Catching up

Okay, we finally got the Internet connection fixed, so it's time to catch you up on the spankings I've had in the last two weeks.

As my last post mentioned, I was a bit cranky last week and this time a bit more vocal about it. Though, my boyfriend, A., says that my cranky is really "cranky-lite," the "diet-Coke of cranky" with pinky finger hooked to the corner of his mouth. (Think "The Spy Who Shagged Me.") At any rate, I woke up that day really achy and tired because I hadn't slept well due to the fact that my hip is STILL bothering me after almost a year now and has flared up even more the last few weeks. I had been annoyed with all kinds of things all day and when I got pouty, A. just responded with silly faces to make me laugh. Which did make me laugh, making me all the more annoyed.

"Stop it," I'd whine.

"But it's the best remedy for crankiness," he'd say.

"Nuh uh."

"That's alright, I'll sort you out later." He couldn't then because my dad was with us. So later that night after I'd taken my dad home, I figured he'd be sorting me out. When he just got ready for bed instead, I got really bratty. He emerged from the bathroom to find me sitting on the corner of the bed, my arms folded over my chest.

"About fucking time you got out of the bathroom."

He gave me that mock-shocked look as I went into the bathroom. While I, um, did my business in there, I could hear him rummaging around underneath the bed.

Damnit! Why oh why can't he just use his frickin' hand? Why does he need implements?

To be honest, as it was over a week ago, I don't remember the details of that spanking well. I believe there was a strap and a brush involved. And a half-assed lecture about swearing. I do, however, remember him saying afterwards when we cuddled that it was hard for him to be very stern when I'm cranky because it's so cute.

Sigh...what can I say? Maybe I should change my nickname to the Cranky Cutie. ;)

The second spanking took place last week while we were on holiday at the Coast. We stayed in the cottage of the Sandlake Country Inn, a delightful Bed and Breakfast in Pacific City where our privacy was priority for the innkeepers. Indeed, each morning they brought breakfast in a basket, placed it on the doorstep, rang the doorbell and left. The only time we saw them was when we arrived and when we left. Which was a good thing because we packed with kinky play in mind. However, we didn't end up doing much kinky play as those bastards at Thrifty Car Rental failed to tell us over the phone about a variety rules, including those about additional drivers, despite being specifically asked, so I ended up having to drive, causing my hip pain to flare up to ungodly levels. After a night of very little sleep, we decided to have A. drive and hope we didn't get into an accident or anything as I was utterly incapapble of driving by that point.

And we needed to drive up to Cannon Beach to meet a spanko friend from online. The innkeeper said that it would only take an hour or so to drive to Cannon Beach. We were meeting our friend at 5:30, so leaving at 4:30 seemed reasonable, right? Wrong. It actually takes about an hour and 15 minutes. And of course, I was running about 10 minutes late. Why? I have no idea. I'm always late and still can't quite figure out what exactly causes me to be late. Then there was road work. Though that didn't throw us off too much. But we ended up in Cannon Beach at 6:05 pm.

"I'm so blaming you," A. said as we got out of the car. As always (it's a play thing). Though this was rather merited as we did leave late because of me. We ended up missing our friend. And while I enjoyed the poshest dinner I've ever had later that night at the Stephanie Inn, it was with a twinge of dread as I knew a spanking awaited me at the end of the night. Tardiness usually carries a six strokes with the brush per minute late penalty. And A. had most assuredly packed the brush. Thankfully he was in a merciful mood when we got back to the cottage, especially as our being late wasn't entirely my fault. I only got the strap and his hand. Which made for a nice, cozy glow to sleep on. If only he would do all bedtime spankings like that...

The last spanking was Friday. We finally got our Internet connection up, and the new cane arrived from Adam and Gillian's. I was trying to catch up a bit on blog reading and managed to make it over to the Punishment Book where Mija was showing off some antique brushes she's put on sale at Ebay. I didn't even get a chance to finish reading the post as A. decided my reading a spanking blog was a sure sign I was hankering for a spanking, despite my protestations to the contrary. It was over a pile of pillows on the bed for me.

My first taste of a rattan cane was almost a year ago. At that time I remember thinking that rattan stings much more than bamboo. And Friday I was reminded of just how much they sting. I got six of the best several times over as A. played around with intensity and position. Then he decided to compare it with the riding crop to see which one hurt more. OW! Definitely still have to go with the riding crop as the more painful implement. There was a final nine strokes that were fairly severe. Then the strap. Then his hand. Then lots of cuddling during which I fell asleep.

Spankings do seem to have that affect on me.

So, my gentle readers, you are all caught up. And no, we still have not had the "discussion" yet, but I suspect that will be the next post.

There's nothing like a good spanking...

...to put you in a better mood. :-)


[Note: I started writing this post a week ago but between the holiday and no internet connection, haven't been able to finish it until now. I'm using a tenuous wireless hotspot here in my apartment for the moment. Hopefully they'll figure out what's wrong this week.]

I'm not normally a cranky sort of person. On those few days when I am, I tend to suppress it as I don't like to make others suffer from my bad mood. And that was true for the first few days after my boyfriend arrived. I felt really cranky, but didn't really say much. I mean, it wasn't his fault. I was tired and feeling shitty. My neuropathic pain was back. And I had no libido. At all. It was really annoying.

I kept telling myself to be patient. I was actually able to drive to the airport to pick him up, and I haven't been able to drive for almost two months. Hell, I've spent most of the last two months in bed. So, I mean, there is progress here.

But I still felt annoyed.

And I wanted a spanking. Well...sorta. My body still felt squeamish about it.

As we were leaving Trader Joe's Friday afternoon, we talked about whether or not we had enough time to get the Flexcar washed before we had to have it back. As I looked at my watch, I thought it would be cutting it too close.

"And you don't want to be late," he said with a pseudo-stern grin. "Or rush to get back."

"Nope. I learned my lesson that day." And, you know, I have too. I tend to leave a lot more time for things now, which means I rush less. Funny how that works.

"Actually, you've been very good since I've been here," he said as we pulled out of the parking lot.

Sigh. Yeah. I have been. I've felt too shitty to be otherwise.

When we got home, he unloaded the groceries while I sat in the car waiting to take it back to its appointed parking spot. After taking the first load in, he came back out for the second.

"Did you honk at me?" With a stern-ish edge to it.

"No." I shook my head a bit puzzled as I hadn't heard any honking. Then felt that devilish feeling come up and honked the horn. "But now I did." And grinned my mischievous grin.

Yay! My bratting instincts are back.

He gave me a mock shocked look. Took the rest of the groceries inside.

A little while later we were sorta just sitting lazily and talking. At one point the conversation shifted to a discussion of his new glasses and how stylish they are. He pulled them down his nose as I giggled about how stern they made him look. That's when he mentioned that he hadn't really spanked me since he arrived.

"Nope, ya haven't," I said.

"Right. It's six now. At 6:30 I want you on the bed in your knickers."

"Okay." There was a pause for a few minutes. Then I giggled. "About time you fucking spanked me."

Yep. Those bratting instincts are soooo back.

"My my, you do need a spanking," he said after another mock shocked gasp.

"Ummm...yeah," I grinned.

I was ready now. Both mind and body.

So, at 6:25 I was on the bed laying on a pile of pillows in nothing but my pink flowery knickers. Watching from the corner of my eye as he pulled out various implements: the new leather strap, the paddle, the mean ol' brush. Feeling that excited dread coursing through my veins.

It was basically a "getting reacquainted" spanking. Testing out where my pain threshold was utilizing the 1-10 scale. The strap was about a 7. The brush an 8 1/2 and the paddle a 9/10. Yeah, that paddle freekin' hurts. He also played a bit with the diminutive, broken cane while we await the new one from Adam and Gillian. At 12-inches it definitely gives a bit of a sting and leaves some marks, leaving me to imagine what the full 33 inches will be like.

Then he got out the wooden spoon.

"Do you know why I'm going to use this?"

"Um...no."

"It's because this is the implement most associated with past spankings about your writing." As he spanked me, he told me to be thinking about all the writing I do -- novel, blogging, school, emails -- and how much time I spend on each and how much time I want to be spending before our forthcoming discussion.

Which, trust me, I've been thinking about a great deal after that damn wooden spoon.

A funny thing happened once the spanking finished. I was no longer cranky. And I was even a little, er...libidinous.

"I'm in a much better mood now," I said with a happy sigh as we cuddled before falling asleep that night. "I've been feeling cranky all day."

"I didn't even know you were in a bad mood."

"Well, I don't know, I usually don't really say anything."

"You'll have to tell me next time when you're cranky."

Well, yesterday I told him. Boy oh boy, did he get to see me in a cranky mood.

But that will have to wait for another post.

Internet service down

Just a quick note here from my school's computer lab (my haven't I gotten brave) to let you know that my Internet service is down and may not be working again until Monday (ugh!). I hope to return to writing about the salacious details of my spanking life as soon as possible.

In the meantime, go get some sun and quit blog surfing. ;)

P.S. No, we haven't had that "discussion" yet, though we did have a different one. I've started writing about that but was only able to get about half way through the post before I got too tired and had to save it to finish later. And then, of course, I wasn't able to access the Internet to finish it so, it's still in draft status for now.

The annual SSC at SSS

Every summer at the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup there is a short story contest to give all us perverts plenty of summer reading. Should you be creatively inclined, you might try your hand at writing a story for the fame and accolades this venerable contest provides. Er...well, sorta. Okay, maybe not much fame, but perhaps a few accolades.

Here is one of my stories from last year, "Spanked by Mr. Schneider." I'm working on a few stories for this summer, but I'd love to see what you write. :)

Hey-la, day-la, my boyfriend's back

Now I'm going to get a beatin'. ;)

Actually, last night I got a little spanking, more to test out his new toys: a scrap strap from Adam and Gillian's (I like it) and a paddle from Woodrage (ouch!!). We tested them out with me bent over in front of the dresser, then a bit more bent over the bed, then finally over his lap. It felt so nice to be over his lap again that I almost cried. Though, cuddling was even nicer.

We're supposed to have a "talk" soon about the novel I've been taking a break from writing. Or rather, we were going to have it this evening but my dad stopped by unexpectedly (one of the few times his timing was impeccable!) and we didn't get around to it (oh, what a shame...). The break was a legitimate break that we both agreed upon. However, it's getting to be time to start writing again and spanking does help to focus my mind a bit.

Sigh...but it's going to hurt. :(

Story: Dealing with My Disability [M/F]

This is an old story to tide y'all over while I'm sick. And as illness has been the topic of many of my posts lately, I thought I'd post this particular story which originally appeared at the soc.sexuality.spanking Usenet newgroup in March of 2002. At that time I had recently been diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome (also called Myalgic Encephalomylitis outside the U.S) and was suffering a relapse severe enough to convince me that I had to take a leave of absence from school. As I'm in the midst of a similiar relapse, this seemed like a particularly apt story to post. It's not one of my better stories -- there are parts of it that make me wince a bit. And I kind of giggle to myself as the character of Walter is sort of an amalgamation of three people, all of whom I can recognize in certain lines. But, at any rate, here it is. Enjoy.

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

Story: Dealing with My Disability [M/F]

"I think we need to meet..." Walter's voice lingered in my mind as the
clock ticked closer to 5:30. When he said those words, I knew I was in
trouble. And with only fifteen minutes left until he arrived, I couldn't
decide if I wanted the minutes to hurry up and pass already, or to stay
off, away in a future that wouldn't come. At any rate, I still had
fifteen minutes -- no fourteen minutes - to rehearse my arguments. To
practice my spin...

"Well, I see you haven't touched your meds for today..." He glanced down at the plastic rectangle with boxes for each day containing pills and
capsules of various size and color on the countertop of my kitchenette
as he came into my studio apartment. D'oh!

"Oh, yeah...I forgot," I said without thinking.

"Well, I'll have to make sure I help you remember."

"Well, I mean, I didn't really forget...I just haven't gotten to them yet.
And, well, my throat has been kinda sore so they're not as easy to
swallow..." Yeah, there was always a health ailment to get me out of
trouble...Or so I thought...

"Yes, but that's all the more reason to make sure you take them if
you're not feeling well."

"True...I'm just taking them after I eat dinner...and some of them are for
bedtime anyway." Lame attempt, I know.

"Of course." He looked at me with a wry smile and a raised eyebrow.
"Now, how about if I take a look at your journal." My
symptom/food/activity journal. It was something to help the doctors keep
track of my illness, as well as help me think about what I was doing. To
learn to listen to my body when I'd as soon ignore the headaches and
fatigue telling me I needed to rest before I get REALLY sick.

"S.s..sure..." Right to business, as usual. I handed him my spiral bound
notebook. This was the part I worried about. There in my pencil
scratchings, or lack of them, was the grim truth that I had not been as
diligent in keeping tack of my symptoms. And when I had written down my
food, it was stuff I shouldn't be eating. And when I tallied my
activities and the points of energy they cost me, I had clearly racked
up far too many.

"Hmmm..." Walter flipped through the pages as his eyebrow reached further
towards his hairline and his lips pursed together.

"See, I've been feeling better and I've been wanting to kinda see how
much more I can do...I mean, I think the herbal decoction from the
acupuncturist is really working - tastes like shi - I mean crap - but,
um, you know, I think I should push a little bit, try 'n get my body to
come back to the real world. And besides, I haven't had a relapse for
well over a month...I think I'm really starting to get better..."

"A month is hardly enough time to consider yourself 'cured,' my dear..."
His eyebrows crinkled towards the center as he looked away from the
notebook and down at me. He was only 5'10 or so, but as I'm exactly 5'
and ½ inch, he still towered over me. "And pushing yourself is why
you've gotten so sick in the first place." I rolled my eyes, sighed and
looked away. I hate when he insists on "logic" and "reality."

As my primary argument was no longer valid, I spent the next few minutes
as he flipped through the rule-lined pages trying to think of ways to
soften the edges of my transgressions. I used to try and think of
counter-arguments. Well, I still did. But I was no match for Walter. He
was a lawyer and had years more practice at it.

"You spent four hours at the mall on Saturday?? What were you thinking?
You're one major daily activity is only suppose one or two hours and not
that physically exerting...certainly not a four hour hike through the mall!"

"Well, I was hanging out with my sister...she was home and ---"

"And then you went out to a movie...and then out to a coffeehouse afterwards?"

"We would have gone to a bar but she's still underage." I grinned with
that mischievous twinkle. He glared.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"I won't die..." I mumbled.

"You never know..."

"Yeah, I do. CFIDS isn't fatal...it's just.... debilitating..." The last word
scraped through my mouth. I really despised it. Or any of the words used
in brochures, medical journal articles, books, websites, or newsgroups
to describe my illness. A dark scowl washed over me. I guess I still
hadn't finished going through the Five Stages of Grief...

"That's right. It is debilitating and will get even more so if you don't
take care of yourself. And clearly you have not been doing that." His
voice had that mixture of sternness and impatience.

"It's just..." I didn't mean to start crying. Really. I had never cried in
front of Walter. But my scowl turned into tears and then into sobs.
"It's just that I never get to have any kind of normal life. I'm just so
tired of watching life go by and never having the chance to grab hold of
it, you know? I'm tired of feeling like some old woman..." I folded my
arms as my eyes became red and puffy and my nose started to run. Walter
stood frozen at first, then grabbed a Kleenex and handed it to me. "I'm
sorry..." I said. "I'm not crying on purpose to manipulate you or
anything. I mean, I know your right...it's just..."

"No, I understand...it's okay." He put his arms around me as I cried into
his chest. After a few minutes I calmed down, took a deep breath, and
blew my nose one more time. Walter gazed at me while I tossed the tissue
into the trash. "You know, sometimes I really have a hard time spanking
you because I know you're in so much pain as it is and I hate adding to
it." I gave him a faint attempt at a smile. "But, if the few minutes of
pain I give you keep you from weeks of pain later, I will do it." He
walked over to my desk and wheeled the chair out away from the
furniture. Sat down and sighed. Patted his khaki-clad thighs. "Well, I
think it's time for you to come lay over my lap." I nodded and laid my
plump little body down so that my bottom was the first thing underneath
his right arm.

The full skirt of my pink summer jumper came up towards my neck and my
white cotton panties scooted down to my knees. My bare feet dangled off
the floor. That feeling of utter exposure. And I certainly didn't feel
like an old woman anymore...Walter tapped his thin, slender wooden paddle
against my skin a few times as I braced for the coming stingy blows.

And they came. One on top of the other. Over and over. I curled my toes
in pain. Squeezed my eyes shut. Pressed my lips together. Every now a
then tried to swallow a whimper.

"So once again we find ourselves in this very embarrassing position..." he
began lecturing. Why did he say "we?" I was the one with the naked butt
up for God and everybody to see. But I was focusing too much on how much
my naked butt hurt to mouth off. "And why are we here?"

"Cause...I...ow...wasn't...taking care of...oweee...myself."

"That's right. And how were you not taking care of yourself?" His voice
was calm and focused. Why did he ask me questions while he spanked me?
Did he not realize that it takes a great deal of concentration to get
through a spanking? These queries were extremely distracting. Eventually
he stopped the questions and just whacked away at my cheeks and thighs.

I was whimpering steadily when he stopped. He rubbed the middle of my
back as I gazed at the carpet pile. The sides of his thighs pressed into
my stomach. I relaxed. Wrangled with my fingers and picked at lint on
the floor.

"I know I don't need to tell you why you need to limit your activities
or not eat certain foods, or take your medication. You're a smart girl.
So, just do what you're supposed to do to get better. You've got to
focus everything on getting well. Okay?" That last word he said without
the sternness. More friendly. I nodded. He tugged the part of my hair in
a barrette. "Hey, you. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Alright then." I could see underneath the chair, down by my feet that
he was picking up the paddle again. Crap! I was getting more? A hot
splat on my backside answered. Apparently so. Another ten whacks seared
my already raw skin. The he stopped. Rubbed my back some more. Dropped
the paddle at his side to the floor. "Okay, we're done now." He held my
left arm as I pushed my right hand on his thigh to get up. As soon as I
was upright, I pulled up my panties and smoothed my skirt back down.

I stood in front of him as he still sat in the chair. Held my hands
behind my back. Bit my lower lip. Shifted my feet. Gulped and breathed
in staggered breaths. Walter smiled.

"Gosh, sometimes you really are such a little girl..." He shook his head.
I did a half roll of my eyes, smiled and bit my bottom lip again. "You
want me to help you put some ice on your bottom?" I nodded.

"Just lemme put some aloe vera on first." I went into the bathroom and
slipped off my panties. Cut off a half-inch portion of a leaf from my
aloe vera plant. Slit the side, peeled back the skin and rubbed the
cooling, gooey gel all over my backside. I came out and lay down on my
stomach on my bed. Walter placed the ice pack on top of my skirt
covering my bottom. As I bruise at the slightest touch, though not as
badly since I added Grapefruit extract and a synergistic Vitamin C to my
daily meds, the ice pack would keep the bruising to a minimum. Walter
patted me on the head.

"Now, I want you to rest and take care of yourself, okay?" I nodded.
"Then once you're better I can start beatin' on you to write those great
research papers for me to read." He grinned as I rolled my eyes and
scowled. "And you'll go back to being a great scholar and graduate
student -- why we started meeting in the first place..."

But at that moment I wasn't a graduate student or aspiring scholar, a
Person With CFIDS (PWC), or the old person I often felt with it. I was a
little girl who just needed someone to take care of me. Small.
Mischievous. Spirited. Rebellious. And little enough that my feet still
dangle when I'm over a knee getting spanked...

The week before

I'm sorry my postings have been so sparse lately. I've been battling some virus for the last week or so and every time I'm on the computer for very long I end up feverish, which exacerbates my neuropathic pain.

So, just 6 more days before my boyfriend gets here. It's funny. The week before we get together, he always gets deliciously stern. Notes any and every transgression, no matter how trivial. In the intervening months I could burn down a police station without a worry in the world about the consequences (well, at least from him, though he might remember that one long enough to spank me for it once we were together) but that week before, woe to me if I'm not on my best behavior! ;)

Okay, honestly though, I'm still ambivilent in my anticipation about getting spanked. My mind wants one but my body is still reticent. If this damn fever would go away, I might be less ambivilent. But, at least I'll have him here to cuddle with while I feel shitty. :)

Thoughts while watching Law and Order

Yesterday was a "don't even think of getting out of bed" day so I watched a lot of television between naps, including back to back episodes of "Law and Order."

One, Sam Waterston is like my quintessential paternal spanko figure. He always manages to come up with facial expressions that encompass everything I'd want in a daddy: moral principal, scolding, consternation, with a tad bit of gentleness thrown in. He's been in my spanking fantasies since I first saw him in "I'll Fly Away,"(an absolutely brilliant television show from 1991 that made me go "wow, I never thought television could get this good!"). Those fantasies became even more acute after he played a father who whips his daughter with a belt in the movie, "Man in the Moon." He looks similar to a high school history teacher I had, about whom I had only the vaguest of spanking fantasies, but who was someone I respected a great deal and remained in touch with after high school.

So, every time I watch him on "Law and Order" I end up thinking about him as the father/DA on "I Fly Away" and wishing he could be my dad, except maybe a bit stricter. ;)

Two, detective Fontana gave the rich girl caught in the crossfire at a drug party a firm but fair tongue lashing in the second episode last night. It was quite yummy.

A couple of funnies

One, you'll notice I figured out how to create expandable post summaries so you can browse down through the front page without quite so much writing to plough through. What's funny for me is that the code you type into your html page is "span class="fullpost." If any of you ever read my into at the Punishment Book, you'll know I have a hard time typing the letters "s-p-a" without following it with "n-k." It's kinetically ingrained in my fingers and brain.

Two, I just ordered a cane from Adam and Gillian's last week and when I went to pick it up at the campus housing office today (which is almost a miracle in and of itself as I have been mostly housebound for the last month), a former student of mine was working there and she asked what the package was. "A new cane," I said sorta tipping my head towards the cane I walk with. "I'm accessorizing." He he...how's that for a good cover? ;)

Except, sad to say, when I got the box home and opened it up, the cane was broken! {pout} They were really nice on the phone when I called to order it, so I'll call them in the morning (or afternoon when I usually wake up) and see what we can work out.

Update: Adam and Gillian's is sending me a new cane and sending a claim into UPS. Frankly, I think whoever it was I talked to on the phone was ready to cane UPS! ;)

On his way

Yup. The bureaucratic hassles are over and he's booked the flight. :D

Two weeks from tomorrow tonight I will have a happy but sore ass.

Confessions of a structure junkie

Well, my academic career is over. At least for the foreseeable future. Two years ago when I started taking classes after a leave of absence for illness, I managed a good productive six months or so catching up on incompletes. Then last year it was one health crisis after another and aside from a bit of reading and publishing a couple of book reviews and a review essay, there wasn'’t much progress.

[...]

Though by this winter I was feeling better and thought maybe it was time to dive back into the thick of things. So, I registered for some classes thinking that the interaction and structure of the classroom would help me back onto the path of academic accomplishment from which illness had led me astray.

Yet, as I recounted in the "“school girl pt.2" post, I was pretty damn tired by the end of the first week. After dropping a class and just focusing on the one, I struggled along for a month. However, by May I was bedridden and began to finally face the painful truth: it's over. Over after six and a half years of stubbornly insisting that I was going to get better and get back onto the academic fast track I spent my undergraduate years and first year and a half of my MA program doggedly pursuing before surgery and blood clots in my lungs and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome reared their hideous heads. I cannot push my body anymore. And frankly, I can'’t push my brain anymore either. At the end of the day, my illness takes all the intellectual energy I have that would otherwise be spent on examining how a series of Christian historical fiction novels about the founding of the State of Israel in 1948 reflect and shape a collective memory among American Evangelicals.

Aside from the gaping hole in my personal identity with academia taken out of the equation, the big issue for me in finally giving up school was that I would have no structure. I found myself becoming depressed each morning when I woke up. What would I do today? Not that I've had much structure for the last year and a half. But that was supposed to be temporary. I always had something hanging over my head waiting to be done. Now it was gone. What on earth was I going to do from now on? What was there to wake up to?

School has always defined my goals. It was what provided structure growing up when there was none at home. I hated summers. Summers were this excruciating ordeal of housekeeping and television. There was some reading and writing. But, without a teacher and an assignment and a deadline, there wasn'’t anything to make sure I really accomplished anything. By the beginning of August I was always jittery with school withdrawls. Need...structure...{leg bouncing while reading old textbook} must...have...assignments... (Funny episode of the Simpsons where the teachers strike, and Lisa gets out her emergency school kit--that was so me.).

Sure, I did read my share of books. But, I wanted so much more. I wanted to learn more. To be pushed more. Obviously my spanking fantasies converged with this and still do. When I read Mija'’s and Haron's punishments a few months back for not working on their respective dissertations, I was rather envious. And when I read Claire'’s description of enacting a "sixteenth-century boarding school"” regime to get some of her work done, all I could think was, omg, I soooo want that.

Have always wanted that.

Of course, all the punishment in the world wasn'’t going to change the fact that I wasn'’t getting much done. But I wanted it to be something a good spanking could cure.

School in real life was not nearly that draconian, even if I wished it was. And the threat of getting anything less than a perfect grade was far more motivation than spanking would have been. Though there were moments. There were teachers who would give me "A" minuses for work they would give other students "A"”s. My undergraduate French professor (who I think was a spanko and at the very least was a nun sans habit) was the most egregious in this respect. She often pushed me much harder than the other students in class. At first I thought she just didn'’t like me, and I certainly wasn'’t too keen on her. Indeed, she almost made me cry in class once. It wasn't until that summer I learned the truth when a friend of mine pointed out that this prof only pushed me because she liked me. And you can even say there was even a bit of corporal punishment when, at a wine and cheese event we both attended, I made a comment to her that my Arabic was taking over my French and she smacked me on the arm--only half playfully. By that point I took it as the highest form of affection she could have shown. :)

But, even if school life was hardly that of Tom Brown, there was structure. Goals to accomplish. Degrees to pursue. Schools to get into. Courses to take throughout the summer. I liked doing homework outside in the sun.

And now that I can't handle assignments and deadlines, life feels like one very long August.

Okay then, if I am to be the patient, I will find structure in that. Create structure for that. And I have a boyfriend who likes enforcing structure, so surely something will be accomplished.

So, I tried to set up a daily regime. Ride my exercise bike. Do some yoga or qi gong, as well as forty-five minutes of meditation. Eat a low sodium diet. Write in my journal every day. Take all medicine and supplements every day. Do the moxa and massage every day. And physical therapy exercises every day. And...and...

But there were also medical appointments to attend. Transportation to coordinate. Case workers to meet with. Housing options to figure out and applications to fill out. Insurance denials to appeal.

And, of course, get some rest. Something my body was as determined for me to get as I was about creating structure in my academy-less life.

When I announced to my boyfriend that I was going to start sending him a schedule again with my new illness-related to-do list, his response felt tepid. When I then promptly forgot to send it to him and he didn't say anything, I figured he wasn't too keen on the idea. Granted, I think he just hasn't been in the mood to be much of an "enforcer"” but as I was exhausted with anemia by that point, I decided to forget about it. Not because I wanted to but because I was just too damn listless to discipline myself to do much of anything.

But I could be doing so much more as a patient. I should be...

A few nights back my godfather and I were talking. He is only a year older than me but was my sponsor when I became Catholic five years ago and in the Byzantine rite that makes him my godfather. He feels closer to me than just a friend and has a paternalistic streak about him that makes him feel very godfatherly sometimes. At one point as I told him about all the bureaucratic shit I'’ve been having to deal with in addition to being sick and all that I was doing to deal with being a good patient, he stopped me. "Do you remember right after I came out and I kept calling myself a ‘faggot’ because I was angry at myself for being gay?"” Of course I did. He was a good Arab Catholic boy who was supposed to marry a good (hopefully) Arab Catholic girl and have lots of good Arab Catholic babies, except that he finally realized he was attracted to boys. I knew the rejection of his Church and culture were agonizing for him and it was agonizing for me to watch him reject himself. "“And remember how you said to me, '‘have mercy on yourself?'’ Well, now it's my turn. Michelle, have mercy on yourself. You'’re dealing with so much right now. Please be kind to yourself. All the other stuff will come in its own time."

Yes...yes, it will.

So, in addition to letting go of my academic career, I'’m also trying to let go of my incessant need for structure. It'’s funny because the stereotype of the top/bottom relationship is of a control freak and passive submissive. In reality, I'm the one who is the control freak and has tried to use spanking as a way to control my world (again, see "school girl pt 2"). But I think for right now, I'’m going to just rest. Quit trying to impose structure on myself and just be. And let the structure rise up on its own, however long it takes and in whatever form it takes.

Quote of the night

My boyfriend's response to Anne Robinson's face lift:

"I better not hear of you getting a face lift, young lady, or it will be a butt lift for you!"

{giggle}

Brain chemistry

I'm not used to posting about news items on this blog, but the New York Times (reg. required) had a fascinating article about how neuroscientists have pinpointed the part of the brain associated with passionate love.

In an analysis of the images appearing today in The Journal of Neurophysiology, researchers in New York and New Jersey argue that romantic love is a biological urge distinct from sexual arousal. It is closer in its neural profile to drives like hunger, thirst or drug craving, the researchers assert, than to emotional states like excitement or affection.

It made me wonder if that's what is also happening when it comes to spanking. Spanking can be arousing for me, but normally it's not. But it is something I will crave like Ben and Jerry's or water, even though while I'm getting spanked it hurts like hell and I'll think why the hell did I want this? I always just thought it was the endorphine rush. But another little snippet from this article made me think there might be more to it.

In the study, a computer-generated map of particularly active areas showed hot spots deep in the brain, below conscious awareness, in areas called the caudate nucleus and the ventral tegmental area, which communicate with each other as part of a circuit.

These areas are dense with cells that produce or receive a brain chemical called dopamine, which circulates actively when people desire or anticipate a reward. In studies of gamblers, cocaine users and even people playing computer games for small amounts of money, these dopamine sites become extremely active as people score or win, neuroscientists say.

And maybe it's that dopamine circulates actively when I desire or anticipate a punishment. That some wire is crossed, or is too sensitive so that dopamine circulates for both states -- reward and punishment.

I dunno. Just something that got me thinking.

Long time no post

Yeah, I'm sure some of you are thinking, when the hell is that girl going to post something already?

Actually, my boyfriend was chiding me about it just the other night. And you can imagine what he thought the remedy for my dereliction of duty should be... ;)

And I really have been meaning to post a few things.

One, I think I have spanko neighbors. The other night, when it was warm and everyone had their windows open, I heard this rapid smacking sound and a sort of high pitched squeal-like cry. Then it stopped. Then awhile later the same thing. It went on like that for a good hour or so. Sounded like just a hand, no implements. But damn has it made me curious. And it's hard to figure out who it is when your apartment building is three stories.

Two, spent yesterday reading stories over at Nathan Rysher's site after reading a nice piece he posted to the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup. I've always really liked schoolboy stories. Well, at least the ones where the teachers aren't viciously cruel. I think it's the idea of corporal punishment being sort of a fact of life and used to push pupils to do better that makes me like them. And Nathan's stories encompass all of that. Makes me almost wish I was a boy. :)

I'll try and post a bit more throughout the week. There's a lot of spanking-related thought going on in my head. Just haven't had much energy to post lately. Hopefully some newly purchased iron supplements will change that soon. :)

Spanking dreams

Have any of you ever had a dream where you get spanked (or are spanking) in a dream?

I have before but the one I had this afternoon during a nap was the first one where I woke up rather aroused.

I don't remember it all that clearly, just that I was talking on the Internet and then my boyfriend was suddenly around. First he spanked me with his hand otk. Then there was some sort of audience in what looked a lot like the balcony in my old church but with a swimming pool below. My boyfriend was at the front and people were sitting there and I had to walk down to him and then sort of kneel down or something and then he whipped me with a riding crop.

[...]

That's when I woke up.

Yeah, I miss my boyfriend a lot. And getting spanked. :)

Though, my fantasies of late have been far more tame. More the little girl otk thing. Real life has been tough these last few weeks. My foray back into the classroom has been a disaster health-wise. I'm now being added to the elite group that, along with those 65 and older, gets to participate in Meals on Wheels (though I should say that I'm so relieved as I've been struggling to cook myself healthy meals on a regular basis). There are times when I start to think my therapist's suggestion about using a walker may not be such a bad one. And my mom made a comment the other day that by the time I am a senior citizen, I'll have the whole thing down pat.

That made me feel oh so much better.

Needless to say, ageplay has a lot of appeal at the moment.

Think I'll head to bed now and drift off to sleep to memories of past times when my boyfriend and I have dabbled with ageplay and I sat in his arms on the couch as he read me Amelia Bedelia...

A spanko at Safeway

On my way home from acupuncture I popped into Safeway to grab a few things -- sandwhich bags, Ben and Jerry's, green onions. As I dragged myself through the aisles I saw a plastic fly swatter and thought it might be handy now that the weather is warm enough to open the windows letting in all sorts of bugs. But it also looks like it might be a nice slapper of sorts. Then as I came out of the produce aisle they had a bunch of kitchen gadgets on sale. Including a very solid, wide wooden spatula. It was only $1.99. I couldn't resist.

As I placed the fly swatter and the wooden spatula on the conveyor belt for the cashier to ring it all up, I couldn't help but have that delicious sort of naughty feeling. And wonder if he was thinking how these implements might be put to use also (though if he did, he certainly didn't show it).

However, I've been going through several bad pain weeks again. It's a long, sordid tale about our shitty, poorly funded Medicaid system that I will leave for another blog to rant about. But, needless to say, I'm back to having those mixed feelings at the moment towards spanking. On the one hand, I certainly fantasize about spanking a lot. Yet when I think about actually getting one, I get all tensed up and scared. Sorta like last fall. Which, then I get all scared that I'll have to give up spanking. Especially after reading last night in a magazine at the acupuncturist's office that chronic pain actually changes brain chemistry and can actually shrink the gray matter in the brain. But, as I looked it up in the medical journals, I also stumbled upon a study which suggests that the brain processes chronic and acute pain differently.

So, I guess I can keep getting spanked for now. Or rather, maybe wait a few more weeks or so until my brain calms down a bit. Which will be just in time for my boyfriend to get here. :)

Shower spanking

There's no other word for this post at Thoughts from a Spanko but...mmmm.... :)

Medicinal Spanking

Yes, I believe I have discovered a medicinal use for spanking.

I've been having problems with pain in my right flank area - the hip, right buttock, upper front and side of the thigh, the illiopsoas region. Some of it is bursitis, some of it is muscle tightness from years of not walking properly because of my bad ankle, some of it (caused by the bursitis and muscle tension) is a pinched lateral femoral cutaneous nerve. My various medical professionals have tried anti-inflamatories (which eat up my stomach despite being on both Prilosec and Zantac), narcotics, acupuncture - including electro-acupuncture, and bodywork. The last one has been the only thing that has helped much. But, I can't afford to see the massage therapist as often as I need to in order to really resolve the pain.

This last week at acupuncture (which I get free at a really cool community clinic here in Portland called Outside In) I got a moxa stick (an herb burned to do the same thing that acupuncture needles do) and some advice about arnica and castor oil being anti-inflammatories. She suggested that I take a hot bath so the pores would be open to allow either the arnica or the castor oil to sink in, then to burn the moxa stick over the region as close as I could stand it to get it as hot as possible.

So, I've been following these instructions this week, but after I finished, I sort of gently smacked the area of my hip. It felt good -- not in the spanko way, but in the "stuff is relaxing" sort of way. So I smacked some more around my hip, then my right buttock, then onto the side of my thigh where the pinched nerve is. It still felt good, so I kept doing it, a little harder this time, until my arm got sore (actually made me feel a slight bit of sympathy for you poor tops). It wasn't enough to register pain, but my right buttock did have this nice tingle, as did my thigh and hip.

And, the cool part is, it's been working. My flank region isn't hurting quite as badly. I can actually palpitate around the bursa without about jumping up from the pain.

Now, I know Paul over at LaFesse had a story from Russian scientists who found that whipping cured depression, though the study has yet to make into the medical journals. But maybe my cure for hip pain can be added to list of the medicinal uses of spanking.

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]