Three is a magic number

Three is a magic number,
Yes it is, it's a magic number.
Somewhere in the ancient, mystic trinity
You get three as a magic number.

Every time I think of three, I think of that Schoolhouse Rock* song. Though one would think "Naughty Number Nine" would seem more appropriate for a blog about spanking. However, three is indeed the magic number today because it's the third birthday of this here blog.

When I mentioned to A. that the blog is now three years old, he was a bit surprised. "I thought it's been longer." And the funny thing is, I feel like it's been a long three years as well. Maybe because my life has changed so much. When I first started blogging, I was still in graduate school. I was still somewhat mobile. Hell, I could still drive.

Initially, I started blogging because I wanted to give a stable home on the web to my spanking stories and essays that I had posted on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup over the years. But like everyone who blogs, I quickly discovered that it was a place to make friends. To share all those kinky hijinks and thoughts that I couldn't share with my vanilla colleagues and family (though, I'm not so sure my family is very vanilla).

Granted, there were only a handful of us in the spanking blogosphere back then: Patty, Tarte, Poiesia, Invidia and Bossman, Library Girl, Sparkle, and, of course, our originator, Dan (I know I'm missing others). Suddenly -- sometime in late 2005/early 2006 -- the number of spanking blogs exploded. But in early 2006 my spanking mojo dried up for a few months. When I came back, the size of the spanking blogosphere was overwhelming, and I don't think I've ever really caught up since. Indeed, I'm not sure if it is possible to catch up as there's just so many.

But it's definitely a case of the more, the merrier. I've been quite happy to see old friends from the newsgroup like Haron and Abel, Dyke Grrl, Alex Birch, Ted and now Jen join the fun -- each contributing their intelligent imaginations that I enjoyed so much before blogging. Mija, another newsgroup pal, has been blogging for a long time but has started blogging about fetish stuff more recently, while Pablo has been blogging for even longer (I think), including kink-related posts here and there.

Blogging is also, at times, as sort of therapy, albeit while thousands of people watch. In early 2005, when I had an improvement in my health and could write more, I processed so much about my kink -- how I use it to relate to my body, how it interacts with childhood abuse, how I integrate it into all of me, how it has helped heal old wounds. And, of course, since then when I haven't been writing about getting spanked, I've been writing about how I nourish my kink while dealing with a long-distance relationship, chronic pain, blood clots in my lungs and a debilitating illness. It hasn't always been sexy, but it's real life.

I remember starting this blog during a few-week reprieve between two very painful infections. And I named the blog after a character I wrote about in a non-kink story who represented the healthy, mischievous little girl I longed to be. The little girl that spanking allows me to be. It was also my nick on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup, so, you know, it made sense.

But I've never been able to escape the fact that I'm not really Natty, at least not the healthy, mischievous little girl. And more and more I find that I'm less interested in escaping. Don't get me wrong, there's always room for a little escaping. I mean, I'll always fantasize about being one of those poor, abused girls in a RGE-Lupus film. And I'll always have a little mischief in me. I mean, it wouldn't be very fun if I didn't.

But I also know that mostly I -- Michelle -- am both a woman and a little girl who thinks too much, is generally very good (indeed probably worries too much about being good), who is both strong and, yes, fragile. And who just needs a spanking every now and then. Or sometimes more. ::grin::

So, thanks for being with me through a lot of spankings -- with canes, straps, wooden spoons and even leeks -- and a lot more.

And on this august occasion, it'd be great to hear from some of you hundreds of nameless individuals who visit every day. Give a quick shout out in the comments section. Maybe share what you've liked over the years. Even a favorite post if you have one (mine is probably the "Under the apple tree" post, though I know a lot of people liked the Grand Canyon spanking). Think of it as NSB's Third Anniversary Delurk Day.

0O0

*For those of you who do not fit that narrow demographic of Americans chomping on Lucky Charms every Saturday morning while watching cartoons in the mid-1970s to early 1980s, Schoolhouse Rock was a campaign to educate us during commercial breaks with three minute cartoons featuring songs about math, science, history ::cough:: propaganda ::cough::, grammar, and personal finance. It was way cooler than it sounds because the songs kicked ass.

I hate losing

Several weeks back A. and I got into a discussion about the size of Brazil within the whole of South America. He was certain Brazil takes up over a third of the land mass of South America whereas I thought it was less. As we do with so many things we disagree about, we made a kinky wager. In this case, an hour of slavery was at stake.

Well, A. finally got around to doing the math to figure out which one of us was right. He emailed me the following results:


Brazil = 8,514,877 sq km

South America = 17,840,000 sq km

= 47.73% of the continent = your sorry slave ass


::sigh::

And he was quite keen on me blogging about my geographic error.

Fuck I hate losing...

"Two teenage girls are in trouble today"

The last couple of mornings I've awakened too early, or rather, woke up at the time normal people wake up but too early for someone who didn't fall asleep until 1:30 am and needs a good ten hours or so to maintain a certain tenuous level of health. While I waited to go back to sleep, I turned the radio on to listen to NPR.

Amidst the horrific news from Minnesota (I used to have nightmares all the time when I was little about a bridge collapsing while I was on it), the local feed reported that two teenage girls were in trouble for leading cops on a high speed chase. And they really started with "two teenage girls are in trouble today following a high speed chase involving..."

Now, maybe I've just had too much naughty on the mind lately, but lordy did my ears perk up when I heard the phrase "two teenage girls are in trouble today." I mean, don't you think it just screams "boiler-plate spanking story ahead?"

Needless to say, I couldn't fall back to sleep.

So, about a half an hour ago I started getting very sleepy. And now that Meals on Wheels has just shown up, I can go back to sleep without interruption.

Just you all wait 'til I get that new (used) laptop. You're going to be inundated with all my pent up spanking thoughts -- both here and at the Punishment Book.

First openly spanko TV personality?

Grand Inquisitor - News from the Big Brother house on Channel 4.com Annotated

"Well," chuckled Carole, "you'll have a laugh here. Are you married? Single?"

"I'm a virgin. I'm not into sex," came the intriguing response.

"Looking to find love?" continued an unfased Carole, "Are you heterosexual?" she added.

"I'm attracted to both genders," confessed Jonty, dropping a second bombshell. "I don't do sexual, I just do spanking instead."

A. told me yesterday afternoon about this conversation at the Big Brother Halfway House and he wondered, is Jonty now the first openly spanko TV personality?

Ramdom perving amidst real life

Ooof! Has it been over three weeks already?

While some of my absence has been related to adjusting to new medication and family stuff, mostly it's been due to my laptop. It's so rickety now that it's basically a desktop, which means I can only be online a couple of hours a day off and on. And as my laptop is sorta like a space heater with a keyboard, I didn't even turn it on a couple of weeks ago when it was in the 100s.

But fear not, my gentle readers, help is on the way. Some ME/CFIDS associates familiar with my laptop travails are donating a sturdy used Thinkpad that is pretty much an equivalent machine to what I currently own. Hopefully I should be getting it sometime next week (knock on wood). And when I do, I'll be able to curl up in bed and blog about all sorts of spanking-related thoughts, especially as I'm feeling a little better on the new medicine (Lyrica [Pregabalin] for you Fibromyalgia readers out there).

And being the pervert that I am, there's been plenty of spanking-related thoughts going on in my sick mind. Here is a random sampling:

• In this post, I mentioned that I've been having a fantasy about the, um, you know, that rectal exam I had back in March. So much so that I decided to buy some KY Jelly -- or rather the Safeway equivalent. And the label on the back talking about what it can be used for included "An excellent lubricant for insertion of rectal thermometers, enemas, douches and similar types of nozzles." I was seriously weak in the knees reading this...(insert dirty perv moan here).
  

• Thanks to the new medicine, I actually made it to a public lecture last month given by a guy who would probably have been my academic advisor had I not gotten sick. He was discussing the background to recent events in Gaza and the West Bank and when talking about Fatah's election loss he stated sternly "they should have taken their whipping and gone off into the corner." It was a lovely moment of perving in an otherwise very serious hour and a half.
  

• Television can provide a lot of pervy moments. A number of pals, like Mija or Haron (actually, she blogged about it a few times, as did Abel), have noted a recent episode of Dr. Who set in a British boys school in 1913 that gave them plenty of fodder. While I'm stuck watching the first series on PBS (and I should be grateful they bought a BBC show that wasn't My Hero), it too has had it's squirmy moments, particularly as my A. has a northern accent similar to Christopher Eccleston's. Like when Rose brings about the end of the world and the Doctor asks her to apologize. He even had the same sort of tone of voice A. has when he suggests I apologize for whatever misdeed -- real or imaginary -- that I've committed. Or when some alien force has taken over a little boy and the Doctor tells him sternly to go to his room. True, it's not the same as him holding a cane at a public school, but, well, I haven't gotten to that series yet.
  

• Along with drooling over stern moments in Dr Who, TV is peppered with spanking references, particularly if the characters are African-American. In just about every episode of Everybody Hates Chris, the mother is threatening or does spank her kids (always off screen). And just before going to sleep the other night while watching Bernie Mac I heard him threaten his nephew. "Boy you better start icing your ass now..." I can even remember an episode where he takes his nephew over his knee. I've always loved predominately African-American shows, most likely because of all the spanking references, but also because growing up poor, I could relate to a lot of the situations (Good Times was my favorite).
  

• And then there are John Wayne movies. I'm watching the Duke, along with other westerns, because should I ever get well enough to return to my thesis, one of the themes I'll be writing about is the western. So, you know, it's a perfect blend of kinky and academic Netflixing. Two little tidbits so far include Glen Campbell spanking Kim Darby in True Grit, which prompts Wayne to tell Campbell to stop as he was "starting to like it too much." And in Stagecoach, the Mexican helping out the stranded riders starts going on that "no matter how much I beat her, she never stops going." One of the riders asks "your wife?" Nope, it was his horse he was beating. I've also watched Mclintock, but, well, that whole movie is about spanking Maureen O'Hara. Think of it as The Quiet Man set in a frontier town, but with more spanking. There are more thoughts I have on John Wayne movies and spanking, but I'll save that for another post.
  

Yeah, I know. I really should quit just writing all of this down in my notebook, but post it here instead of saving them all up for one long post. And when I get the new laptop, I will.

A Fourth of July post

So, uh, the most popular page on this here blog today was the one about my stars and strips knickers. Seems appropriate. ::grin::

Can't tell if I'm just exhausted from new medication or if it's post-viral stuff or what, but hope to blog again soon.

In the meantime, hope you have plenty of fireworks tonight -- literally or figuratively. ;)

A bunch of random spanko ramblings

As that handful of you who read my non-kink blog may know, I'm getting over another virus (ah, the joys of a compromised immune system), hence the reason I haven't been posting much. But, aside from an odd day here and there, it hasn't really dampened my spanking mojo. Seriously, you have no idea how much I've been fantasizing about getting my ass whipped. Well, okay, I suspect a few of you probably do. ::grin::

Regarding my last post, I can report that I have had a bit more success in the orgasm department. Interesting enough, it happened while I was topping A. over the phone and trying to focus on being as cruel as possible to distract me from the vertigo and nausea from the virus in my inner ear. What can I say? I am definitely connecting with my inner domme. ::evil grin::

But, in the yin-yang world we live, I turned very subby after that -- as did A. turn very toppish. I began to fantasize about being a cruel princess who is then punished for treating her servant so horribly. Being ordered to appear in the throne room where I'd be stripped naked and tied to a bench. Whipped severely with a riding crop or maybe a birch. In the middle of my whipping, my nanny would be ordered to hold my cheeks apart while ginger root is inserted. Then the whipping would continue. ::dreamy sigh::

Actually the fantasy I've been having the last several days involves the um, rectal exam my doctor gave me in March. The thing is, the whole thing was so utterly embarrassing. Truly and wholly mortifying. But, um, well, it's that embarrassment that so turns me on now. I keep thinking of having to strip and have my ass probed with a gloved, KY-jellied finger. It's like all I can think about right now. ::moan::

Though my nurse the other day also gave me a bit to fantasize about when I was getting my blood checked. I was trying to swipe a couple of latex gloves while she was getting my chart and she caught me.

"I, um, was going to play with the glove," I lied as quickly as one would come to me.

"Huh?"

"You know, like, while I was waiting."

"I don't know what I'm going to do with you," she shook her head. Of course, I could think of a few things she could do...

Then when it was time to prick my finger, she told me to wash my hands.

"Already did it."

"Are your hands still warm?"

"I hope so," I said as I rubbed them together.

"Well, think hot thoughts." She paused. "Wait, that wasn't what I meant...I mean, not like that."

I laughed mischievously.

"I know what you were thinking. You're bad. Laughing like that. I suppose you were thinking of your boyfriend."

"Uh, yeah." Actually I was thinking of my boyfriend watching as she bent me over the exam table and probed and spanked my ass. ::evil giggle::

Okay, I'm watching Conan O'Brian right now and there's a comedian talking about how the doctor at the hospital gave him opiate suppositories. "It was like the best day of my life." That wonderful opiate feeling starting at the ass.

Oh, yes please. I could go for a bit of that. ::big smile::

A startled sister and fucking frustration

When last I left you, dear readers, my beloved had left me all hot and bothered and was making me wait until Friday (last Friday) to attend to my...um...shall we say, excitement.

Unfortunately his brother ended up staying over the weekend, and I had a nasty fall Thursday night (thanks to a medication that made my already poor balance truly awful) leaving me with some minor injuries and not much mojo. Hence we postponed our phone play until Monday.

So yesterday A. sent me an email telling me to be in my school uniform with the long handled brush and wooden spoon handy when he called at 5:30pm (my time - PST). And being the obedient girl that I am, I was appropriately dressed along with said implements (well, actually I couldn't find the wooden spoon so I substituted the wooden spatula) at 5:30pm sharp. A. finally got around to calling me at 5:50pm (ah, the double standards of the top/bottom relationship...) to tell me he was going out for a smoke and would call me back in a few minutes.

Ten minutes later the phone rings and I answer with a "heya" only to hear my little sister reply with "you were clearly expecting someone else." D'oh!

"Um, yeah..." ::giggle:: "Actually we were, um, going to be, um, doing stuff..." Standing there in my school uniform made me feel particularly conspicuous, even if she couldn't see me.

"Oh, oh, stop! Just...I don't want to hear about it!"

I helped raise my sister and, as you can see, there is still a bit of a mother-daughter dynamic between the two of us, though most of the time it's more like a Lorelei-Rory dynamic.

"Honestly, Michelle, I don't know what I'm going to do with you. You're naughty." She paused. "So, does that help your...whatever?"

I blushed and again felt remarkably conscious of the fact that I was in my school uniform.

"Um...well...actually...um...yes it will."

"Ohmygod! You guys are so weird!"

"Hey, you're the one who brought up the 'naughty' bit."

"Just...I don't wanna hear about you're little phone sex or whatever it is..."

And we then changed the topic for the next three or four minutes until A. called.

I'm not too worried about her thinking that we're weird. For one thing, it's not like it affects our relationship. But I also have long suspected that my dear little sister is a spanko in deep denial. She's quite conservative when it comes to sex and that conservativism extends to all things kinky. But someday when she's ready...

At any rate, A. thought I was naughty too and spanked me (or...well, you know how phone spanking works) for being a slutty school girl. Then he finally let me attend to my state of arousal. Except that I COULDN'T FUCKING COME! When I finally realized that it wasn't going to happen, I yelled out a hearty "Goddamnit!" and just about started to cry.

I think I've only had one half-way decent orgasm since Valentine's Day. I'll always be just about there and then everything stops. Sorta like the Little Engine That Could, except this is more like the little clitoris that can't. Or whatever the mechanism is that causes orgasm.

I know it's just an energy issue. Sex is a lot of work, and I just don't have the energy resources that are needed for it. And it's certainly not a topic people talk about in ME/CFIDS groups. Granted, most people with ME/CFIDS don't even have a libido so I guess I'm lucky in that respect. But the whole thing is really pissing me off.

Hmm...this is the third Tuesday on the trot that I've posted. This might start to become a routine if I'm not careful. ::grin::

Naked Bottom Days

Recently one of our more prolific writers at the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup posted a story called "Spanking Itch." And I dare say, like many of you, there are days when I definitely have the spanking itch.

Now, I might be revealing just how weird I am, but on those days I like to dispense with panties and trousers altogether. There's something very sensual and even naughty about feeling textures other than the usual cotton on my backside. In a way, it's like trying to scratch that itch even if it doesn't make the itch go away.

Since it's almost 90 degrees out, and A. just got me all hot and bothered on the phone before leaving me to go to bed (he has a penchant for doing that to me -- and this time he's making me wait until Friday before I can, um, tend to that...mean, mean, mean!), I decided this would make a great Naked Bottom Day.

Funny thing though. Several weeks back I was having a perfectly lovely Naked Bottom Day when I ended up making it to bed a little past my bedtime. Suddenly my itch disappeared upon the realization that I was going to be spanked the next day.

Impending punishment can be a bitch that way. Well, you know, along with all the other ways it's not very pleasant...

Story: Wrong Driver [M/F]

I'm doped up on a lot of drugs this week and don't know when I'll be awake enough to post something original. So, I dug around my archives and found this oldie.

It's another story looking at the darker side of the kink that I wrote after one of many lengthy threads on the newsgroup about discipline vs play spankings in which a friend of Mija compared disciplinary relationships (or domestic discipline if you are so inclined to call it that) to driving. It was an excellent discussion and the driving analogy helped me understand why an earlier spanking relationship I had didn't quite work, as well as inspired the following story.

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

Story: The Wrong Driver [M/F]

The dishes were still in the sink. Some crusty. Others floating in chili bean slime since Jenny went to visit her sister. And in the living room, Matlock was on.

“Oh, honey, you’re back!” James dropped the remote on the coffee table and jumped up from the recliner. Jenny let him embrace her, but didn’t return the hug. Just stood looking at the empty boxes that should be filled with the pictures and knick-knacks on the walls that would be moving in two days. Boxes he promised to pack while she was gone. “Oh, I missed you so much.” He squeezed her close.

“Yeah? Well, it’s probably good that I’m back then…Especially as those dishes need to be done," Jenny said a flat, tight voice. James blushed.

“I’ve been meaning to do those.” Then he straightened up. “But you’re not doing any dishes – the doctor said you’re suppose to rest. And if you don’t rest, I’ll beat yer butt.” Almost like he were taunting her. Jenny rolled her eyes.

[...]



“Then do the damn dishes.”

“Hey, don’t take that tone with me, young lady, or I’ll take you over my knee right now.” He was half smiling, but she knew he would.

“Fine. I’m gonna go lay down.”

“Alright.” He sat down and picked up the remote. “You did go to your doctor’s appointment yesterday, right?”

“No…” Fuck! “With the whole thing with Mom, I totally forgot. But, it’s just a routine blood test. No big deal to reschedule.”

“I understand, but…” He put the remote down and stood up. “We made the rule. No skipping doctor’s appointments”

“Oh c’mon, James. It was an honest mistake. Yesterday was crazy.”

“I know, but doctor’s appointments are important.”

She was too tired to argue as he pulled her over his lap.

The sting was gone as Jenny laid in bed that night but she was still sullen and she wasn’t sure why. Yes, she had agreed to the rule. It was a fair, necessary rule. And she liked rules. Structure. Discipline.

Yet, she also thought of the dishes, which he finally did after Matlock. The empty boxes, several of which he filled that evening. But only because she was home to make sure. To give him exact instructions. Like she did last month at the airport when she had to stay with him throughout the check-in process to be sure he didn’t get into an argument with anyone that would keep him from his flight. Or had been trying to teach him to call the temp agencies early in the morning to get jobs. And to sound peppy on the phone.

She knew he liked taking care of her. Liked trying to provide the structure she craved. But…

“I don’t want you to punish me anymore,” she explained when he came to bed.

...It was like being in a car with a driver who speeds excessively. Tailgates constantly. Is lost all the time…

And she didn't want him to drive anymore.

Copyright 2002 Natty

ME/CFIDS Awareness Day: Being Understood

[T-shirts available at nopityshirts.com]

Right, so this is going to be a little off topic for a moment.

May 12 is the day when ME/CFIDS organizations around the world recognize ME/CFIDS Awareness Day. Those of you who read this blog much know that I frequently mention having this disease. However, it occurred to me a few months back that I haven't ever really explained what that means precisely like I have with being on anti-coagulants (blood thinners) or having Fibromyalgia (which shares this awareness day with us, as it's a fairly common co-morbidity and includes a lot of the same symptoms). So I decided then that a great way to celebrate Awareness Day would be to create a little more awareness here about ME/CFIDS. And I should have started working on this post then because it's been a lot harder to write than I thought it would be, hence the reason it's a bit late...

[...]



First, the name. The "ME" stands for Myalgic Encephalomeylitis, which literally means "pain and inflammation of the brain" and has traditionally been a British designation for a disease known in the United States -- both unfortunately and incorrectly -- as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, a term that was created in the mid 1980s by the Centers for Disease Control (CDC).

In the 1990s, a group that later went on to form the CFIDS Association (the primary advocacy group here in the US), added "Immune Dysfunction" to the title to emphasize the immune system abnormalities that have long been associated with this disease, such as the low activity of Natural Killer cells, low molecular weight RNase L (an antiviral enzyme) and higher rates of apoptosis (programmed cell death) and gene expression of white blood cells.

I use both ME and CFIDS because at the moment there is a huge debate going on in the community about renaming the disease, with a committee of top physicians and researchers recently choosing the less specific term Myalgic Encephalopathy (i.e. pain and brain pathology) to replace the universally despised "Chronic Fatigue Syndrome." However, they have also chosen to use the two together until government agencies such as the CDC or Social Security (for people like me who can't work because we're too sick) recognize ME in place of CFS. To me, using them together just feels a tad more accurate for now.

Second, what is ME/CFIDS? I think Maryann Spurgin of the ME Society of America summarizes it best by stating that it's "a multi-system disease adversely affecting the cellular mitochondria and the heart, brain, neuroendocrine, immune, and circulatory systems." While fatigue, or more accurately, profound exhaustion, is indeed one symptom, calling this Chronic Fatigue Syndrome is like calling a concussion merely "a headache" or Tuberculosis something like "Chronic Coughing Syndrome." In other words, it's a hell of a lot more than just being tired.

I've often compared it to having the flu forever. However, in this post, Dyke Girl (aka Jigsaw Analogy) pointed out that it's actually worse than that. And she's right. In addition to flu-like symptoms -- muscle and joint aches, headaches, low grade fever, feeling chilled, tender lymph nodes and sore throat -- people with ME/CFIDS will usually have post-exertional malaise (riding an exercise bike for even just three minutes can send me to bed for the rest of the day), shortness of breath, widespread pain, irritable bowel as well as neurological problems such dizziness and balance problems, impaired spatial perception and cognitive abilities, difficulty processing sensory information and orthostatic intolerance (fainting or near fainting due to blood pressure drops). The most annoying part of all this is that all these symptoms are remarkably variable. Some days I can do things that two or three days later I couldn't even dream of doing. Why? Got me. I mean, obviously over activity will exacerbate symptoms (hence the reason I get into a lot of trouble for overdoing it). But a lot of the time it's completely arbitrary.

Lately I've started comparing it to having both Multiple Sclerosis and mild Congestive Heart Failure. My best friend has Multiple Sclerosis and he is often amazed at how similar our symptoms are, except mine are more severe (indeed, he's still in his PhD program and I'm not). A lot of that reflects the fact that his doctor knows what causes his symptoms and has medicines that can treat his MS. That's not yet the case with ME/CFIDS.

Third, so what causes ME/CFIDS? That's the million dollar question and a lot of the problem is sort of a chicken and egg one. Some have speculated that it's a virus that attacks specific parts of the immune system (whereas HIV is a catastrophic attack on the immune system). Some think it's undiagnosed chronic bacterial infections such as Lyme Disease, but the use of antibiotics (and growing antibiotic resistance) makes this a very contentious topic. One provocative theory argues that ME/CFIDS and Autism are one and the same disease caused by a genetic inability to maintain adequate levels of glutathione and that a person gets Autism if the glutathione problem develops within the womb and up to three years of age, while it becomes ME/CFIDS if the problem happens after three years old. But most of the more prominent research, however, has focused on the immune system and the brain, though in the last few years more and more research has also focused on oxidative stress, mitochondrial deficiencies, and the cardiovascular system.

Fourth, why they hell would I talk about this on a spanking blog? Well, I've been talking about having ME/CFIDS since the first few months of starting this blog back in 2004 (wow -- can you believe that was almost three years ago?). I mean, it touches just about every part of my life so it would be difficult to not talk about. And while I may have a disabling disease, it doesn't keep me from living. This blog is my way of talking about one particular way I live life to it's fullest as best I can.

I also wanted to provide some context. I've had this disease on some level for about 24 years now -- in it's more debilitating form for about 8. I'm not getting better anytime soon (indeed, I've been getting progressively worse save for a slight improvement in 2003 and the winter of 2005). Now, there may well be a breakthrough in the research down the road that will provide some relief (God-willing!) but I've come to terms with life as it is. While I'm sure there are going to be more good days in my future at some point, I also know there are going to be more health-related problems as well.

And when I write about those bad times, I understand that it's natural to feel badly after reading them. But making people feel badly isn't really my aim. I write about that stuff for the same reason that so many people blog: we are relational beings and sharing our stories is part of connecting with other people, of being human. C.S. Lewis once said that we read to know that we are not alone, and I think the same is true of writing. We string together words and send them out in the hopes that they resonate with somebody else -- an act that, perhaps, I appreciate all the more being housebound (seriously -- it beats talking to the cockroaches, which I've found myself doing lately with disturbing frequency...).

In other words, it's okay to look past whatever illness related context I may start out a post with and enjoy or contemplate whatever larger theme/story I'm writing about. It's okay to make jokes (like Alex did in this post). It's okay to ask questions. And, of course, it's okay to feel whatever the hell you want to feel about them.

Lastly, a little disclaimer. Everybody who has ME/CFIDS has had the experience of meeting somebody who had it (or knows of someone who had it) but got better thanks to [insert magic cure of your choice]. And there are some people who do eventually recover after a lot of rest and combinations of pharmaceuticals and nutritional supplements. I want to assure you that one, I stay more aware of current ME/CFIDS research than all but a small handful of people on this planet. I've also studied and utilized many forms of alternative medicine (and continue to do so). If I haven't tried something it's because there's either not enough evidence (including even anecdotal) to support its efficacy or, more likely, I haven't the money (this disease can be a bottomless pit financially). Ultimately, spending all my time trying out every magic cure out there is not only hard on the pocket book, but it doesn't leave me with much energy to do any, um, you know, living.

So now you know a little bit more (well, probably far more than you really wanted to know) about what those seven capital letters with a slash in the middle that I frequently refer to mean. The woman who makes the t-shirts at the beginning of this post, Ricky Buchanan, has also written An Open Letter to Those Without CFS or Fibromyalgia that you may also want to check out. She ends by saying that most importantly she wants people to understand her. And that's really what this post -- indeed my blog and any blog -- is about. All of us, healthy and ill, just want to be understood. I hope this post has helped you to understand me and all ME/CFIDS patients a little bit more.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned...

Between Mija's post at the Punishment Book and newsgroup pal Domino's story "Secret of the Confessional," a priest/penitent fantasy had been sounding mighty appealing. Then tonight I turned on PBS (yes, I know, I'm a total nerd) to watch "Secret files of the Inquisition" and when they talked about the practice of making repentant Cathars wear a yellow cross (which, in this show, were all women), well, what can I say? I think my spanko fantasies are now going into overdrive.

It's funny because I think one of the reasons that the priest/penitent fantasy works for me is because within the Roman rite (i.e. the vast majority of Catholics in the world), confession is so very different than in the Eastern Church. We have confession face to face, which makes it harder in some ways. Though the priests who have been my confessors (see here, for example) have generally been very kind -- including their facial expressions. The prayers are different. The listing of sins is discouraged in place of focusing on themes (at least in my experience). And, of course, penance is not meant to be punishment but medicinal. Going to confession is like going to the doctor.

So, reading Mija and Domino's posts almost felt like reading about a different culture. A culture that felt uncomfortable to my spiritual self, but tantalizing to my kinky self.

Something to do with "naughty"

The other day I turned the television on to PBS during the middle of the day (I almost never turn the TV on before 5 or 6pm) and was greeted by a kindly Irish grandpa teaching painting. He would look into the camera and talk directly to the viewer -- which, at this point, included me.

Most of the time he was explaining which watercolor to use or which paintbrush, or how to paint a sky or moss-thatched cottage. Every now and then he would degenerate into gentle scolding. "Don't just watch me but try this out for yourself...It's no use for me to just sit here painting alone like a madman."

It always made me giggle a little. Maybe because I was feeling a little guilty.

But this noon as I watched him tell the story of a "naughty" Irish queen who stole a bull, I giggled like a little girl. It had something to do with him saying "naughty."

The only Frank Clarke I'd ever heard of before this week was some old football player A. told me about. But now, I think I'm becoming a Frank Clarke -- The Simply Painting One -- fan. (Though he seriously needs some fashion help!)

Who knows...I might even buy some paints. ;)

My wankin' spankin' tool

You, gentle reader, might remember the little flogger my ever so handy A. made back in January (okay, I have to laugh a little about A. being handy when I remember the two of us stuck camping with a gas stove that neither of us could figure out how to turn on for several hours...but I digress).

Now that he is away, but certain urges aren't, I've had to make do on my own and what I've discovered is that little flogger is THE MOST PERFECT SELF SPANKING IMPLEMENT EVER!

Really.

It requires little effort or awkward twisting and turning to whack myself pretty well with it. But, because I'm logistically incapable of giving the swing a lot of power, when each little cord hits my skin, it has a very similar sensation to the strap or a belt for me: it hurts the minute it hits my skin, but instantly turns into a very pleasurable sensation. So, you know, it's very handy for wankin' spankin'.

I even get that lovely swishing sound with it that normally I'd only hear with something like the cane -- an implement that is categorically impossible to use on oneself.

Yes, my beloved has earned my undying admiration for his skill with unused electrical cord and duct tape.

More spanking highlights

Yes, the trip down memory lane continues over at the Punishment Book where I posted about one of the few disciplinary spankings (the only?) I got while A. was here.

Not sure if all this remembering when he was here is a good thing or just makes me miss him more...

Story: The Office of Discipline Application [M/f]

This is the very very very first spanking story I ever wrote in March of 2002. At the time it was a recurring fantasy, and as I'd just joined the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup where everybody writes and shares stories, I thought I'd give it a go.

This has been slightly edited from it's original posting. Mostly to break up one long-ass paragraph the editor in me just couldn't handle posting as it was.



The Office of Discipline Application [M/f – school]


Natty gripped the cold silver door handle of the ODA and sighed. Rolled her eyes. Swung the door open wide and walked inside.

“Natalie…sent down again, eh?” Mrs. Franzen turned her head from her computer. Looked down her beak-like nose over her glasses. Natty bit her bottom lip.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well, take a seat. Father Michael is on a phone call at the moment.” Mrs. Franzen turned back to her computer.

[...]



Natty sat down on one of the hard, plastic chairs with her arms folded, next to the thick wooden door of the Application Room. Checked off the familiar artifacts of Mrs. Franzen’s L-shaped desk separating her from the rest of the office. School photos of her two children. A verse-a-day calendar. A mug with a rainbow painted on it holding pens, pencils, scissors, and a letter opener. Laser printer and copy/fax machine behind her with trays holding plain and letterhead paper. Pictures colored by her kids hung on the wall, underneath a crucifix. A spider plant on top of the file cabinets…

“Natalie?” Father Michael stood at the door of his office, across from Mrs. Franzen’s desk.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, Father…” Natty stood and stumbled into the office.

“Have a seat, dear.” He pointed his pudgy hand to the chair in front of his desk as he took his seat behind it. “Well, what brings you here today?” he asked while pointing, clicking and typing to bring up her file on the computer.

“Um, Sister Rita sent me.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well, she sorta caught me reading during math class – I was reading The Bronze Bow and I’m at the part where they’re trying to rescue Joel from the Romans leading him off to the galleys and I just couldn’t stop for some stupid math lesson– but Sister Rita asked me a question, which I didn’t realize she had cause I was so into the story..."

Father Michael took off his glasses and wiped them clean with his handkerchief as Natty continued her tale in rapid speech.

"...so she came over and found me reading instead of paying attention to whatever it was she was trying to teach – something about exponents or something – anyway, then she went on at me about reading during her lesson which she spent a great deal of time to prepare and how it was rude, and then asked where my homework was and where in heaven’s name was my math book..."

The principal-priest suppressed a smile as he put his handkerchief back in his pocket while Natty took a breath and continued.

"...I told her that I’d sorta not had time to do my homework and sorta accidentally left my math book at home. She asked me why I hadn’t had time and I said cause I had been reading. She said that she appreciated that I like reading but I also had to do my math lessons and so I asked why and she said because it would better prepare me for the real world..."

Another breath in...

"Then I said that I didn’t see how exponents were going to help me in the real world because I want to be a writer and in fact, I think the school is doing a great disservice to me because they make me spend eight hours a day in classes that take my time from writing or reading other people’s writing and then they give me homework that takes even more time away and…well…that’s when she said to quit being cheeky and to come down here…” Natty took in a big breath then breathed heavily out and looked at the floor.

Father Michael smiled wryly and then drew in a breath of sternness.

“Well, Sister Rita was right on several counts. You were being very rude reading during her lesson. Teacher’s do spend a great deal of time preparing lessons to make sure you’ll understand the concepts they are trying to teach.”

“Yes, Father,” Natty nodded, still looking at the floor.

“She’s certainly right to ask about your homework – which takes just as much of her time as it does yours – and she is most definitely trying to teach you things which you will need to know later in life.”

“But how am I ever going to use exponents?” Natty’s eyes darted up and at Father Michael.

“Exponents themselves you may not use, but it’s the thinking behind them that you will – that is, if you’ve learned it. Especially if you’re going to be a writer. You have to be able to think in many different ways – use different parts of your brain to be a truly great writer. What if you have to write about a character who is a mathematician?”

“Hmm…I guess I’d never thought of that…”

“Yes, my dear, there are a good many things you never think of, which is why I get to see you so often…” Father Michael looked back at his computer screen. “It seems this is your fifth visit here this semester.” Natty gulped and looked back down at the floor. Father Michael scowled. Scratched his left temple where there used to be hair. Sighed. “Well, I’ll be getting Sister Rita’s report by the end of the day. And you can plan on attending detention tomorrow.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Off you go now, back to class.”

The next day Natty again opened the door to the ODA. She walked past the Application Room, Mrs. Franzen’s desk, and Father Michael’s office to the Detention Room. A narrow cave with gray walls and a high ceiling. A chalkboard at the front. Underneath a crucifix. Twelve small tables with wooden stools filled the room. A catechism, paper, and pen lay on each table like party favors at a festival. A warped, twisted party, thought Natty as she sat down on a stool. Several other students staggered in and took seats. The detention bell rang and Mrs. Franzen stepped in and stood in front of the chalkboard.

“Alright, detention has now begun. You will begin copying from page 357 and wait for your name to be called to see Father Michael in the Application Room.” She walked back out while each person picked up their pen, opened the catechism and began copying.

The first time Natty had detention she only pretended to copy from the catechism while she wrote a story from her own imagination. But at the end of detention discovered she had to hand in what she was supposed to have copied and was thus assigned another day in detention. And another trip to the Application Room.

“Natalie Taylor,” Mrs. Franzen called out as a black-haired boy with swollen eyes rubbed his khaki-clad bottom while walking into the Detention Room. Natty put down her pen, stood and straggled along to the Application Room.

“Natalie.” Father Michael nodded to her as he sat at a table writing something on a file folder with his black shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

The yellow walls were muted underneath the flickering of the florescent lights. On the wall to the left of Natty hung two paddles, one with and one without holes, and several thick wooden rulers. Beneath that was a cherrywood bookcase with two crook-handled canes on the top shelf and two leather tawses on the bottom. Father Michael put down his pen and closed the file folder. “Well, now, Miss Natalie, I read Sister Rita’s report and it seems to run along the same lines as what you described yesterday. Though, she also added that you are missing seven assignments over this semester so far.”

“Yeah? I, uh, didn’t realize it had been so many…” Natty looked down at her Mary Janes.

“Well, I think it’s high time you realize these things, as well as pay attention in class and treat your teachers with more respect.”
“Yes, Father.” Her stomach felt heavy.

“So, for your punishment today it’ll be 10 with the ruler for arguing with Sister Rita, 10 with the paddle for reading during math class, and 7 with the tawse for each assignment you’re missing.”

“Yes, Father.” Natty gulped and scowled at the floor.

“Well then, unbutton your skirt, bare your bottom and then over the Bench with you.” Father Michael stood and walked around the Application Bench towards the other side of the room where all his tools were.

The Application Bench was a wooden box-like structure that stood in the middle of the room on a platform. The side of the box facing Natty was vertical with padded navy blue upholstering that ran from the cover of the small step at its foot, up over the top and down the other side, which was slanted. Natty stepped up onto the platform. Undid the buttons on the right side of the wrap-around skirt of her red plaid jumper. Pulled down her tights and panties until they were down around her ankles. Knelt down on the step in front of the bench and laid her torso down the slanted side with her braided pigtails pointing to the floor. Shivered and waited for Father Michael, who pulled her white shirt up and tucked it into the waistline of her skirt. Then velcroed straps connected to the Bench around her wrists, waist, and calves.

“Now, ten with the ruler for arguing. And might I suggest you reconsider quarreling with your teachers in the future.”

Natty winced and whimpered through ten sharp swipes of the ruler along her bottom and upper thighs. Perhaps discussing the usefulness of exponents with Sister Rita had not been one of her better moves…

“Now ten with the paddle for reading during math class…”

Each of the ten thuds and stings of the paddle made Natty whimper and moan and reassess whether reading about Joel’s rescue could have indeed been put off for a few hours…

“Now, seven with the tawse for those missing assignments.”

It took until the second stroke for Natty to appreciate the bite of the tawse. Especially on skin that was already raw. She tried to wiggle. To shift her weight in some way to offset the strikes. The Velcro straps held her firm.

“Four…”

Natty released the sobs she had been suppressing. She never cried when she was spanked. At least not most of the time. But three spankings in a row was hard…
“Five…” That one hit the inside of her left thigh. And it really hurt…

She tensed up to brace for the last two but there was no more strength left to hold herself rigid. Limp, she whimpered and sobbed through the final burning blow.

Father Michael return his tools to their appointed homes. He came over to the Bench and pulled the Velcro straps apart. Brushed his hand on the middle of Natty’s back.

“There, there, child. Take the time you need to gather yourself together.” Then sat down on the table to the right of the Bench and wrote in a file folder.

After a few minutes of deep breaths, Natty dragged herself upright, pulled up her tights and panties over her seared bottom, and buttoned up her skirt. She stood in front of Father Michael, hands behind her back, staring at her Mary Janes.

“Well, now, off you go back to detention.” He said.

“Yes, Father.” Natty turned and opened the door.

“And Natalie…don’t pay me another visit anytime soon, alright?” He winked.

“Yes, Father.” Natty smiled and returned to the Detention Room, where she aimed her bottom for the stool, placed it down gently and determined she would not be visiting the Office of Discipline Application for a very long time.

Copyright 2002 Natty

Netflix for spankos?

I have decided with all of my Netflix patronage over the last two months that we need a Netflix for spanking porn. I don't generally want to actually buy spanking movies, just view them once. And downloading them onto my laptop is not ideal either because my laptop sucks and overheats too easily. Plus, it's way too expensive.

I suppose the problem with starting such a venture would be decency laws and all that. But, if somebody could figure out a way around that, I'd so be signing up. Think of it as a service to a poor sick shut-in... ::grin::

An anal rententive spanko watches Desperate Housewives

With being more sick lately and unable to do much of anything else except bask in the glow of the flickering tube, I've been blazing through my Netflix queue. The last week or two has been mostly dedicated to the first season of Desperate Housewives as I didn't really start watching it (Sunday nights, 9pm on ABC) until last year. And, you know, once I started watching I was always like, "oh oh gotta watch the next one! Gotta see what happens!"

And among the twenty-four hours of viewing has been a bit to satisfy my ever present inner spanko. It started out light -- Lynette (mother of four kids) yelling at her sons to do what she tells them or she's going to spank them (Did she just say she was going to spank them? ::rewind:: Omg, she did!) -- to downright graphic at times such as when WASPy character Bree Van de Camp's husband Rex is walked upon by a suburban dominatrix in stiletto heels.

[...]



Yes, Rex Van de Camp likes be handcuffed and whipped and when he tells his wife, she immediately assumes his mother must have horribly abused him. Then slaps him when her sense of moral outrage can be suppressed no longer. Domination of her husband is definitely something that takes place outside the bedroom sans stilettos and leather. And therein most likely lies the problem. Rex probably married Bree because she was domineering and he vaguely knew he liked that. By middle age he had realized that it was a sexual thing for him. Except, because Bree has had to be the dominant one in the household, she's been most likely looking for him to be dominant in the bedroom.

However on Valentines Day, Bree relents to maybe giving the whole domination thing a go. Rex, almost giddy as he takes his toy box out of the closet, explains how the whole thing works. "So, it's like we're in a little play?" suggests Bree. Indeed, I often think of roleplay as pretend play for adults. And I think the better you were at it as a kid, the better you're at it (or even perhaps the kinkier you are) as an adult.

Rex goes on to explain that they have to have a "control" word (rather than the more commonly used "safeword" -- censors? lazy writing?) and that his is "Philadelphia." "My Aunt Fern lives in Philadelphia," states Bree, "and I don't want to be thinking about her when I'm spanking you with a leather paddle." She then suggests "Boise," which Rex thinks sounds too funny and that they need something that's serious. Bree thinks, then gets a very grave, concerned look on her face. "How about Palestine?" and nods slightly to emphasize how serious a topic it is. This made me laugh my fucking head off. Palestine was part of my academic research and something I have very definite political views that I feel passionately about, meaning she could very easily have been doing a parody of me. Seriously, I think it will rank up there as one of the funniest damn scenes I've ever seen on television.

In the end, Rex decides "Boise" will be fine. And thanks to YouTube, you can watch the whole thing for yourself.

But the scenes that really captured my imagination more were those with Lynette's kids as spanking is more my kink than leather. And as the title of this post states, I'm rather anal retentive (A. will certainly vouch for that) and ended up copying down every single word of dialogue, especially as the two scenes are nowhere to be found on YouTube (though I did find this bizarre but funny as hell video -- ah the wonders of public access television!). I may be breaking a gazillion copyright laws, but I can't imagine it's any more so than all the fine folks posting at YouTube.

So the first scene occurs after Lynette finds out her boys (who are generally out-of-control hellions) stole a potted flower from the neighbor to give to her as a Valentines Day gift. She comes out onto the porch and yells, "Boys, get your fannies in here!" The boys, however, are huddled in neighbor Mike Delfino's yard. When Mike finds them and asks who they're hiding from, they explain their mom because she wants to spank them. In that sweet but sexy way of his, Mike tells them that if they hide, then it will just get worse because then she'll get worried and that if they just go home and take their lumps, they'll have the rest of the afternoon to play. He even tops off the deal with a piggy back ride home.

At home, Lynette sweeps away the Valentines Day cards from the kitchen table and lays down a hickory switch, a hairbrush, a ping pong paddle, a spatula, a metal ruler (I think -- that one was hard to see) and a belt. Seriously, my eyes about bugged out of my head. It felt like one of us showing off the contents of our toy box.

"We don't wanna get spanked," the boys cry.

"Too late. You stole. And then you lied. Even worse, you made me look bad in front of Mrs. Mcclusky, who you know is Mommy's sworn enemy." Lynette waves her hand over the implements. "Time to pick your poison." She then picks up the belt with one end in each hand. "How about the belt? It's a classic."

The boys shake their heads. She drops it and picks up the switch.

"Well, we could go with the old hickory stick. It's a cliche..." Lynette whacks the table hard with the switch causing the boys to jump. "But it's pretty effective." She drops the switch and picks up the spatula. "I know, we'll go with the spatula. The holes give it less wind resistance.." Another whack against the table that cause the boys to jump. "...Moves faster."

"No! No! No!" The boys yell.

"Hey, hey, guys, my hands are tied. Thieves get spanked. It's just the way it works." She pauses. "Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"For a first time offense, if you swear, cross your heart that you will never steal again and you write Mrs. Mcclusky a letter I will let it slide." Needless to say, the boys gladly agree to these terms and happily take the pencils and notebooks their mother hands to them.

"Mommy, why are you smiling?" Asks one of the twins when he notices Lynette smirking.

"Do you know what psychological warfare is?"

"No."

"Well, too bad for you." Then Lynette picks up the implements and helps the boys spell Mcclusky.

The second scene was two episodes later in Episode 18, "Children Will Listen." Lynette desperately wants to go meet some friends and refuses to pay the extortionate rate the babysitter demands. After much pleading she manages to talk Bree into watching the kids ("For God's sake, Bree, I'm wearing pantyhose!"). While the boys color, waaayy outside the lines, on Bree's dining room table, she bakes cookies. Porter, one of the twins, can't seem to resist those cookies and tries to get one off the cookie sheet before they're adequately cooled down, meriting a reprimand from Bree. When he complains that he's hungry, Bree offers to make him a nice bowl of peaches and cottage cheese -- which he rebuffs

"Ew barf!"

"Don't be common, young man." Bree leads him back into the dining room to color. "If you play around with those cookies one more time I'm going to have to spank you," she states as she sits him down.

"We don't get spanked," explain Porter's brothers.

"Really?" asks a shocked Bree.

"Mommy always says she's gonna but she never does."

"Well, I'm not your Mommy and if you misbehave in my house, you will get spanked." She brushes Porter's cheek. "Now, be good." Then goes off to tend to the baby.

Did I mention that Lynette's boys are incorrigible?

Porter sneaks back into the kitchen to get that cookie, only to end up dumping the whole cookie sheet of cookies all over the kitchen floor. Bree rushes in to see Porter standing over them with his hands in his pockets.

"Porter, I warned you."

"I'm sorry...I'll be good."

"Those cookies were made from scratch! You're fate is sealed." She takes him by the arm to the kitchen table, pulls out a chair, takes him over her lap and starts spanking. The camera (as it invariably does) turned away to focus on his brothers watching on in true shock and awe to the tune of smacking and yelps coming from the kitchen.

When Lynette finds out that Bree spanked Porter (during their weekly ladies poker game, which I found unlikely as those kids or Bree would no doubt have told Lynette when she came to pick them up -- I dunno, maybe Tom picked them up and didn't tell Lynette) she freaks out. Later that night as she vents to Tom, she points out that Bree could have just threatened to spank them.

"Yeah, cause that works so well when we do it," Tom half sneers.

"It does work, " Lynette insists (forgetting that after letting the boys off with writing a letter two episodes before, she and Tom discover that the boys had been stealing all kinds of things from throughout the neighborhood and stashing them in their playhouse). But Tom points out that the boys are onto them that the treats are empty. "My mom beat the hell out of me and my sisters..." Lynette says in a trembling voice. "...And I won't do it." Tom (as he so often does) empathizes with Lynette but points out that they have to figure out something.

"Eventually they're going to figure out that they out number us and we're gonna be screwed."

So, what to do?

Well, the next night when Preston threatens to flush his toothbrush down the toilet, Lynette starts out with her typical hollow threats as his brothers egg him on. When she realizes they aren't going to work, she glares at Preston and issues a new threat.

"I will walk you down to Mrs. Van de Camp's and we all know what happens when she gets mad!"

Hmm...wasn't this the scenario for an RGE film? LOL -- though they, of course, manage to get even darker than Desperate Housewives.

At any rate, that threat makes the boys straighten right up and brush their teeth. And in the end, Bree and Lynette make up like all good housewives/neighbors do: over a cup of coffee.

I must say, if I were to imagine being spanked, Bree would totally be the housewife I'd want to be spanked by. In some ways, she represents the mother I always wanted as a kid. My mom looks like a cross between Gabrielle and Edie, and acts like Susan's mom, Sophie (seriously, Marc Cherry could have been tape recording my mother when I was a teenager and then written those lines for Sophie). To be fair, if Bree had been my mom, I'd probably still be all fucked up, just in different ways. But, gawd I do love the facade of the anal retentive housekeeper mother who wears an apron and can cook. ;)

When backdoor luvin' goes bad...very bad

Okay, so in my return post I mentioned that I had a bad relapse of my illness because of kink-related activities, and that it occurred in a most mortifying way. Indeed, I've been dragging my feet and debating about whether to post about it at all, and, if so, how to do it in a way that would not be too TMIish ("Too Much Information" in abbreviated slang). Yeah, it was really that bad.

I think in the end I felt that, while I don't feel obligated to share everything about my kink life, I also felt like I wanted people to know that things do go wrong sometimes. People often read spanking blogs as a way to live out their spanking fantasies vicariously (hell, I know I do!). Yet fantasy and reality can collide in very ugly ways, and this was definitely a case of the two smashing into each other in grotesque fashion.

[...]



Right, so I had a day at the end of February where I was actually feeling pretty well. And as I'm apt to do when I feel well, I started cleaning. A lot. Then I went off to the acupuncturist/massage therapist and came home feeling even better. Which then prompted me to clean even more. And bake and cook. And by the time I finally laid down to rest late that afternoon, I had that awful heavy feeling that made me realize oh shit! I soooo overdid it! (Now you understand A.'s vigilance in this post at the Punishment Book. However, he was sleeping after working all night and therefore unable to provide what was clearly some much needed supervision.)

A while later or so A. and I started cuddling and one thing led to another, and I started getting aroused despite feeling what I knew was just the beginning of what would soon be crushing exhaustion. When he flipped me over onto my belly and reached for a condom, I knew I should have said no. And when he kept going and going to the point where I thought I couldn't possibly go on anymore, I should have had him stop. But I liked the idea that I didn't have any say so in the matter. So, he kept going on -- longer than he ever has.

When we finished, I finally did take a nap (sans climax as I didn't have the energy for it by that point) and when I woke up I had a little piece of the quiche I'd made from scratch that afternoon. A half an hour later I was rushing to the bathroom with an awful tummy ache that left me in there for quite awhile. But that ended up being the most I did in there for a week. Here and there when something did come, there was usually blood along with it. Not uncommon after anal sex, but when I was still having it a week later, I decided it was time to visit my GP. Which meant explaining what I was doing directly prior to my gastro-intestinal discomfort.

Ugh.

I kept telling myself that, you know, for gay males this is the primary means of intercourse and to just walk in there act as if anal sex is a completely normal, natural thing. I mean, it's the county health department, for gawd's sake. I can't possibly be the only heterosexual woman they've seen who has had a complication from backdoor luvin'.

So I went. And put on as business-like a demeanor as I could. Though I cringed every time my doctor referred to it as "rectal sex." After an examination the doctor decided that the stool had become impacted in my colon during sex. All I could think of on the way home was that pejorative term guys in my high school used to use for male homosexual sex.

When I got home I related the diagnosis to A., who, despite having been horrified about how awful I had felt that week, was rather proud to hear what he and his giant penis had accomplished.

"Yeah, well you'll think it's cool when you have to go to Safeway and buy me an enema!" I snapped backed. Cool indeed.

Now some of you faithful readers of this here blog may know that I have on occasion fantasized about getting an enema. And I'd be lying if I said that there was not even one little part of me that wasn't sort of excited at the thought. But the other 99% was absolutely and utterly mortified. And despite the fact that A. has taken in the view of me on the bed with my ass in the air a gazillion times, I found myself horribly self-conscious as he administered the prescribed enema. Which somehow made it more arousing. Which then made me more embarrassed. Which then...well, I think you get the idea. I suspect there will be more enemas in my future as they will most likely accompany any further buggery in an effort to avoid going through this again. You know, when I'm no longer quite so traumatized by the whole thing and finally feel up to a bit of buggery.

The whole affair ended up making me even sicker than the cold did. At times I could barely even sit up in bed and spent the first day or so just crying softly because I felt so dreadful. I'm not sure how to describe it. I always describe having ME/CFS as feeling like you have the flu. You just feel icky all over. But this was icky to the tenth degree. Icky and then being run over by a truck and then being trampled on by a pack of horses. Why this made me so damn sick is anyone's guess. The severity of my symptoms was far and away out of proportion to how much I overdid it activity-wise, as well as to the actual affliction -- constipation. I have a theory or two about why, but it's pure speculation on my part (as so much often is with this disease).

A week or so later when I started to feel a bit better, we tried playing around a little. A. used the strap because normally I like it, and compared to some other implements, it's fairly light. But, alas, it was a bit too soon. For the first time ever I started crying while I was getting spanked -- in fact, after only three strokes! I yelled out "Wait! Wait! Stop!" and he immediately dropped the strap and pulled me to himself (yeah, we probably do need to work on a formal safeword). "Here we go, big cuddle," he said as I cried into his chest. While the spanking, or rather, the return of the icky feeling and inability to handle an increase in sensation was horrible, I loved crying into his chest like that. It's the way I always fantasize about spankings ending. But I have to say, what it took to get me like that was far too high a price.

My Marks

Last spring, before Tarte had to take an apparent hiatus from blogging, I made some comment on one of her posts about finding that there is a dommey side to me but that it has usually expressed itself outside the bedroom. At the time she wanted me to expand on that but I think illness and other activities got in the way and I never quite got back to it.

At the time I had just taken over the moderator position of a (non-kink) online group and my job was basically to crack the whip with certain members and maintain order for the good of everyone else. What I found surprising was how much I enjoyed it. I liked creating order. I liked politely but firmly enforcing the boundaries.

In the past, teaching was the normal outlet for my toppish side. Students sometimes whined that I was hard, but they always agreed that I was just. Indeed, they really would describe me with that phrase that seems so cliched to us in the spanking world -- "tough, but fair." But, of course, I'm no longer teaching and, in fact, spend a great deal of my life now in a sort of subordinate position as a patient. Not only do doctors and nurses tell you what to do, but everybody else always seems to jump in and tell you what to do as well -- what to eat, what to take, even what to think. And, well, what can I say? It gets a bit old after awhile.

Now, on at least one occasion I've mentioned that A. gets into a sort of subby mood at times and the more we switch, the more I'm finding that there is definitely a domme inside of me. Granted it's taken some coaxing from A. on occasion to bring her out, mostly involving threats of punishment and administering of said punishment when I've failed to be brutal enough. But my as-yet-unnamed top is floating around somewhere inside of me along with Natty, though sometimes she might be more of a sort of spoiled, cruel version of Natty.

So one night in February A. was in one of his rare subby/masochistic moods and asked if I was up to topping. Often the problem is more a physical one as it takes a lot of energy to thrash someone, but that night I felt like giving it a go. However, as I always end up on the business end of the cane later on for not hitting him hard enough, I decided he was going to get it good this time. Believe it or not, I'd even practiced with the cane a little bit during his last time away.

And, I'm pleased to say, it showed. Yep, this time I whipped his ass good. Lemme tell ya, I was in real top mode too. I relished each wince, each cry, each flinch. And when the loopy toy made these brilliant purple loops on his pasty limey legs, I couldn't help but think of a line from Paul's (Pablo) beautiful essay regarding topping about appreciating the "warm body beside us carrying marks that we've put on its skin." For the first time I was so proud of the marks I'd made. My marks. Different somewhat from the way that Paul was talking about because what we were doing had nothing at all to do with discipline or punishment. For me it was more like visible marks of both domination and adoration. That and, well, they just looked wicked cool. ;)

Oh, and this time I finally avoided a beating afterwards. ::grin::

So, go figure. While I don't see myself wearing stiletto heels anytime soon (or ever given my weak ankles and horrible lack of balance), I am finding myself a bit more comfortable on the other side of the cane enjoying the weals I put on the warm body next to me.

Kama Sutra Spanking

Though it was awhile ago, I thought I'd share highlights from Valentines Day as I wasn't able to at the time. They included some ridiculously over-priced chocolates in a velvet heart-shaped box (cliched, I know, but something I've always wanted but had never actually got), a delicious salmon and pesto dinner, Erasure (at my request -- what can I say? I had a hankerin') and a very nice Two-Buck Chuck chardonnay (which is actually three bucks here). It was one of those wonderful evenings that is now in my happy memories box -- a sort of mental toolbox from which I draw during times of breakthrough pain or ickiness to distract me and contains things like funny scenes from the Simpsons, or cute things my brother, nieces and nephew have done, one of the first times A. and I made love, etc.

But warm and fuzzy aside, our Valentine's Day evening, of course, included some after-dinner luvin. Being the sick perverts that we are, luvin involved beating and buggery and I'd recovered enough from the last time to engage in such sick and lewd acts again. In fact, I think we invented a new spanking position -- at least, I don't believe it's in Ecstagony's list of spanking positions which I'd always assumed was fairly exhaustive.

So what was this innovative position? Well, it involved A. and I on our knees on the bed facing each other. His, um...member was pushed through the bottom of my bra and up between my breasts while I then sort of twisted around his right side -- my left -- so that my bottom was in perfect position for him to rain down as many blows as he would were I over his knee. It felt so very Kama Sutra.

I dunno. There's probably somebody or maybe even many bodies who have done this. But it was new to us.

Stay tuned...there are more highlights to come, most likely tomorrow night. :-)

The first highlight from my blogging sabbatical

When the hell is that girl going to finally post something already?

Yep, I know you've been thinking it. Hell, I've been thinking it. Each week I'd think that at some point during the coming seven days I should finally feel well enough to post about our recent spanking-related activities. And then those seven days passed, and I moved onto another hopeful but post-less seven days. Ultimately, I had only enough energy to either get spanked or blog. As you can see, I chose the former. Though the later wouldn't have been very interesting without the former.

Basically that cold really knocked me on my ass. I've had a handful of viral infections over the last few years since my ME/CFIDS became more debilitating but I've never had quite the level of post-viral exhaustion like I've had the last two months. At one point a month ago I was starting to feel a bit better, but then activities related to our "fundamental obsession" hurled me right back into bed with a vengeance and in a most mortifying way. But I'll get to that later.

I've been working on a single post highlighting our spanking play during the last two months of A.'s visit. Having started this on March 19th, I was expecting that it was going to get posted before he left last Tuesday on the 27th. But, well, five pages into it at this point, I've realized that putting it all in one post would be a bit unwieldy. And besides, now that A. is back in England, I also thought it'd be kinda nice to spread out the memories in a series of posts. In some ways the ten weeks he was here went faster than they ever have because he was working a lot and I was so sick so much of the time. Yet somehow, we also ended up playing a lot more than we probably even did when he was here last summer.

At any rate, first, about that cold...

[...]



NyQuil Sex and the Return of the Endorphines

So A. and I got a really bad cold towards the end of January. For A. it was an annoying, lethargic two weeks with a cough that lingered longer. For me, along with the lingering cough, it was a week or so of glands so swollen one was pressing down on a nerve that shot pain through my right arm, and I kept feeling like I was breathing through a straw. After a few days of my herbal cough tea with slippery elm bark and licorice root not really making much of a dent in my sore throat, I asked A. if he could go to Safeway and get me some NyQuil. "It's gotta be green and WITH alcohol," I instructed as NyQuil is apparently not as well known in England.

Indeed, I was instructing and insisting on a lot over that week or so and after waiting on me pretty much hand and foot, A. started feeling the need to express his own demanding side. One night when my throat was feeling better thanks to an entire giant bottle of NyQuil, he smacked me on the backside.

"Your ass needs some attention," he stated as he started pulling out implements from the craft box under the bed.

I sat up in bed and gulped. And with good reason too. He was pulling out the strap, his belt, the flogger and loopy toy, the cane and the riding crop.

But lemme tell ya, the endorphines were sooo back! While I don't believe he used all of those implements (it was quite awhile ago now and my memory is fuzzy at this point), whatever he did use should have been enough to have me squealing and wishing it would end already. Except it felt like more of a warm up by the time he quit.

After the spanking, he started looking for the condoms.

"I'm getting fucked up the ass, aren't I?" I said, biting my lower lip.

"You are SO getting fucked up the ass." He grinned malevolently.

And, I tell you, dear reader, I did. Hard.

It was absolutely delicious.

"Mmm...I like NyQuil sex," I said in that dreamy sort of state that only a good orgasm can produce.

The next morning my spanking mojo was still hungry. Plus, I was in a bratty little girl mood, so A. awoke to find me in my little girl dress -- a cotton bubble-gum pink dress with blue flowers and a white collar. As you might imagine, within a few hours (I would never start bratting first thing in the morning -- that would just be too cruel!) I was bent over the bed getting the cane, and then the hairbrush, which I believe was its first appearance since the advent of blood thinners.

This was it. I was finally going to get it good. Except soon he had to stop because I was really starting to mark and could start bleeding too much. Indeed, the cane was already drawing blood. Not much but enough to say my spanking was over.

But I didn't wanna stop. I wanted it hard. I wanted it to be overwhelming. I wanted to be taken to my limit. And I was just so not anywhere near my limit.

I realize most people would be happy to have those endorphines. During spankings over the last several months I've wondered where the hell they had gone. Yet on the other hand, I liked the fact that we could reach my limit pretty quickly before a lot of bruising set in. However, methinks those days are over (with some exceptions...see forthcoming post).

Colds and mojo

A. asked me this afternoon which would I rather have: a bad cold but lot's of spanking mojo or no coughing/swollen glands but also no mojo. Sigh...it's a difficult one alright.

He and I caught the nasty cold/respiratory virus going around the Portland area last week and just about the time I think I'm getting over it, I'll feel like crap all over again. I have been (mostly) managing to keep up with the discussion regarding my recent post over at the Punishment Book. But that's been the edge of my energy stores.

However, despite all the phlegm and NyQuil, there's been some great spanking going on. And when I'm feeling better, I'll finally share it with you all.

I did it

In Dyke Grrl's (aka Jigsaw Analogy) latest post she talks about the impact child abuse has on her current spanking relationship with her partner and asks her readers about their own experiences talking about spanking in therapy.

I have to admit, I've been way too wussy to ever mention to a therapist that I'm into spanking. That is, until Friday.

As my old therapist is no longer working, I'm starting out with a new one. And I decided to take a tip from PB pal, Iris, in the comments section of the Dyke Grrl's post and state to my new therapist that I need to be able to discuss my sexual expression/orientation, which for me involves BDSM, without fear of judgment.

It turned out that the questionnaire I completed in the waiting room asked, among other things, if I was having problems with sex. I marked yes because being sick so much this last year (the primary reason I'm pursing therapy) has most certainly interfered with my sexuality.

When my new therapist asked me to elaborate on what the problems were, I ignored those voices inside screaming "obscure, obscure!" and stated clearly that all the pain and feeling shitty made it difficult for me to engage in my primary form of sexual expression, namely, BDSM. She smiled softly, wrote something down, and then asked me how long I had been into that. It was then my turn to smile and prattle on wistfully that I've been fantasizing about being spanked since I was a little kid. Again, she smiled softly, wrote something down and then turned to another topic. As the intake came to a close, she asked if I anything else to add, and I just reiterated my three main ground rules for us to have effective therapy, the last one being that I need to feel safe to discuss my sexuality, including BDSM, without fear of judgment. It was a deal.

I was so frank. So straightforward. And it was so easy. Well, at least so far. Ultimately Dyke Grrl's challenge was whether or not anybody had managed to discuss their DD arrangement with a therapist. And, well, I'll see in the weeks to come if I'm up to that challenge.

Bend me over like Beckham

My worries of last week were certainly for naught. My spanking mojo came back and then some. I mean, you'd think after going for four months without a proper spanking (not to mention the fact that the top of my right butt is in constant pain) I'd need to ease back into it. That my pain threshold would have dropped considerably. But oh no. It's like I can't get enough.

A. found himself opening my junk/tool drawer for apparently the first time yesterday. And he laid eyes on those defunct USB cords thinking the same thing I did. Before I knew it, he was fishing around the drawer for cords he could cut up (weed does funny things to him -- he'll become obsessed with a project to the complete disregard of anything else) and ended up with a flogger and a loopy toy.


As he made the toys, we discussed and derided the announcement of David Beckham's $250 million deal with the LA Galaxy (or rather, AEG and Addidas and, um, well, we still can't figure out how the whole thing is working out). Mused about whether the entire MLS was even worth $250 million. Tutted about how Beckham couldn't just retire with whatever (little) dignity he had left after his tearful press conference following England's dismal performance in the World Cup. Rather he was slinking off to America where, as one writer put it, he was "like an old dog looking for a quiet place to die." Except that the shallow world of Hollywood is hardly quiet, though is perhaps a suitable place for a pretty boy with little remaining football talent. Sure, in the short-term Beckham is supposed to make soccer the new "in" thing and raise its popularity in the US. In the long-term, however, the Beckham Rule may well bankrupt the MLS, a fate that befell its predecessor, the NASL.

It's funny because A. was wondering on Thursday if Beckham's move was even going to be reported on the news here in the US. Now he's not only annoyed that the omnipresent, nasally-voiced washout has followed him across the Pond, but will also, on top of it all, make a shit load of money.

Perhaps it was time to add Becks to the whipping girl list.

"I'm going to bend you over like Beckham and fuck you up the ass like Posh does to him," A teased. "I'm going to make you cry harder than a substituted overrated has-been who's just realized he's never going to win the World Cup."

Mmm yeah. That squirmy feeling was so back.

In the end we couldn't think of an appropriate physical punishment for Beckham (tying him up and making him read all the newspaper accounts about what a loser he is seemed far more apt). But we did have a flogger and loopy toy to test out, as well as a new ping pong paddle. It was time to take my pajama bottoms down and lay me on the bed with my nekkid ass well and truly exposed.

He began with a nice warm-up hand spanking (though damn is his hand hard!). Then he used the ping pong paddle. It definitely stung but wasn't as bad as I had it built up in my head it would be. The same can be said of the loopy toy. In fact, it had that same sensation as a belt has: it stung when it first hit my skin but instantly turned into a pleasurable sensation. The flogger, on the other hand, hurt like a mofo. The ends of it bit into my skin with the slightest stroke. Well, not literally. In fact, for someone on anti-coagulants, I remained remarkably unmarked.

You'd think I'd have had my fill at that point. But oh no. I then mentioned that I hadn't had the cane in some time, so there were some cane strokes involved. However, my ass was numb by that point so I didn't really feel much of that except for the odd stroke on my thigh. I also suggested the strap. "You're a little pain slut today," A. stated with a grin. I giggled and smiled and awaited the strap. It was heavier than I remembered it, but still had that nice sting. There was also a bit of the wooden spatula somewhere in there, but, you know, there are parts of this spanking (as with most spankings) that are rather a blur looking back on it.

Finally A. needed to take a smoke break. I put my PJ bottoms back up and climbed into bed to take a nap. Yet being the insatiable pain slut that I was, I still wanted more. I was also a bit, um, well, very...er...juicy and thought that attending to that might earn me yet another spanking. It didn't, but I did get some delightful assistance in attending to that when A. returned.

::wide, happy grin::

And I did finally manage to take my nap. You know. Eventually. ;)

Crook-handled canes are handy -- and not just for spanking!

I keep our cane in the bathroom as all the humidity is supposed to keep it nice and whippy. I meant to put it away once when my nieces were coming over, but while it's visible, it's not exactly out in the open hanging there on the back of a rung on the metal shelf over the toilet. Since inquisitive ten-year-old minds never noticed, I just left it there.

At any rate, tonight I'm in the bathtub getting ready to shave when I realize I forgot to get the conditioner that I use to shave with down from the shelf high up along the shower wall. Now, once I'm in the bath, I hate getting up unless I'm getting out (though that usually sucks too). So, what to do? Why grab my trusty crook-handled cane and use it to knock the conditioner down into the bath.

See? Very handy...

Warning: Neurotic dump ahead

I was cleaning up the cord mess from my latest offline debacle this afternoon and as I picked up my two defunct USB cords I thought that thought every spanko pervert thinks: wonder what it'd be like to get spanked with...? Except that instead of getting that delicious squirmy feeling and drifting off into fantasy land, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

A. is getting here tomorrow and it's like my mojo has disappeared again. ARRRRGHH! What the hell is wrong with me?

Is it that now that I'm definitely going to be getting spanked I suddenly don't want it? The last time he was coming I did end up in the hospital with bilateral pulmonary emboli, but that seems like something rather difficult to produce on a psycho-somatic level. And besides, once I got out of the hospital, I was the one who kept trying to initiate sex and spanking.

Is there something about January in which I go into some sort of vanilla period? I mean, I just assumed last January I lost my mojo because of all the urinary tract infections. Technically, I haven't had a laboratory-confirmed UTI since May, though there are flares of the sacro-iliac-pelvic pain off and on and constant low level pain since the first UTI in June 2004. But it's not like it's been any worse than it usually is. In fact, it's been ever so slightly better the last couple of weeks. I mean, I always do feel a tiny bit queasy about getting spanked when I can't even sit normally because my tailbone hurts like hell. But, ya know, it's not like that's ever stopped me most of the time. ::grin::

So, you know, wtf?!

I have to admit, I started panicking a bit this afternoon.

There has been that continuing ambivalence about my punishment kink. I've even written another "kink in my kink" post for the Punishment Book, but will post it a bit later after A. and I have some time to talk about it. So that's part of it.

And while my sacro-iliac-pelvic pain has been a tiny bit better, it's been a bad pain week otherwise. That sitting weird all the time is hard on my upper back/neck (especially as I'm, um, rather buxom) and I really wigged out one of my thoracic vertebrae, as well as endured that special time of the month. My body is sorta going through that no...no pain...no more pain!

At least, that's what I'm hoping.

When A. called me from Gatwick a little while ago, he made some squirmy threats. And ya know, I got that yummy squirmy feeling in my tummy.

So, you know, maybe it'll all be okay.

Yup. Of course it will.