitable contrast has occurred. As an undergraduate I worked there, as well as used the computer lab in the basement to write most of my papers. They were happy, busy days. When I could climb the stairs easily rather than struggle up them with a cane (not the fun, swishy kind but the metal, get-me-around-without-falling kind).

Now my days are a bit more leisurely by those earlier standards. Though in many respects more grueling. I mean, just walking to class is a major achievement for me.

In a warped sort of way, I’'m actually grateful for my illness. I get to appreciate so much that my peers take for granted. I get to see life in very different ways. Though I process information far slower than I used to, it'’s like it gets to simmer awhile in my brain so that what finally comes out has that rich complex taste of a sauce that has simmered for hours.

However, on days like today, when I shuffle along trying to get my stiff body to move and feel far older than my 32 years, being a naughty schoolgirl sounds so appealing. And the temptation to think that if I just got a good spanking I'’d get more done is still there, though has faded considerably. When I think back to that time with my disciplinarian friend, I wish I would have been kinder to myself. Not sought out someone to beat on me for expectations I couldn'’t possibly have met. It'’s funny how spanking can end up being an escape in more ways than one. And so very unhealthy if I'’m not careful.

The last time I took classes two years ago and started to feel overwhelmed with papers and bibliographies and Arabic courses I wanted to take in the summer, my godfather reminded me that first and foremost my job was to be the patient. I sat on the other end of the telephone line rolling my eyes, knowing the familiar lecture that was coming about pushing myself so much and doing everything all at once and how I had to take my illness seriously and use my profoundly finite amount of energy to go to doctor’'s appointments and rest and anything else gets whatever energy I have after that. But I HATE being the patient, I pouted to myself, though I knew he was right.

This time though, I haven'’t pouted. I went into the term knowing that my health came first, even if that meant (God forbid!) getting a B because I couldn'’t make it to class or keep up with the reading. I dropped a course as soon as I realized I couldn'’t do it rather than fighting on like I normally would (though the wiser course of action would have been to start with one class rather than three - I'm still working on channeling that enthusiasm). But that construct of the naughty school girl has still been there, calling me to think of my time spent websurfing as a dereliction of duty rather than an activity that rests my brain (you even see it in that earlier post when I talk about procrastinating). Yet now I realize how much I used the naughty school girl construct to live in denial. And though fake reality seems to be all the rage these days, I chose real reality. The reality in which I am a good girl who is finally learning to be a good patient.

New voices in town

Several weeks ago there was a thread about gender and domestic discipline at the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup. Unfortunately, I missed it while it was going on as I wasn't paying much attention to my newsreader. However, as I read through it once it had quieted down, I kept thinking that same-sex couples were so lacking in that discussion. I was particularly wishing there were lesbian voices.

Well, now there is a delightful spanking blog written by a lovely lesbian couple over at Pink Bottomed Girls that I heartily encourage you to check out. Brat is, well, a brat. And Pink tries to keep her in line. Both write sweet and articulate posts about their relationship.

Another new addition to the spanko blogosphere is Gemladi's Treasure Box, where Mary is finding her feet as she writes about her spanking relationship.

So many blogs, so little time. So keeping me from reading for class...

For future reference

Eek! Ten days since I posted!

Well, I tried to write out a thoughtful post about how school is going but I'm so damn tired I can't quite get it to make any sense, or at least convey what I want it to. But, it occurred to me that this post from my non-kink blog (which I'm hesitant to link to as it's a bit less annonymous) is also sorta relavant here. It repeats a bit of stuff from other posts, but gives a bit more background about me and my inner child (as reticent as I am to use that term with all its pop-psyche baggage) that relates to my spanking kink and upon which I think I will want to elaborate further in a kink context. So, I shall post it here for future reference.

Note: The character of "Allie" became "Natty" in a non-kink story I wrote several years ago about my relationship with her. Something mentioned in "My Natty Moods."

********************************

My little Michelle broke her foot the other night. She fell off the bed when I turned over in my sleep and crashed onto the hardwood floor. The next night as I curled up in bed with her, I noticed a clinking sound in her right sock. Probing softly in the darkness, I could feel pieces of porcelain where her foot should be.

A broken right foot.

Just like me.

I bought the doll a few years ago at my therapist’s suggestion. She thought it would be good for me to have a tangible representation of my inner child. I balked at first. It just sounded so very cheesy, pop-psyche like. Something forty-five year old yuppies from San Marin wearing crystals do. But, I figured I would humor her. Show good faith on my part in getting better.

So, I headed for the Goodwill thrift store. After looking through the piles of plastic, cloth and rubber dolls on the shelves, I found a brown-haired doll with hands, feet and head made of porcelain but a body made of cloth. She was dressed in a velvet green pinafore over a black and white blouse with a lace ruffle collar. Little ivory cotton bloomers and socks. No shoes but she did have a display stand. And though her eyes were brown and mine are green, and her hair was far thicker than mine will ever be, she felt like what I’d imagine myself as a little girl would look like.

Once I got her home, I ditched the stand. Decided maybe her hair could use a comb. Before I knew it, I was sitting on the floor brushing and braiding her hair. Planning little clothes to make for her. Trying to figure out the best way to shod her feet.

And when those times have come when the sadness of the past has overwhelmed me, I have found it very comforting to hold her and rock her and stroke her hair. Of giving some part of me the affection and care I did not get.

It’s not that my parents where horrible people. They were flawed, but not evil. Young and unsure about what to do with a child they weren’t expecting.

Actually, I say parents with a plural, but it was really just my mom. At least, until she finally told my father about me when I was eighteen. They met at a party when they were nineteen and broke up before my mom realized she was pregnant with me. But she was in love with somebody else by the time she did realize and decided what my father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Or me.

Or who would have been my grandparents and aunt.

And so she married this new guy she was in love with, thinking that he’d be my dad and everything would work out happily ever after.

Sorta like how teenagers think.

And when I started talking as a toddler and people thought I was a midget because I used big words, she figured I’d probably do just as good a job being left to “keep an eye” on her adulterous husband as any other adult would.

And I’d be just as patient and understanding at four years old when she divorced him as any other adult would.

And when she married again when I was eight, I’d be just as good a candle-lighter at her wedding as any other adult would.

And when she had another baby girl when I was ten, I’d be just as good at caring for her as any other adult would.

I mean, how many other ten-year-olds get to spend their summer vacations and holidays and days when the babysitter was sick with their own real baby doll to bath and change and feed and dress and push around in a stroller?

When I was a teenager I began writing a novel about my inner little girl. I named her Allie and set her in a small Oregon town in 1897. She had everything I lacked: a caring father, a healthy body, a willful spirit, a childhood.

I lost my healthy body a month before my baby sister was born when I broke my right ankle. At first I just thought it was another broken bone. I’d broken my arm the summer before and it healed up perfectly. During the three months I was in various casts, I understood that I couldn’t walk the mile to school and be on safety patrol. But nobody told me I couldn’t play kickball, so I did.

And when I played right after the cast came off, I ended up back in the emergency room where another one was put back on. After months of playing and more casts, I finally understood what no adult had bothered to tell me.

But not playing kickball anymore meant that I got even fatter. And it’s not like I wasn’t fat enough already as the doctors constantly harangued. And as my stepfather made certain to point out to me.

He also pointed out, in verbally and physically painful ways, that I was not allowed to have a willful spirit. After one particularly traumatic incident in which he broke it like porcelain on a hardwood floor, I created Allie. Gave her my willful spirit for safekeeping.

And my dream of a healthy body.

And someone to care for me.

And a childhood.

But now I want my spirit and dreams back.

I began trying to figure out how to get them back when I was getting to know my biological father, who six years earlier abruptly found out he had an eighteen-year old daughter when my mom called him up one day. And even more after he decided he couldn’t do the father-daughter thing. And particularly after I got to know my grandfather and he instructed me to be my own person a few months before he died.

I hunted for them madly after I had surgery on that right ankle and in the knee above it six years ago and ended up with blood clots in my lungs and then hemorrhaging on the blood thinners and clotting some more and developing some ephemeral but palpably debilitating condition called Chronic Fatigue Immune Syndrome.

But, several months ago when my nieces were spending the night, one of them saw my little Michelle doll sitting on my chair. “She kind of looks like you ‘Chell,” she said as she picked it up.

My doll.

Who is not fat.

Who has brown eyes.

Who has thick hair.

I wanted to grab my niece and kiss her and tell her that was one of the sweetest, happiest things she could have ever said. Instead, I smiled at her softly as she turned to argue with her sister about whose turn it was to use the computer.

Yep. My doll.

Who somehow absorbed the willful spirit I gave away for safekeeping all those years ago.

The willful spirit that refuses to be ashamed of my curvy body and has finally come to accept the leisurely life my illness has brought.

That insists on caring for myself rather than only caring for others.

That clings to my doll with all I have these days as I work at sifting through all the pieces of me.

The doll whose porcelain right foot I glued back together. Yet, whose feet still remain unshod.

Moderate?

What kind of spanko are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Saw this over at a new blog, Spankophille. Also wanted to mention another bloke new to spanko blogging, though not new to spanking or the internet, Alex Birch, whose site is also worth a visit.

Nanny 911

Right. So, I'm watching Nanny 911 on Fox right now (it's my mindless time), and all I can think is how much I want Nanny Deb to be my nanny. :)

You know, she'd have me on a schedule. Like, waking me up. Making sure I have a healthy breakfast. Did my yoga and/or qi gong. Reminding me to get up to take stretch breaks while I'm at the computer and to take my medicine (I almost always forget my mid-day dose).

And even though the real Nanny Deb would never spank, in my mind, I'd be over her lap at least every night at bedtime. With a hairbrush and thermometer on the bedstand. Of course, she would probably also have more, er...uh...old fashioned ways of treating a tummy ache.

Sigh...yes, I think I could use a nanny...

Wrestling with punishment spankings

I read one of the most articulate discussions of punishment spankings within an adult disciplinary relationship that I've ever read over at Patty's blog, A Creative Spanked Wife. What I love about Patty is that she talks about DD as it really is, with all the complex aspects that intertwine when two human beings are trying to define their relationship. This particular post of hers specifically addresses what happens -- or should happen -- when two healthy adults decide to enter into this kind of relationship. That there comes a point where you let go of fantasy and deal with the utter reality of real life.

"The fact of my real life though, is that my husband is not my parent and I am not his child. I have learned the lessons I need to learn and it is not my husband’s role to “teach me a lesson” or “make me behave.” In my opinion, stripping both of these, the legacy of the social meaning of spanking and its initial childish sexual framework from the adult spanking partnership is a significant challenge. I strongly believe that it is essential if there is going to be a healthy power exchange and discipline construct in the relationship. In sexual role play “age play” may be very satisfying for many, but in an adult partnership where there is real discipline, age play is probably not healthy and can’t help but create an exploitive and abusive power exchange. Both women and men have difficulty grasping the nuances that differentiate adult from juvenile punishment spanking. For Fred and I, it’s in the goal of the exercise and the relative accountability and roles of the parent & child versus those of the husband and wife. Teaching and molding proper behavior are laudable aims for parents who apply discipline for their misbehaving children, but mighty presumptuous of a husband who himself has yet to master his own shortcomings and bad habits. I could go into a long winded discourse on ‘transactional analysis,’ but really I believe most of us have an instinctive understanding of the differences in communication dynamics that occur between parent and child and husband and wife. There is nurturing, teaching and role modeling involved in both and there is annoyance, frustration and applying consequences involved in both as well; but the rules of engagement are different. Treating his wife the way he would treat a child is a slippery slope that is very hard to climb back up from. Most men feel ill equipped to parent their wives, and quite a few feel resentful when they are put in that position… not to mention insecure. Children are needy and for the most part, not good partners when it comes to facing stressors and shouldering adult responsibilities, especially not adults who have regressed into the role of child.
"

Now, I know in my own realtionship with my partner, I can't say that there isn't an element of "age play" that occurs during punishment. Though, play is not really the right word as there is nothing pretend or fun about it. But there is a certain nurturing quality to it that would probably be associated with caring for a child that reflects a child-like part of me. Where I've found myself struggling in explaining to myself as an intelligent, compentent adult what I want in a disciplinary relationship is how much of that nurturing is healthy, both for me and my partner. I suspect the answer is whatever works for us.

"...the discipline scenario is not about fixing me, teaching me to be a better person or correcting me for being bad, it’s about using the catharsis of spanking to clean up stress."

I think this is probably the way spanking works on a punishment level for me. It cleans up the stress of having failed in some way. Yet, Patty suggests that reflects a very beginners approach.

"Most couples start out using peripheral things and making rules around them that are just not important to either of them, for us these are things like housework, and laundry...In the true sense of the word, though, these early ‘rules’ were ‘made’ to be broken. They’re spanking rules after all, and getting and giving spankings is part of the way couples develop DD. It’s hard to start out on the hard stuff though, so the fluff does serve for a while. Using them helps couples get the mechanics down, and talk over and work out what feels right and wrong with the nuts and bolts. From here tentative steps will be taken into the ‘real’ issues, and all the stuff listed and discussed up there."

Now, I'm not entirely sure that the rules that my partner and I set up are "just not important" or "fluff." They are usually things we both agree are valuable for one reason or another. However, I can't help but acknowledge that they do end up inevitably being broken at some point and so perhaps on some level they are set up to be broken. Because we've gone to the trouble of making a "rule" and setting up some correlating punishment, whatever should or should not be happening does increase or decrease however the case may be. But it doesn't ever completely end and so punishment ultimately occurs because of the rule being there. I think this is where I would go back to her comment about spanking cleaning up the stress. That the rule is going to get broken at some point and spanking is simply a way of cleaning up the stress that breaking it causes.

It's a lengthy essay, but I encourage you to read it. I'm still wrestling with a lot of it, but as Patty's been doing this for awhile, I think it deserves a bit of wrestling with.

Update: Patty wrote a bit clarifying her post over at the Punishment Book that I hope you'll take a look at.

Spanked at church

Tonight after Divine Liturgy (the Byzantine/Orthodox version of Mass) we had dinner in the fellowship hall as we usually do. I had just filled my plate with casserole and salad and filled my Styrofoam cup with juice and was headed for the table when one of the little three-year-old girls (and we have a lot of them as most of the members of our parish are, er...uh, good, fertile Catholics) came up behind me and smacked my bottom three or four times while saying "spank, spank, spank." At first I was a little shocked, but then turned around to find her grinning mischievously and running off.

Her mother and I were chatting later and when I mentioned being spanked by her daughter, her eyes got wide. Then she smiled a bit sheepishly and said that this particular child of hers (her seventh) sorta does her own thing and you never know what that thing might be.

Though, it was probably only fair as I often play peek-a-boo with this little girl during Liturgy, for which she usually gets scolded.

A school girl again

Yup. For real. I'm taking classes again for the first time in two years. All three are related to my thesis topic (something that has absolutely nothing to do with spanking) and two of them are with potential thesis committee participants. And who knows? If I stay healthy enough for long enough, I just might actually NEED a thesis defense committee.

So, tonight in his stern British voice, my boyfriend forbade passing notes in class, whispering to the other students, and cheeking the teacher.

Sigh...we sooooo gotta play school one of these days...I've got a school tie even...and once we get a rattan cane...

{waking from my school spanking reverie}

Oh...um...right, uh, while I hope to continue to bring you thoughtful reflections about spanking on a regular basis, gentle readers, do note that because of my more active schedule this next three months, not only will I have to actually wear something other than my pajamas, but my spanking reflections on this blog may not be quite as, um, regular.

Thank you for your understanding.

Right, now that I've already managed to procrastinate for most of the day instead of doing my class reading, I guess I'll be off then to...well, read.

Or maybe I'll take a nice hot bath first. And make some tea...

Masochism in Women

Masochism in Women

I love it when I'm reading for class or researching for a paper and come across a really juicy spanko reference. And so do other spanko academics.

Like Kate, who posted the above link on soc.sexuality.spanking today where you can read a passage about women and masochism she stumbled upon while reading for her Gender and Sexuality in Modern Europe seminar.

It almost makes academia worth it sometimes.

Sometimes.

Mighty Believer v. Catholic School Girl

Which Circle? Archives: Mighty Believer v. Catholic School Girl


If any of you are familiar with Campus Crusade or InterVarsity or any sort of Christian campus ministries, you'll appreciate this site. And if you're a perverted spanko like me, you'll love the above link.

Hell, I think I'm going to make that the wallpaper on my computer.

Thanks to Domino for posting this on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup. She always finds great stuff online. And probably deserves a good spanking for being on the Internet too much. (So, if you're a no nonsense Scotsman with a thick tawse, I know a naughty lass in your neighborhood ;) )

Story: Quality Time [F/F]

Dealing with all the repressed emotional trauma of late has made me crave maternal affection, which made me think of this old story. Though, today has been one of those super-fatigue days when the idea of canning peaches sounds exhausting. Hell, just getting out of bed feels a bit exhausting.

Anyway...enjoy. :)



Quality Time [F/F]


It was half past eleven by the time I pulled open the screen door to
Helen's kitchen.

"Hey there! Sorry I'm so late. Just couldn't seem to get out of bed this
morning."

"Well, there you are. Was starting to wonder." She nodded toward the box
of peaches on the kitchen table. "You haven't missed too much. I've
started cutting and peeling, but we've got two boxes of peaches, so
there's plenty left for you to cut and peel also." She pointed to an
extra apron and knife. I giggled.

"Darn, thought maybe I'd missed out on the hard work."

"Ha! Not on your life, kid." Helen dropped some peeled and sliced
peaches into a Mason jar. I sighed and grabbed a couple of peaches out
of the box. "You feeling alright, Natty? You look a bit pasty this
morning." Her brown eyebrows furrowed together as she looked at me.

"Me? Oh I'm fine. Just tired cause I haven't gotten much sleep lately."

"And why's that?"

"Oh, well..." My face flushed a bit. "I've sorta been up late talking with
a friend online the last few nights."

"Ah, I see." In that disapproving parent tone of hers. "Well, guess
you'd better be getting to bed a bit earlier then hadn't you? Don't want
you coming down with something..."

Funny how Helen was like that. I'd only known her for a few months as I
was housesitting next door to her. We started talking one day while I
was taking out the trash, and before I knew it she was having me over
for dinner and lessons on making the perfect pie crust.

We chatted, peeled, sliced and filled Mason jars. Talked about her
grandkids. Then about school.

"How's that thesis of yours coming along? Did you finally get some
writing done this week like you were supposed to?" There was that
parental tone again.

"Well..." I couldn't quite mouth the reality of my dereliction. "I,
um...haven't quite gotten around to it much this week..."

"'Haven't gotten around to it'?" She put down her knife and looked at
me. "And just what has kept you so busy this week that you 'haven't
gotten around to it?'"

My mind raced to find an answer that wouldn't make me look completely
irresponsible. But as I couldn't find one and my tongue wouldn't spit
out the truth, I simply gulped and stared at the counter.

"Hmm...think I know the answer. Procrastination and the Internet can keep you awfully busy I suppose." She picked up the knife again and finished slicing her peach. "Now, remind me again, how much of your thesis did you finish this summer?" I sighed.

"Er...um...not very much..." I sliced my peach very slowly as Helen actually seemed to pick up speed with hers.

"I see." She grabbed the next peach and had it peeled, sliced and in the
jar before I even finished slicing the one I had been working on. I
started working faster in an effort to feel productive. "You know," she
began after a long minute of painful silence, "if I were your mother,
I'd give you a darn good spanking."

"Well, you are kinda like a mom to me," I piped as I cut through a
peach. It just slipped out before I had time to really think about it. I
mean, it was true. Just sort of an awkward time to say it. She smiled at
first. Then pursed her lips and furrowed her eyebrows in a way that made
her look very stern.

"Hmm...maybe then I ought to have you spend some quality time over my
knee, young lady."

"Maybe." Again, popped out before I could think. She put down the knife,
wiped her hands, then handed me a towel.

"Very well, then, come with me." I dutifully wiped my hands and followed
her down the hallway to her bedroom. She led me to a corner next to the
closet. "You stand right here in this corner for a few minutes until I
get back."

And so, being the mature grown-up I was, I stood in the corner. My brain
finally clicked on within thirty seconds or so of standing there and
stammered to figure out at what the hell I'd gotten myself into.

"Alright, come here." I turned to see Helen sitting on the side of the
bed. She had a thermometer in her hand and on the nightstand was a small tub of Vaseline and a wooden hairbrush. "Take off your apron, jeans and panties." I reached back and began untying the apron. "Now, since you looked like you weren't feeling very well this morning I want to take your temp to make sure you're not coming down with anything."

"You mean like...in my..." I held the apron and stood frozen in front of her.

"Yes, in your bottom. It's -"

"--But why can't you just take it orally like normal? Besides, I'm fine.
No fever. Really."

"I'll be honest that I'm doing this as part of your punishment. I want
it to be very uncomfortable so you'll start thinking about your health
more. Staying up all night isn't the only thing you do that's not
healthy - I know you've been eating junk food and doing a zillion other
things that aren't very good for you. And since you act like such a
child I'm going to treat you like one in the hope that it makes you
start thinking like an adult. Now get those jeans and panties off and
come lay over my lap."

I certainly did feel very little as I climbed onto the bed and lay
across her lap. As the thin, cold glass thermometer slid between my
cheeks and then poked against my anus, I couldn't help but whimper like
a four-year-old. It was like being more naked than naked. Yet, I
couldn't remember a time when I've felt more safe and cared for as she
rubbed my back and patted my bottom. A few minutes later she twisted the thermometer around then pulled it out.

"Normal temp. Good." I lay there in an odd state of contentment and
fear. The affection felt nice, but I knew that wooden hairbrush would
not. "Now, Natalie, I'm going to spank you. It is going to hurt very
much. But I hope it will motivate you to be more responsible to do your
work and take care of yourself. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Ma'am," I mumbled with a nod.

"Good girl." She patted my back.

Then they came. Sharp, crisp, wooden smacks on the middle of my
backside. I winced. Then squeaked as they got harder. And when she
started slapping my thighs, I yelped. Curled my toes and gripped the
bedspread. And they kept coming. Burning my skin. I put my face in my
hands and hoped they would stop soon. But they didn't. I began kicking
my legs slightly. Helen landed a very hard smack on my thighs.

"None of that please." And went right back to work on my bottom.
Eventually the combination of the cumulating pain in my bottom and
thighs, the inscrutabilty of it ending and the ever-present feeling of
childishness made me do what any child in that situation would do: bawl
my eyes out. "Alright. It's alright." The spanking ended. Helen was
smoothing my hair and rubbing my back again.

Once my sobbing slowed, she helped me up and into my clothes. Then led
me by the hand into the living room where she sat down in her rocker and
sat me on her lap. And there in her big arms I finished crying.

"There now. It's all over. I know you're going to do much better from
now on." She kissed the top of my head as I nodded. "Think you're ready
to finish canning peaches?"

"Yes, Mommy." I smiled at her. And she smiled back.

Copyright 2003 Natty

My blessed willow switch

In my Carpatho-Rusyn Byzantine rite Catholic parish we call today "Flowery Sunday" rather than "Palm Sunday" because, well, let's face it, there aren't too many palm trees in Eastern Europe. So, instead of blessing a bunch of palm branches and marching around the church, the priest blesses a bunch of willow switches and we all march around the church.

And being the pervert that I am, all I could thinking of was, "hey, if these switches are blessed, does that mean the spanking you get with them is a blessed spanking?"

It also occurred to me that the Easter Monday tradition of boys spanking girls with a pomlazka in Moldavia and Bohemia, from where our particular ethnic branch of the rite hails, may have just as much to do with, well, doing *something* with all those blessed switches as it does with fertility and gettting rid of all the bad stuff accumulated during winter.


pomlazka

I know that's all I could think of during church as the kids whipped the thin, green switches through the air during the procession.

And in the fellowship hall afterwards.

And all I can think of still as my blessed willow switch sits on my table (which will probably not be quite so green and swishy by the time my boyfriend gets back over in a month or so).


My blessed willow switch

Despite the conspiracy theories...

Turns out those Freemasons were all just a bunch of BDSMers.

Consider this, or this, or this, or this, or my personal favorite, this.

All from an historic "fraternalism supply catalog" found at the Phoenix Masonry Masonic Museum.

My boyfriend finds the darnedest things on the Web...

Wholeness of being

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]

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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

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...

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.

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 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.

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.

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)

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. :)

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.

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...