It was me!

Whew! That last post kicked the crap out of me. And then the stomach flu kicked a whole lot more crap outta me. Literally. But I'm back to solid foods now. And I think I'm just about caught up on comments, though I still owe lots of email to both kinky and non-kinky alike. So much email...

At any rate, I thought I'd share a quicky with you about my appointment with Nurse K. on Tuesday. Awhile back A. asked regarding my relationship with Nurse K. "who will be the first one to use the S word?" Well, it turned out to be me. At one point, I was mentioning how I had been trying to get an appointment with her the week of the 17th.

"If I saw you that day I could have pinched you -- if you weren't wearing green, that is," she said with a grin.

"Apparently that's an American thing as A. had never heard of that custom until I mentioned it," I said, being the cultural anthropologist-wannabe nerd that I am. Then without really thinking too much and with a bit of a grin myself I followed up with, "And apparently they don't have birthday spankings in England either." Suddenly I realized I'd said the "S" word and quickly mumbled something about perhaps it shows that Americans are more violent.

Nurse K. smiled and then turned back to the computer to type in my Coumadin dose as she verbally went over it with me.

Needless to say, it was not one of my more articulate moments.

Speaking of birthday spankings, A.'s birthday will occur a little over a week after he gets here (a month from tomorrow!). It will be the first time we will have ever been together on his birthday and at that time I plan to painfully introduce him to the venerable American tradition of the birthday spanking.

I'm hoping his ass will be more sore than my arm.

Take it all, Bitch

As you might imagine, What It Is We Do can be a bewildering concept for both kinky and vanilla feminists alike. Hell, it's a bewildering concept for us feminists who engage in it, as the epic thread that followed my post from a little over a year ago at the Punishment Book can attest. In her article, "Slap Happy," in this month's issue of Bitch Magazine (Spring, No. 39) author Jessica Wakeman doesn't necessarily provide any answers to make it less bewildering, but she does give the reader plenty to think about.

I think it's important to remember that she walks several fine lines among word limit and the need to contextualize, describing who we are and what we do -- and what we think about what we do, and how the whole thing relates to the issues of female choice and empowerment to an audience of women who may or may not be sex-positive and know absolutely nothing about domestic discipline. In dealing with all this, she makes points and asks questions that were very thoughtful, if somewhat provocative at times. And, yes, despite walking all these fine lines, there are elements she gets wrong too.

Wakeman's thesis is that domestic discipline is a method that some couples use to make their relationships work. A lifestyle that can provide a certain yin and yang that is missing in the contemporary male-female relationship. She quotes at length family historian Stephanie Coontz, who talks about how marriage has changed more in the last 35 years than in the last several thousand and how couples are finding new ways of "doing" a relationship. And couples have more choice about how to do that relationship than ever before, including consciously utilizing domestic discipline.

In the process of explaining this novel-but-not-novel way to do a relationship, Wakeman tries to contextualize DD within the recent history of feminism and the much longer history of male dominance and female submission.

"If an imbalance of power, based on centuries of socialization, is bubbling just below the surface of a relationship, some couples deal with the conflict by establishing some boundaries and choosing to accept then."

This was sort of an inversion of how the writer of the blog Whatever she says describes their relationship: "Most women are the 'boss' of their marriage. The only difference is that I've admitted it and she has acknowledged it." It seems fair to say that DD is a way of acknowledging that we're not all the same. Some have different strengths and weaknesses and we've simply negotiated those differences in power in ways that work for us rather than let them fester below the surface and cause problems with the relationship -- a marked departure from the past where gender roles were fixed and there was no negotiation.

In looking at the rhetoric of blogs like Loving Domestic Discipline, Wakeman rightly acknowledges that "taken at face value, domestic discipline reeks of feminist backlash." Female dominance -- even equality -- is a scary prospect for a lot of men (and women) and there are indeed those who utilize DD in an effort to get women back into a traditional, feminine submissive role. Let's face it, to newcomers looking at the endless blogs and Yahoo groups on domestic discipline, most seem to revolve around women who are bitchy, get into fights with their husbands, get super-bitchy, get spanked by their husbands, then everything is better without ever looking at why she's bitchy or that she may well have some damn good reasons to be bitchy. Not to mention all those spanking stories where the woman is strong-willed, irrational, stubborn, and irresponsible. They reinforce the notion that the emotions of women require the management of stable, reasonable men.

On the other hand, while second wave feminism made great strides in demonizing domestic abuse, "the resulting taboo," says Wakeman, "pushes couples in DD relationships into the closet." Along with a brilliant quote from Mija about how "there's nothing feminist about sublimating your desires because society says you shouldn't have them," Wakeman subtly reproves her audience for creating an environment that is hostile to the choices some women make about what to do with their bodies.

While trying to address the question that many non-kinksters have regarding the relationship between childhood abuse and spanking, Wakeman makes it clear that "for DD women, there's no readily apparent thread connecting actual childhood discipline with their current lifestyle." And she does a good job of placing DD squarely within the spanking fetish by noting that, while not all spankos practice DD, all those who practice domestic discipline are confirmed spankos.. "...[T]he line between spanking intended for a boudoir thrill and spanking as an outside-the-bedroom consequence can be blurry..." Indeed, as I have argued in the past, punishment and DD are really just sub-fetishes within the larger fetish of erotic spanking.

Wakeman's most interesting and challenging question in this article was asking how much of our yearning for discipline is about a strong societal norm for female perfection.

"Their fallibility frustrates and overwhelms them...Many American women strongly feel the drive to be perfect: to be educated, to be a breadwinner, to be a good mother, to be a good wife, and to be beautiful to boot. Is it possible some women -- whether kinkily inclined, formerly abused, neither, or both -- turn to domestic discipline the same way others find solace in punishing behaviors like eating disorders, cutting, or obsessively working out?"

Ouch. I can't answer "no" right away. I found the timing eerie, reading this a week after writing my own post on my obsession with perfection (though I failed to include a gender element in my discussion). And it's certainly been a topic of mine at the Punishment Book. Indeed, when I first started acknowledging I had this preoccupation with spanking and punishment, I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps it was a variation on cutting. While most of me says it's not -- as I say in the article, my sexuality expresses itself as a child who gets off on shame and punishment -- if I'm being brutally honest, there's a part of me that can't say definitively no, it's not at all about my inability to deal with my own fallibility. I have a hard time accepting the fact that I'm finite, and I have most certainly been guilty of using spanking as a means of trying to attain that ever impossible perfection.

Now, like many of you, my first reaction to this article was heavily influenced by my disagreements with it, as well as being rather chagrined that I was introduced in the article as the one who self-spanks over the phone with her boyfriend. It's embarrassing enough having to admit that to fellow spankos, but to be introduced to the feminist world like that was a bit...er, uncomfortable.

The first issue involves a little linguistic nitpicking.

"Mija and Natty control the nature of their DD relationships with a power referred to in the BDSM community as 'topping from the bottom'. In such situations it's the submissive partner who's actually in control; the 'top' is required to have permission from the bottom before inflicting any BDSM action."

I would not consider what I do as topping from the bottom. That is really a form of manipulating the top to do what you want her/him to do -- not that I haven't had my moments. Oh, I hope you don't spank me with the belt! That, my friends, is topping from the bottom, though it's brazen enough that A. generally knows I'm trying to get him to do something very specific. However, because he's the top, he controls whether or not he's going to go on to spank me with the belt. Thus, I maintain my status as bottom and he as top.

Negotiating the framework of our disciplinary relationship, with me having a say in how it will proceed doesn't strike me as topping from the bottom; it's simply negotiation. Once we have negotiated what we want to do, A. then decides how to execute the framework we've both decided upon and I submit to those decisions, save for a safeword or phrase that might stop everything until we can decide what's wrong and where to proceed from there. Basically, the same as in any sort of BDSM safe-sane-consensual scene.

But, of course, the main point of disagreement was on the issue of gender and DD. About half way into the article, in parentheses, Wakeman states:

"Theoretically, a man can be the submissive in a heterosexual domestic discipline relationship, and a DD relationship can be same-sex, but based on both Internet presence and the couples that I interviewed, it's far more common to find heterosexual, female-submissive practitioners."

In the year since I was interviewed for this article, A. and I have started switching more regularly.  It is true that we don't switch in terms of discipline but it has little to do with gender; I'm the one who gets off on it and finds it more effective (my musings as to why are here). However, as I've started topping more, I've started seeking out more F/M blogs and am realizing there are a lot more than I realized when I was primarily a bottom.

As A. and I talked about this article, we both agreed this was the one point where we thought Wakeman got it wrong. He suggested that there are a lot more men in DD relationships than are reflected online because men are less inclined to blog about their activities (as, apparently are female tops). It's true too that F/M couples don't use Yahoo groups to quite the extent that M/F do, though to be sure, there are quite a number of disciplinary F/M Yahoo groups. It does have me wondering what is different about F/M domestic discipline that it doesn't express itself online in the same way that M/F does (pictures -- it's more visually oriented is my first thought). Men do not seem to be articulating submissiveness, nor are women articulating dominance in the same ways and in the same amounts as submissive women. Is there still a strong societal standard against men expressing submissiveness and women domestic dominance?

A. also believes that a lot of men are simply going to dominatrices when they can't get what they want from their partners. A frequent commenter here, Indiana, asked in an email, "Is it true that societal forces make it more likely that a woman will consent to spanking than a man?" I would argue that I think the societal force is more along the lines of making woman feel less comfortable dominating (or rather, our form of domination has traditionally been in manipulation rather than in blunt force) so that it is very difficult for submissive men to find a partner willing to provide the strong female hand they need and desire. It's a lot easier to slip back into traditional roles than chip away at new, less comfortable ones.

While, yes, it's true there isn't as much of a same-sex presence online (though it is there), that reflects the fact that heterosexuality is the norm. Out of any given population group, same-sex couples are always going to be in the minority (well, you know, except maybe the Castro district in San Francisco) but it was unfortunate that same-sex couples were excluded, as Jigsaw Analogy noted in the comments for the previous post, as it would have demonstrated the problem genderizing this lifestyle entails.

So, yes, I cringed when Ms. Wakeman stated that "The crux of domestic discipline is that women's behavior is inherently rife with transgressions, and the discipline provided by their intimate partner will be a leveling force." The context of this comment is unclear to me. I'm not sure if this was meant to represent the views of Mr. Loving DD and his ilk rather than my or Mija's view. And if it was, I wished that there was more contrast between what Mija and I do, and what MrLovingDD does (that is, if he does it at all or just writes very good "wank material" as one friend has called it). He genders behavior, we do not and I don't think that point is very clear.

If it was meant to truly describe the essence of domestic discipline as practiced by the majority, then I think she (or her editor) missed a very important point. F/M domestic discipline is not a fringe group within DD and making it so within this article marginalizes their sexuality (though there is the point that it is "feminizing" men, which is still a form of female submission in its own way). By insisting on maintaining a gendered perspective on dominance and submission, it keeps women boxed into rigid definitions that ultimately dis-empower women.

However, again I think it's important to keep in mind the audience for whom this article was written: feminist women who may know a little something about erotic spanking but know absolutely nothing about domestic discipline. And it's damn hard to explain it to an outsider. It is impossible for the target audience to look at this completely outside the construct of gender, as much as I think they should. I mean, the relationship that A. and I have -- that all nine of us at the Punishment Book have with our partners -- is not necessarily the norm when you take into consideration DD blogs and groups in their entirety. Would I have liked an article that looked at how some women are practicing DD without the stereotypes? Sure, but first people have to actually know what the hell it is.

I should also note that Ms. Wakeman was under a great deal of pressure to sensationalize this story, (i.e. make this a story that poked fun at us freaks) or simply couldn't sell the story because it was too edgy (and the magazines she pitched it to were hardly the Ladies Home Journal). While we're used to What It Is We Do, most people are not, and I think the compromise she found at Bitch in describing this as a way that women are seeking to "do" a relationship is a reasonable one even if I disagree with the gendered approach.

On Monday when my county-appointed housekeeper arrived to do my laundry, she told me the harrowing tale of how her daughter was beaten by her husband the weekend before. He started to choke her when she refused to give him the car keys because he was drunk, all the while shoving his knee into her three month pregnant belly. For hours after the cops came and dragged him off to jail, they could not get a heartbeat on the fetus. Eventually a heartbeat was heard, though they will not know the extent of any damage until birth. It was a poignant reminder to me that while we have come to a point where I can exercise my right to play with dominance and submission, we have not reached a point where the raw, non-consensual execution of it has ceased. And for a lot of people, it is impossible to divorce one from the other, even if I can.

But it's hard when you're a woman who has done all the things you're supposed to do to be a good feminist to hear someone suggest that you're doing something that puts the whole thing back to the days when the police wouldn't be showing up to take a wife-beater to jail. That you're embracing a construct with thousands of years of misogyny backing it up. I think that's why places like the Punishment Book, This Thing We Do, as well as the increasing number of feminist voices -- female and male -- among the domestic discipline community are so valuable. And why consciously grasping the choice we have to practice What It Is We Do in a non-gendered, mindful way is a profoundly feminist act.

Some homework on feminism and spanking

Alrighty, dear readers, my brain fog is still palpably thick. Or as A. might say, "it's a right pea-souper." So I'm going to assign you some homework as I slowly chip away at my post whilst groping around in the haze (it also means I'm going to be a bit slow in getting to email -- I'm so sorry!).

The new spring issue of Bitch magazine is now online and gracing discriminating newstands everywhere. Why, you ask, am I suggesting you read Bitch on a blog about spanking? Well aside from the fact that it's a great magazine about pop culture and feminism, and, as the great bell hooks said, feminism is for everyone (including -- maybe even especially -- spankos), I also recommend you go out and find yourself a copy because this issue contains an article featuring yours truly (as well as others) and domestic discipline (it is, alas, not one of the articles available online -- yet).

I found a great deal in the article that was thoughtful and valuable. And, of course, there are a few areas where I very respectfully disagree. But I figure it might be nice to have a discussion about it if at least some of you have read the article. (Lordy it's been awhile since I said that -- albeit in a college classroom). Or, more importantly, I'm totally stalling while I wait for the fog to lift.

In the meantime, while I go back to watching television and trying not to drool on myself when I doze off, I leave you with a quote from a beautifully written post that was included in a recent feminist carnival. Go on. Go, read the entire post. You'll be glad you did. (My, aren't I in a toppy mood tonight?)

So, we took school seriously, we dated boys who were enlightened and honoured our stellar futures, we went on to postsecondary education, we delayed marriage, we started our careers and bought our houses before beginning our families, we nurtured our careers, earned our promotions, followed the social issues, donated to the progressive charities, hired the childcare, earned as much as or more than our husbands, pushed against the glass ceiling, talked the talk, walked the walk. We had everything, did everything, exhausted ourselves fighting the good fight, achieving the good life. One thing we / they forgot though … we somehow missed out on some of the original intention — choice.

I followed the rules, lockstep. I didn’t follow the only possible path — I get that. There were variations I could have chosen...Basically, though, I followed the rules. That’s how it felt — what we were really good at was the same thing our mothers were good at — following rules. This particular set of rules was about emancipation not subservience, but they were set expectations, nevertheless. It took me a long time to figure that out. Don’t get me wrong; I was grateful for the opportunities provided by those expectations and by the women who trailblazed to create them — I still am. But here I am, 42, and living in a box that is roomier and has better views than the one that contained my mother… but a box even so.

So… one night this week, I will meet Him. For four or five hours, I will accept a new set of rules, where I call him Sir, and he calls me pet, and I kneel, and he ties me up, and I shiver, and he spanks. The difference is that they will be rules that he and I negotiated together...

I'm quality

While I'm pretty sure I would have been voted least likely to be a sex blogger in high school, I think now that I've been reviewed by Jane's Guide, I'm officially a sex blogger. So, you know, that'll be something to spice things up at the 20th reunion (a mere and unbelievable three years away).

Wolfe gave me a very kind review that you can read here.

My naughty little girl imagination

Sorry to be so quiet this last week and a half. I'm going through a phase of sleeping a lot. It's a recuperative-sort of sleeping rather than a depressive-sort of sleeping, and frankly I find myself impatient with the whole thing. But at the end of this sleeping phase I know I'll feel better, so I've learned to just go with it. Unfortunately yesterday I had to make a trip to Walmart after massage therapy/acupuncture, and that's knocked me back for what will probably be a few days. I'm working on a post that requires my brain to be a little less foggy than it has been lately, and hopefully I'll get that posted in a few days.

In the meantime, as I wrote on my non-kink blog, I've been trying to practice being in the present more and finding it difficult when stuck in bed a lot of the time. Not only that, but I end up having to deal with my current feelings about past events (see this post or this one). After wrestling with the demons of unanswerable whys the other night, I've found myself in a very little girl sort of mood.

I keep imagining A. taking me over his lap and scrunching my cotton panties down to my knees. As he begins to spank my fat, creamy white cheeks with his large, hard hands, he will tell me that this spanking is to remind me that I'm a little girl. His little girl. No amount of pouting and whimpering will keep him from spanking me until my cheeks are scarlet and I'm kicking and crying like a small child. And I'll feel particularly small when he stands me up and orders me to the corner, where I'll waddle to with my panties down around my ankles. After a few minutes of feeling very small indeed, he'll bring me to himself and cuddle his special girl. He'll stroke my hair and tell me what a good girl I am. A little girl who is wanted. Always wanted. And those horrible demon whys will go away.

As you can see, my imagination has a penchant for intruding on my being present.

Right. Back to bed. Hopefully I'll have dreams about the paragraph above instead of the emotionally draining sort I had earlier this week...

Send your Facebook friend a spank

Somebody else may have already blogged about this. And lord knows I'm probably the last person on earth to get a page on Facebook (not linked here but I suppose if you dug around enough on my non-kink blog you might find the link). But, on Facebook there is this one application called "SuperPoke" in which you can send a certain action to your Facebook friends and among all the choices of actions you can send him or her is a spank.


But, alas, there is no little emoticon/icon/whatever the hell you call it for the spank! I mean, how hard would it be to have a little bottom next to "spank" that's a bit rosy? Plus, it's also listed under the "mean" Superpokes, but not the "nice" Superpokes. What's up with that?

Permission not to be perfect

Last night while roaming around the spanking blogosphere, I happened upon the new Eric's Spanking Blagh, where Eric has introduced himself to readers with a lengthy story about a naughty coed whose drinking and inattention to her studies gets her a bad grade on a test and a sore bottom. It reminded me of the spanking fantasies I had when I was in college about having my own strict daddy or uncle. Indeed on the Southern California Evangelical campus I wandered, there was a grad student who looked to be in his forties who stood out amongst all the teens and earlier twenty year olds. I never actually talked to him, but I imagined on several occasions him giving me a few over the knee chats in his apartment in the graduate housing next to my dorm.

By the end of my freshman year of college, having both a strict daddy and mommy was a dominant fantasy. I knew I wanted to study Arabic, and I imagined being adopted by a childless Arab couple who would use, er, traditional methods in teaching me their native tongue. If I tried to speak in English at all, I'd be spanked. You know, sorta like the Language Pledge at Middlebury College. And they would certainly see to it that I did my homework every night (no doing it in the middle of class like I sometimes did). They would probably even have very traditional views about boys and dating (i.e. mamnoo'a -- forbidden).

That fantasy remained with me throughout college and into graduate school, though I think I had a few fantasies about being spanked by my Arabic instructor in grad school, especially as he actually did rule our class with an iron fist. If the university would have let him get away with it, I don't doubt he probably would have included corporeal punishment along with the dictations he used to punish us with when he thought we weren't studying hard enough.

The thing is, though, that when I look back at what I was like in college, I had no real need for a strong disciplinarian, as much as I may have dreamed of having one. I never drank. To be sure, it wasn't readily available my freshman year at that Evangelical university where alcohol was prohibited. But then, so was pre-marital sex, yet that didn't stop a lot of my classmates from giving it up in their boyfriends' backseats. When I transferred to a state school where I could study Arabic, alcohol was readily available from my friends who at times pleaded with me to have a drink with them. But I didn't drink because I was a Baptist. And the family I lived with from my church maintained a most assuredly dry home.

Not only did I not party, but I also kept my nose in the books. Sure, I procrastinated at times, slacked off here and there. But I had to have some sort of a social life, even if I insisted on being home by 9pm so I could get to bed by 9:30-10 at the latest. Yes. You read that right. I went to bed most nights well before 10pm throughout college. It boggles my mind now. Even I want to tease my undergraduate self for acting like such an old maid, as my friends often did. The only thing that saved me from being the class goody-goody (at least in Arabic, in my Honors class I had the good girl position totally locked up) was a guy I'll call Clark, who transferred into our Arabic class after spending a year in Egypt. He did nothing but study Arabic when he wasn't in class. Well, that and go to church. By my senior year, he'd overtaken me in grammar as well as in being the teacher's pet. I hated him, even though he was a very nice guy -- a fact that made me hate him even more. Next to Clark I felt like the naughty girl, which a small part of me enjoyed a great deal.

Obviously at some point I moved into the real world. I mean, now I not only drink but fornicate -- and celebrate my deviant sexual behavior in a blog! It was a gradual change that started the second year of grad school when I finally had my first beer. But I didn't actually start exploring sex until after the surgery that triggered my ME/CFS and after converting to Catholicism. Perhaps my willingness to forsake the faith of my youth gave me the courage to forsake its mores as well. And as my body moved beyond my ability to rigidly control because of illness, I desperately needed an escape. As I explained in my earliest post, I needed to play. Badly. So I retreated into that world that before I had only allowed myself to escape to at night while drifting off to sleep.

It makes me smile a bit to look back and think of my longings for a disciplinarian as a college student. I still had a healthy sexual fantasy life despite how repressed I was. And even if the fantasies themselves were rather unconventional -- so much so that I didn't even connect them to sex at the time.

That hunger for more discipline is also perhaps a bit disturbing. I clearly had no need of a disciplinarian. But all I could see then was the failings one would have kept me from making, even as everyone around me was constantly in awe of how good I was. I wanted to be perfect and surely a disciplinarian would have taken me to the Promised Land.

Or maybe I did need one, but only as a way of telling me it was okay to be bad. You can't live the fantasy of being naughty and getting spanked unless, well, unless you're actually naughty, or at least pretend to be so. If I was still the good girl who went to bed at 9:30 every night and whose only fault was that she procrastinated a bit, there wouldn't be much fun.

Yes, in many ways I think there is a lot about this kink that, for me at least, is about having the permission to be naughty, even if -- or perhaps, so that -- I get spanked for it. I think in many ways what I longed for in college was the freedom to be a naughty coed without the world falling apart. I had worked too hard to get there, and had too many great plans (even if illness quickly whisked them away) to risk pregnancy or the zillion other things that could have gone wrong. The only way I could make sure (or so I thought) that everything went as they were supposed to was to be perfect.

I'm really glad I'm not perfect anymore. So very glad.

The Strictologist is in

A. has decided he is going to be a strictologist.

It started a few weeks back when he rearranged a chair in his sister's living room. While I wasn't there to witness it, it was apparently one of the single greatest acts in the history of interior design.

"I have a gift," he told me afterwards. No matter that he can't tell the difference between periwinkle and plum if his life depended on it. I'm no longer allowed to make decorating decisions about the apartment without his approval. And I'm most certainly not allowed to shop at Ikea. Ever. "You will not confuse Ikea with good taste," is his new mantra, which he's threatened to make me write 1000 times.

And you thought that last story was just fiction...

Then there was the other day when the owners of a particular website asked his opinion about their site. "Well, since they asked..." A. proceeded to list several major problems he found.

"Maybe you should be a website design consultant," I said. "Yeah and you could be like those management consultants and make lots of money."

"I would be a great consultant. Especially if I could use a cane." A. then laid out his scenario as yet another bossy Brit, in this case one who goes in and critiques both interior design and web design, with his trusty cane in tow, of course. "You've been very naughty with your drop down menus...And these chairs are disgraceful!"

"I suppose it's sorta like a pro-dom, in a way," I suggested. And according to a story I was reading this afternoon about the self-help industry, there is the common theme of those seeking out these bossy books and TV shows having "a penchant for punishment."

"Yes," said A. "A pro-dom, interior designer, web design consultant...a strictologist."

It does seem like a nice, catch-all title, no?

And how would one become a strictologist, I wondered. Well, hell, there are degrees in sexology, so why not strictology?

I can imagine it now. Training in scolding (perhaps even a minor -- with further coursework in an upper class British accent). Proper caning techniques. Implement care. Psychology of brats and subs.

Perhaps there might be a TV show in the making here, like, say, "Super Strictologist".

Yikes! Imagine a caning from somebody with that title...

Story: Porn [M/F]

I've been holding this story back for a dry spell, but after the last post, this seemed like a good time to post it.

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Story: Porn [M/F]

They were spread out over the metal coffee table with a couple of tiny yellow Post-It pads supporting one leg. Glossy pages of careful, luscious poses.

"I found these under the mattress," said Adam, nodding to the contraband.

Melissa could feel the hot color warming her cheeks as she faced the blue-gold shag.

"Didn't imagine I'd ever find them there, did you?" he asked.

The instinctual gulp before she found her words. "No, Sir."

Adam sighed. Shook his head.

"I must say, I'm disappointed in you. Your lack of creativity. Allowing someone to exploit your fantasies for their own financial gain -- not to mention the people who work for them."

"But these people are Swedish," insisted Melissa as she pointed. "They always treat their workers well. And they don't cost much!"

"Excuse me?" The sharpness of his voice stunned Melissa back into silence. Back to staring at the blue-gold shag. "I think leather would be most appropriate on this occasion. Fetch me the strap, please."

"Yes, Sir." Melissa bit her bottom lip as she went to the bedroom. Pursed her lips as she returned to the living room and handed the strap to Adam.

"Right, then. Bare bottom, please. Over the back of the sofa." Adam unbuttoned and rolled up his right shirt sleeve while Melissa removed her trousers and panties and draped her voluptuous creamy buttocks over the plain, brown couch.

"I'm going to give you fifty."

She gasped but swallowed the protest filling her lungs.

"Count them, please," Adam instructed.

"Yes, Sir."

Adam's strokes were sharp, rapid splats that were hard for Melissa to keep up with.

By eight she began to panic knowing that forty-two more loomed ahead.

By seventeen she began to release her grip on the bottom of the sofa back.

By twenty-nine she was shutting her eyes tight and stumbling over the numbers.

By forty she was moving her hips back and forth to at least move the burn around.

Finally it came.

"Fifty," she squeaked out. Adam helped her stand up and led her around to the front of the couch.

"Alright, big cuddle for my girl," he said as he laid down and pulled her to him. Melissa smiled. She always smiled when it was over and he said that and they cuddled. "You and your furniture porn," tutted Adam.

"But look..." Melissa pointed to the bed on the cover of the Pottery Barn catalog. "So pretty! Oh and this..." She picked up the Ikea catalog and flipped to a coffee table. "...Would look perfect in our living room, see? And look at the price!"

"Fecking Ike-er," Adam sneered. "I see you've learned your lesson well."

About as well as the British have learned to pronounce words that end in an "a" without adding an "r." But saying that would be too cheeky.

"Yep," Melissa replied with a grin, "I need to hide my porn better."

There's always room, however, to be a little cheeky.

Copyright 2007 Natty

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While I wrote the story for the annual SSS Short Story Contest last summer, I also happened to write it on the occasion of Ikea finally opening here in Portland last July. Gawd I love their kitchens...

The Lady Jane bench

My very favorite on-screen spanking of all time is in Lady Jane. You remember the one (I mean, how can you forget?). Her mother tells the staff to "prepare the gallery." Young Jane (played by Helena Bonham Carter) is escorted to a u-shaped bench and given the birching of her life.

If I owned the movie (which I should but, sadly, don't), I would show you a picture. However, MovieSpanks over at YouTube has the clip along with nine others in his list of the top ten spankings of the 1980s. Lady Jane is ranked seventh (?!) and as the list is M/F F/F oriented, it's also lacking one of my other favorite spankings, the paddling in Dead Poets Society.

Um...right, I can't help it; one of the spankings in his list takes place on a plane and all I could think of was, hey, Spanks on a Plane...

So back to Lady Jane. It came to mind just now as I was looking at a household catalog online and came across this:


I know! You can own your very own Lady Jane bench for less than $25!

The castle and costumes needed to make the recreation complete, however, might set you back a bit more.

The phone calls of doom

There was some discussion of my last post on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgoup (I generally try to cross-post there for friends who can't make it to the blogosphere) and at one point during the ensuing thread, I mentioned that, aside from the ick factor of discussing my sexuality with her, I would never want to tell my mom about my disciplinary arrangement with A. because she (and my grandma) would totally be trying to get me spanked.

Not only can I point to the linked post above as proof, but I would also cite the first Christmas A. was here. I was taking pictures of my super-adorable nieces and nephew during Christmas dinner and, apparently, holding up the flow of food around the table. My mom complained, prompting A. to grab my camera and set it to the other side of him, making it impossible for me to reach. Both my mom and grandma clapped their hands together and giggled with glee. It made my skin crawl.

At any rate, one poster as S.S.S suggested that there could be fodder for fantasy there.

If it wasn't your mom, if it was someone else, how would the fantasy play out? I mean, the idea of knowing that when you met your boyfriend, he might have received a note or phone call suggesting that you definitely needed to be soundly chastised? Would it be a man or a woman who'd have the authority to make that request? And what would be the terms?

Once the heebie-jeebies at the idea of my mom wore off, and I could think about it a bit more clearly, a few candidates did come to mind: my former caregiver, or perhaps Nurse K. Indeed, I could imagine Nurse K. calling A. to tell him that I hadn't had enough of my leafy greens so my INR was elevated this week. (If you need an explanation of what an INR is, see this post and/or this post. And, of course, if my INR was high, A. would have to be extra carefully about bruising me...but hey, to hell with pesky real-life details, on with the fantasy!)

Once off the phone, he'd probably order me to stand in the corner while he fetched the straight-backed chair and the clothesbrush. After several minutes, A. would call me to him, look me in the eyes and tell me that my nurse has told him that perhaps some disciplinary assistance from him would make certain that I eat my leafy greens like I'm supposed to. That keeping my INR at a consistent level is important for my own safety (which is true: the higher my INR, the higher my risk of bleeding to death).

Then he might ask me if I had done my physical therapy exercises. I'd bite my lower lip and slowly shake my head. "Yes, I know you haven't. Earlier I got a call from your physical therapist," he'd say with his deep, stern, British-accented voice. I would gulp as he'd tell me how she too thought I'd benefit from the business end of a hairbrush. I'd try to think of an excuse for why I hadn't done them, but before I could think of anything remotely adequate, I'd be ordered over his knee.

And, well, we know what would happen there. Lots of hard, wooden splats and me kicking and squirming and promising to eat my greens and do my PT.

I might just be sent to the corner again, with my panties around my knees and red blotchy bottom on display. You know, to think about what I'd done -- or rather, hadn't done.

He might even set me some lines to write. Fifty about how I will eat my greens regularly and fifty about doing my exercises. And I would have to take them to my next appointments with my nurse and physical therapist to show them that I'd been adequately chastised. Perhaps they would have to sign them, so I could verify that I had indeed demonstrated that they had seen, if only in part, my punishment.

oo0oo

Interestingly enough, I can only imagine women doing the tattling. Trying to imagine my GP -- a man -- totally doesn't work for me. Go figure.

Also I actually like eating my greens (if properly prepared) so the only time there's a problem, it's because I'm physically incapable of eating them (indeed, sometimes I eat too many -- it's a very fine balancing act). Though there have been times I've just forgotten to eat them, especially as my meals aren't planned out (hell, I have a hard enough time just trying to remember to take this one medicine a half-an-hour before I eat -- not to mention keeping all the other 20+ drugs straight!).

However, I have been spanked once already for not remembering to do my physical therapy exercises, which strengthen my hip flexor and trans-abdominal muscles and take about five minutes while laying in bed, along with playing around with some "theraputty" in my hand for a few minutes to strengthen that finger I broke back in November.

Speaking of which, I better get this posted and get my exercises done before bed. ::grin::

The spanko tutor is in

In the last two days I have found myself in the position of tutoring someone on the topic of S/M and spanking.

The first tutorial was brief and, er...uncomfortable as my tutee was my mother. See I've strongly suspected that part of the reason her current (fourth) marriage is not working out is that her husband may actually be submissively oriented, as is she.

Now why would I even know enough to deign passing judgment on my mother's sexual life? Well, because I get to hear about it in intimate detail.

Yes, I know. EWWWWW!!!!

My mother cannot grasp the concept that children do not want to think of their parents as sexual beings and has always shared freely with me about her sexuality. Not to mention, has always felt it her duty to share sexual information with us. I'm still traumatized by our discussion regarding blowjobs. I was in the car. Nauseous. Begging her to please...stop...talking...

I've gotten more comfortable over the years (not totally comfortable but, you know, I don't completely want to vomit) as she and I have been much more like sisters than parent-child anyway (hence my hunger for some sort of parental figure). So yesterday as she was driving me to Trader Joe's and talking about her husband, I finally just blurted out, "why doesn't he just go to a dominatrix already!"

"What's a dominatrix?"

Was she serious?

"You know, a woman a guy pays to have order him around and often, you know, whip him and what not...you know, S/M and what not," I tried to explain.

"What's S/M?"

My jaw dropped. For a woman who has always seemed to be this fount of sexual information, I was shocked.

"You know dominance and submission. Where one person's sorta in charge in the bedroom...In fact, I've often thought that you, with your obsession about having a husband who is the head of the household and takes care of you, would totally be into domestic discipline..."

"What's that?"

I took a deep breath. Then shook my head.

"I should probably talk about this later and do my shopping," I said grabbing the car door handle. "You can look it up on the Internet."

"Good idea."

The Loving Domestic Discipline page probably had a few hits from Clackamas, Oregon last night.

I've actually been toying with talking to my mom about the whole DD thing for awhile. Yet aside from the ick factor, there's also the concern that if she did totally get into the whole thing, I'd never be able to go to a spanking event in Portland again without my mom being there (yes, she's little Miss Outgoing).

Then again, it could solve my transportation problems getting to and from said events. Just kidding! The gross-out factor would always, always override my mobility problems.

Still, I often wonder if she'd finally find happiness if she did start looking into DD. But I'm not sure I feel comfortable talking anymore with her about it. That's what Google is for, right?

oo0oo

The second conversation was this afternoon with my godfather. That was less uncomfortable as my godfather is my gay best friend (if we lived closer and I didn't have a boyfriend, I'd totally be his hag) and very familiar with deviant forms of sexuality. It was the logistics of how it worked that he was a bit mystified about, especially when I explained that often it is the act of being spanked (or playing pony, which was what started our conversation) that provides sexual gratification, not necessarily penetration. Indeed, penetration may not even come into it at all. When I was first coming out, I got spanked by many guys but it never involved sex.

"So, what does the top get out of it?" he asked.

"A lot of it is about sadism. About being able to hurt someone and getting pleasure out of that as well as pleasing the person you're hurting. And controlling how the scene is going to play out once you've negotiated the ground rules." As a newly practicing switch, I actually had an answer to that question which as a bottom I'd always sort of wondered about myself.

"I have to say, it's all about penetration for me," he stated. "...I wouldn't really know what to do in that context."

"Well, while I do think there is a lot about our sexuality that can be learned, I also think a lot of it is inbred. A form of sexual orientation, if you will."

"Interesting."

After that we talked about how wrong a certain professor of ours was when he used to go on about how the Internet was going to create political revolutions throughout the Arab World when, in fact, the revolution really has been in sexuality. I don't see the monarchy changing in Saudi Arabia anytime soon, but dating certainly has (i.e. it actually happens) thanks to instant messaging.

I'm sure that you, dear reader, can relate to that last point. Google has almost single-handedly changed our lives and blogs like this help both writers like me and readers like you know that we're not alone.

oo0oo

At any rate, those have been my spanking tutorials over the last two days. The weird and the interesting. The disturbing and the thoughtful.

If I'm not careful, I'm going end up teaching community college courses on spanking and D/s. Then again, I do miss teaching, so that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Just as long as my mom doesn't enroll.

Yay!

Just got off the phone with A. and after an ambitiously austere January, a short-term loan, and a few tips (see bottom of left sidebar) here and there from readers (one in particular saved our ass with a very generous donation -- you know who you are!), A.'s been able to book his ticket back here to Oregon. Basically he either had to return by the end of April or the price was going to go up significantly, leaving us with, potentially, another 8-month separation like last time. But thankfully, he'll be back on April 29th. Only three months apart, per the loose "guidelines" border agents follow (don't get me started on the bizarre arbitrariness of US Visa policy...unless, of course, you happen to be a border agent, in which case, have I ever told you what beautiful eyes you have...how brilliant you are...how brave and strong?).

Seriously. Finding that out made today a lot easier to get through.

Playin' (slightly slutty) school

Sigh. My last post before A. leaves. ::pout::

Not sure if we'll get a chance to play tonight before he leaves, especially as I've got a chest cold. (Though who says you can't get caned if you've got a cold? That's what NyQuil is for, right?) But now that I've caught up on my sleep and the Super Bowl is over (of which we shall no longer speak...grrr) and house guests are back home, I figured it was time to catch up on blogging. Especially as I promised a post in my last post about playing school.

Yes, last week A. set me some schoolwork: I was to learn about the seventeenth-century British monarchy (prompted by a discussion regarding the chronology of that period which was prompted by...er, I can't really remember now). He went out to the shops and I was to get dressed into my school uniform. By the time he got back I was dressed except my tie (the very tie A. wore to school when he was a lad -- something I think is most cool, but got no attention when I mentioned it at the Punishment Book). It had been so long since I had to tie a tie that I had forgotten.

"Here we go." He towered over me and held the tie around my neck. "The thin side goes over here..."

"Ohhh, right. I forgot."

"Don't worry. I'll make sure you remember."

I didn't doubt it.

I settled down with Wikipedia on my laptop. As well as Yahoo Messenger. New PB friend, Bridget, and I chatted when A. had his back turned or went out to smoke. Not to mention, I read her delightful blog and chatted with another spanko friend.

But it was not my lack of studying that caused me to get spanked.

No, it was a surprise inspection that got me in trouble. I was wearing an official white shirt. My tie was clearly on and tied correctly. I had my blazer with correct school badge (also from A.'s childhood uniform). White knee socks. Black shoes. White bra.

"What are these?"

"Um, my red lace panties..."

That's right. I was wearing red lace cheeky panties. What can I say? I wanted to be at least a little slutty. ::grin::

Well, the headmaster was not pleased. Without a word A. closed my laptop and set it on the floor. Moved my over-the-bed table. Ordered me to take off my blazer, then lay myself over his knee. Needless to say, I was quickly stripped of my forbidden panties.

"Right," said A. after a number of increasingly stingy smacks. "Twelves strokes on each cheek. Count them please."

"Yes, Sir."

It wasn't the hardest spanking I've ever received, but his hand sure does hurt.

There was some groping after my spanking. Some practice tying a tie. And a more intimate inspection which revealed that I wasn't, um, shaved.

"Very, very naughty," A. said before fetching the razor and shaving gel.

That's right. I had to lay down on my back on the bed, pull up my skirt, spread my legs and present my cunt to be shaved.

What can I say? This school has very strict rules about grooming.

And not only was my cunt shaved, but then I had to turn over onto my belly and present my ass to be shaved.

It was embarrassing to say the least. But not half as embarrassing as it would have been had it been atop a large oak desk with a large stern school matron doing the shaving. (One of these days we hope to have both the large oak desk and the large stern school matron. ::grin::)

If all that wasn't embarrassing enough, A. got out the medical tape. My ass cheeks were spread far apart and a small butt plug inserted. It was time to punish my bummy hole.

Now, I've always fantasized about having my bummy hole spanked. Lemme tell ya, it HURTS. And A. was only softly spanking me.

After my butt plug fucking and bummy hole spanking, A. began to play with my newly shaved cunt. Between all the anal play and being on my tummy (as opposed to my back), I managed to come. It wasn't the best orgasm ever, but hey, it's better than what I've been getting.

Oh, um, right. We never did get around to my test on the seventeenth-century British Monarchy. Who knows? Maybe we'll get to it in the next four hours before he leaves. If not, I'll certainly have plenty of time to study.

Twitter tweedled out

I apologize if you had problems loading the blog yesterday. It was all Twitter's fault (naughty superfluous blogging function!). And since it's rather unnecessary, I ditched it.

Now back to good ol'perverted blogging. And if my tummy ache goes away (which I hope it does 'cause it's feeling strangely reminiscent of the one I had with my PE), I'll tell you all about playing Slutty School the other night. A little hint: it involved studying the British monarchy in the seventeenth century. And some red lace knickers.

Moving slowly to the girlie side

For the last month and a half I've been in a bit of a dommey mood. Or rather, I haven't really been in much of a kinky or sexual mood at all, but if I had to be kinky, I found it easier to be the demanding goddess than a child-like submissive (and when I did feel child-like, I just wanted to be cuddled). Hormonal craziness, unresolved grief, and just plain feeling like shit left me with little inclination towards sex. But it did leave me hungry to be in control of something. And I have to say, I found it rather satisfying making my beloved happy by dressing seductively, barking orders at him, and taking out my frustrations on his backside with a riding crop. I even ended up with a foot massage to boot.

Yet as that last post of mine demonstrated, I'm starting to feel more like my bratty, little girl self. With a touch of slutty school girl thrown in for good measure (more about that in a forthcoming post). I could feel the girlie side slowly taking over the other day while I was topping. Not that it came all at once. I was enjoying my foot massage. I was relishing A.'s wincing while I whipped him. And I was loving the view from the top while we fucked.

Then A. grabbed my breasts and broke the dommey spell.

I slapped him reflexively and castigated him for touching what he knew he was not allowed to touch. He apologized and said he thought I was switching back to subby mode.

"No. I'm not done riding you yet," I said with another slap. Which, I wasn't that exact second, but within three or four minutes I was. I laid down next to him and meekly said, "okay, you can top now."

He seized my breasts.

"These are mine and I will have them whenever I want them." He pinched and pulled my nipples until I yelped.

"Yes, Sir."

"And this is my cunt that I will fuck when I want to." He grabbed my legs. "That's it -- legs up! That's the proper position for fucking."

I grinned. And spread my legs wide.

Now it had been awhile since we had had good ol' missionary position sex as during the last time few times, I would start to pass out. This time as he entered me, I hoped that everything would be fine.

Wrong.

At first it was just a little bit of nausea. Then I started shaking -- almost like shivering, except I wasn't cold. I kept telling myself to take slow, deep breaths. But this horrible, icky feeling flooded through my whole body until I could feel it from my sternum to my fingers and toes. And aside from the light shining out of the lamp next to me, the room had a darkish-tinge. I began pushing A. away and started crying.

"I have to stop! I can't...have to stop..."

Immediately he was beside me, pulling me to himself.

"Hey...oh, baby..."

I cried softly for a few minutes until the icky feeling subsided and I could speak normally. We talked about what had happened. Tried to figure out why (we didn't -- and still can't). And cuddled a lot. Needless to say, the cuddling made me feel like his cherished little girl.

As I mentioned, this always seems to happen when we do it while I'm on my back. It never seems to happen in any other position. However, when I orgasm -- usually from wanking on my back -- I do get this sort of full-body twitching thing going on. Again, almost like shivering, except I'm not cold.

But last night when A. was wanking me off, it was a lot like what happened the other night. I didn't feel so much like I was going to pass out. At first I thought I was just too tired to come -- my clitoris got too sensitive before I could orgasm. Then the twitchy thing started and I thought maybe I was coming, except within a minute or two, that horrible icky feeling started again and I couldn't speak much. And again I cried a bit and we cuddled. And I wondered, am I going to be able to come again anytime soon?

I have no answer to that question (and if you have any idea what's happening to me, feel free to comment), but for the meantime, I think we're going to stick to spanking -- spanking me, that is. Indeed, I'm off to put my school uniform on. I'm feeling like a cheeky schoolgirl tonight.

Brat rule #34

• Never brat when you've just had a bath. Spankings -- even hand spankings -- can be nearly unbearable on freshly bathed skin.

Yes, I bratted right after having my bath tonight -- er...this morning rather. A. told me to go to bed and I made the mistake of telling him to "make me" with a cheeky glint in my eyes.

Needless to say, he grabbed me by the hand, led me to the bed, and took me over his knee.

Ouch.

It was just a hand spanking but...OMG did it sting! Even after I'd taken my nighttime narcotic dose (which, paradoxically, could be making my spankings hurt worse).

So, um, note to self and all that.

Notes on blogkeeping

Alrighty, the dust is gone. I may tinker a bit more, but changes have been made. Widgets and buttons added. A blogroll finally -- FINALLY -- sorted and organized (now that I've figured out 1-click Blogrolling, I'm in blogkeeping heaven!). I still want to put my archives in a drop-down menu one of these days. But, you know, one of these days.

So the changes are as follows:

Recent comments widget: This way you'll be able to follow a thread of comments on a post without having to scroll down, click on comments, scroll through comments, etc. Hopefully this will make for easier reading and commenting. Not that I'm a comment whore or anything like that...

Yahoo Messenger button: Now you can see if I've got my messenger open so you can chat with me via instant message. I do tend to be slightly bi-polar between introverted and extroverted. When I'm extroverted, I'm really chatty on IM. And when I'm introverted, you may not see me on messenger for months.

Pillow Talk: Cunning Linguists is a list of well-written journals that talk about sex. A number in our spanking community are among this fine group and as my blog has become increasingly sexually-oriented (though will probably never be much about fucking), I thought I might join the fun.

The Essential Natty: Sorta like an anthology of what I think are the pivotal or favorite moments in the life of this blog. Note that a few more have been added to this list and a few dropped off.

The Blogroll: I've finally got a 1-click blogroll (I know, where the hell have I been for the last several years?) so now I'll be able to update my list of favorite blogs instantly. And it's in alphabetical order so you -- and I -- will be able to find the blog we're looking for. Though I do reserve the right to change the order as, well, alphabetical order is so done, ya know?

Great Spanking Sites: Somehow I forgot to include Laura's Spanking Corner when I first created this section, a travesty I've now righted. I've also added a link to "This Thing We Do," an online forum Jigsaw Analogy (aka Dyke Grrl) started for those of us in real life disciplinary relationships who want a place to chat with other people into WIIWD.

Tip Jar: The tip jar started out as me trying to figure out how to put a PayPal button on a friend's blog and practicing on this blog. I decided to leave it on last Christmas when we were desperate for money to make A. come back to me faster but I was limited physically in just what I could do to earn money (and still am). Since then it's been a handy source of spare cash from generous readers (you know who you are) to add to our plane ticket fund. I decided to move it further down the left sidebar to give readers a chance to read a bit before they choose whether or not to tip. I've been considering advertising, but I dislike the idea forcing people to view advertising against their will. That said, I may include advertising someday down the road, but it will only be from carefully selected vendors (no Google ads, no random dodgy spankingporn outfits) and absolutely, positively will not include any animation of any kind. In the meantime, I'll just stick with you all and the PayPal button, as well as hopefully finish a spanking story or two to sell (if I ever finish physical therapy, that is).

That's it, dear reader. Those are the changes that I hope will make your time here more pleasant. Enjoy!

Pardon the dust

I've been meaning to clean this blog up for awhile. My blogroll -- or lack of one -- has made for a messy group of urls with glaring omissions and broken links. And I've been wanting to add some goodies like the comments widget, Yahoo Messenger button, Twitter, etc. Some of that I've accomplished tonight (er...this morning). Some of it I have not. But I will get it finished this week (tomorrow, insh'allah as my Arab friends say -- God willing!), and I appreciate your patience while I try to make this blog a even more enjoyable.

In the meantime, my spanking mojo is coming back here and there (well, my domme mojo has been back for sure and my little girl mojo is also creeping back). New juicy posts should be forthcoming both here and the Punishment Book soon.

A swinger of birches

Afraid my spanking mojo has gone to "tentative" the last couple of weeks while I've been a bit sickly. Nothing serious, just the ebb and flow of a weakened immune system, adjusting to new medication (my insurance company finally approved the long acting narcotic my doctor prescribed -- yay!) and too many doctors appointments (now that I'm done with pelvic floor physical therapy, it's on to hand therapy for that finger I broke during my tumble down the stairs back in November).

I keep wanting to post something, especially as my StatCounter numbers have been higher than ever. But while I've plenty of material in my mental notebook to post, I haven't had a matching level of energy. So tonight I will simply leave you with the closing line of the Robert Frost poem, "Birches," (alas his mind is not as prurient as mine) which I came across at my new favorite web addiction, poets.org:

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

I daresay that more than a few of us would share such a sentiment.

Nothing says Christmas like a Santa with a tree up his ass

I tried to take a picture of the plastic Santa atop my tiny Christmas tree with his slightly surprised but clearly pleased expression despite the evergreen branch up his ass, but unfortunately my batteries are not charging like they should. I figured you all, my dear pervy readers, would appreciate a Santa who doesn't mind being anally impaled.

Not sure that Christmas trees are quite my thing (I'll stick to good ol' butt plugs and ginger root), but after last night I can say I do like having my ass cheeks spread wide with medical tape. It made me feel so deliciously exposed and naughty. We're definitely going to be playing with that again.

But not tonight...er...this morning. It's time for me to take a bath and go to bed. And maybe get the last of my Advent spankings (if we're up to it). I've been wondering what the most appropriate implement would be for Christmas. My first thought was a cane, but this afternoon as I dug out our heavy duty wooden spoon to use, ya know, for actually mixing, I thought it too might be a good one. I am curious which implement you, dear reader, believe imparts the most Christmas spirit.

Merry Christmas, my friends. Hope your holiday is that perfect mixture of blessed and kinky.

Happy Solstice!

It's the shortest day of the year but at 10:08 tonight (PST), the winter solstice occurs. It will also be time for the Second Annual Global O when people all over the world will orgasm for world peace. True, it does feel a bit like Sting (who, apparently, all men hate) and his tantric orgasm. And orgasming at exactly 10:08 (or wherever you are in the world) is a bit of a challenge (bet Sting has been practicing for this for a long time). But, you know, it's an orgasm and it's for world peace, so it can't be too bad.

Sorry to be so quiet lately. Last week was a rough week, health-wise. And every time I start to feel better, A. starts feeling me up and we start doing stuff and then the next day I feel like shit again. The other day when he was taking his trousers off and starting to flirt with me, I told him to put his thing away as I was finally feeling half-way decent and wanted to stay that way for awhile.

But I think it's coming out tonight. Especially after he catches up on my Advent spankings (eek!).

Reaquainting my bottom with the belt and more

Despite the whole falling down the stairs thing, I had had a lot of pent up spanking energy the last couple of weeks. And what was really keeping us from playing much was hosting my dad for a few days as he's been having a particularly bad time of it lately. But once we had some time to ourselves last Tuesday night and our cuddling on the bed could lead to groping and petting, all sorts of things happened.

Like A.'s member swelling and myself getting a bit dewy. And me scraping the splint on my finger down his dick (which made it swell more). And my ass getting butt plug-fucked. And, of course, spanked.

At first I did the topping from the bottom bit. "Please don't spank me with your belt!" I begged.

"You so want to get spanked...Say it! I want to hear you tell me what you want," A. demanded.

Hmph! I hate asking!

But as I was naked on all fours with my ass high in the air hungry to feel that belt on my ass, I quickly gave in.

"I want you to spank me," I admitted just above a whisper. "I want you to whip me with your belt."

And, dear reader, he did. And oh did it hurt! Within a couple of strokes, I was swimming in nausea (the room spinning every time I turned my head didn't help matters any) and shocked at how much it stung. I thought about stopping the whole thing but kept thinking I would adjust to the pain. Instead I just kept thinking "oh God -- make it stop!" Thankfully A. sensed this from my yelping and moving about and lightened the strokes, then stopped completely and went about trying to increase my endorphines the old-fashioned vanilla way.

And I didn't even get a decent orgasm out of it. Even worse, I was soooo sore the next day (worse than falling down 23 stairs!). I mean, some of those muscles haven't been used for, like, eight months.

Needless to say, it kind of put me off spanking for a bit. At least any spankings with implements. I was still craving the odd hand spanking. But frankly, my friends, I was rather afraid of encountering that belt again. Or straps and ping pong paddles. And hairbrushes, canes and riding crops were too hideous to even contemplate.

So when A. announced the night before last that he wanted to finally break in our new futon-cum-spanking bench, I was a bit reticent. I mean, I was sorta in the mood for a spanking, but more of a little girl over the knee hand spanking sort. And I certainly wasn't in much of a submissive or sexual mood. I had been feeling annoyed with everything since the night before, though I didn't know why. As I watched A. get out just about every implement we own, I felt even more ambivalent and slightly sick.

Yet I think it was that fear that finally pushed me to go ahead with it. If I wussed out, the fear would just grow and it would be even harder to meet up with that belt again. Or any other implement for that matter.

So I stripped as ordered (except the cast boot on my left ankle that I sprained in September which the doctor said on Monday I have to wear all the time now, not just when I leave the house, because it's still not healed), though pouted a bit to myself as I did. Sat naked on the bed while he went out for a smoke. Contemplated my impending thrashing, still feeling petulant and afraid, yet also determined. When he returned, I timidly made my way to and over the new bench. As I rested my arms on the seat of futon and laid my ample bottom right on top as my feet dangled several inches above the carpet, my emotions felt like two weather fronts about to collide in the form of a nasty storm. My eyes were already slightly moist. This was it. This just might be the time I actually cried.

After giving me several smacks with his hand, A. decided he wanted my bottom a bit lower. I jiggled my hips down so that my toes touched the floor. He smacked me a few more times, then started softly with the strap. But the edge of the top of the futon was pressing against my pelvis -- you know, the pelvis that always hurts -- and the nausea started trickling back.

"I gotta move," I practically whined. A. fetched a couple of pillows to place under my pelvis as I scooted my bottom back up on top. This was bit more comfortable and after I took a deep breath, A. continued with the strapping.

"What's that like on a scale of 1-10?" he asked after a succession of progressively harder strokes.

I always find that a difficult question to answer in the midst of a spanking because at that moment it will feel a lot more painful than if I have time to compare it with other spankings. On the other hand, each spanking is unique and this one in particular had some very specific conditions attached to it making this a necessary question.

"Um...maybe a seven or so," I answered.

"Let's see if we can get it up to an eight or a nine."

Ugh.

"I'm going to give you 12 strokes. Count them, please."

I groaned aloud reflexively before I remembered that was serious transgression.

"Yes, Sir," I said as submissively as I could. But it was too late.

"Was that a groan I heard?" A. asked as he patted my head.

I stopped for a second to consider if somehow I could spin it as something else but quickly decided to just apologize and hope he had mercy.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

"Right. That will be an additional six."

D'oh! I almost groaned aloud again by accident but stopped it with a deep breath just in time.

A. brought the strap down with a reasonable amount of force. Certainly not full force, but definitely harder than he had been. After the first six strokes, he changed sides so my left cheek wouldn't feel left out. At nine and ten, I was getting close to my limit, especially as the strap kept landing just inside my cheeks. At twelve he rubbed my bottom and switched sides again.

"Now for the extra six. Continue counting, please."

I think it was during those six that my endorphine spigot finally turned on (in addition to another sort of spigot). When he finished with the extra six and groped my bottom, I eagerly pulled my legs apart. His fingers wandered a bit, just as I'd hoped they would.

But he wasn't done with that strap yet. And I wasn't quite finished pouting either. Indeed, a part of me was even just a little irritated that I was getting aroused. Yet I couldn't deny that I was hungry for that strap even as it hurt so much. When he switched to the ping pong paddle and it kept hitting me just inside where my thigh and cheek meet, I so wanted to plead and beg him to stop. And I also wanted more. More, more, more, more, more...

Of course he did stop -- with the spanking, that is -- and turned his attention to more intimate areas. I still didn't come (I'm not sure if I can in that position), but I did feel all nice, warm and fuzzy when I laid down a few minutes later (which I made sure to do earlier this time as I didn't want to get too sore again).

However I still felt like crying. As I got ready for bed I thought about asking A. to spank me more. To give me a hard spanking full force with the hairbrush until I bawled my eyes out. But when it really came down to it, I knew I probably wouldn't get the release I needed that way.

No, I needed to do it in a less kinky, less fun way -- sitting down with myself and being aware of my feelings. So I went to bed and A. went back to work at the desk in the kitchen and I pouted and cried my way through my frustration at having to spend so much time going to doctors appointments lately and being too tired to do much of anything else. And having a broken finger that makes typing hard. And a stupid ankle that STILL has to be in a cast boot. Yeah it was definitely wallowing. But somehow by letting myself wallow, I went to sleep feeling a lot better.

And by pushing myself over the back of that futon, I was able to feel a lot better about getting thrashed. Which is good because tomorrow is my birthday -- the most spankable day of the year.

How do you think I should get my 35 whacks?

Kinky in the ER

So when last I left you, dear readers, I had fallen down a very long flight of stairs while incurring relatively minor damage. Actually you can barely tell I fell except for the red splint/cast on my left index finger.

I did promise to share some kinky moments from our time in the ER, and I apologize I've been slow to get to that as well as to your comments. While the fall itself wasn't so bad, it's meant even more doctor's appointments (I had 3 last week and have 4 this week). Coupled with vertigo (that finally went away last Friday -- yay!), it's left me knackered. Plus, it's hard to type with a broken index finger.

At any rate, during the several hours they kept me in the ER for observation, A. and I tried to pass the time as best we could.

We considered snagging some of their purple nitrile (latex-free) gloves, but then I pointed out that I'd already absconded with a whole bunch of gloves from my clinic a few weeks back. "Very naughty," A. said. Indeed. And I'm hoping the punishment for said theft will require those gloves.

After the doctor put my finger in a splint, he handed us a large roll of medical tape and instructed me on how best to wrap my finger until I was able to consult with the hand surgeon sometime the following week. Upon seeing the sizable roll of medical tape, I immediately thought about a thread on the newsgroup many years ago about using medical tape to hold the cheeks open in order to administer discipline to one's bummy hole. After the doctor left, I promptly told A. about this other possible use, who seemed to agree that some medical tape experimentation would be in order.

The whole time, of course, I was hooked up to an oximeter which read my heart rate and displayed it on a large monitor. A. decided to have a bit of fun with it.

"Let's see what words make your heart rate go up," A. said. "I'm going to fuck your ass..."

82..84...85

"I'm going to open your cheeks and tape them back with medical tape... "

86...87...91

"...so I can plug your ass with ginger..."

91...92...93

"And spank you with a hairbrush."

88...83...82

"Ah so spanking isn't doing it for you," A. said

"Well, maybe the thought of spanking is relaxing for me," I offered.

"It shouldn't. I'm not doing it right if it does."

"I dunno." I shrugged. I didn't consciously feel less inclined to being spanked.

"Uh oh, your spanking mojo is critically low." A.'s voice became urgent. "Nurse -- get me 5 CCs of spanking mojo right away!...Then show me your knickers."

I always giggle when A. says knickers. I mean, how can you not? It's a funny word!

What ended up affecting my heart rate the most was talking to my mom on the phone. The almost perfectly identical waves on the heart monitor suddenly became erratic and my heart rate jumped up to the mid 90s. True, I was talking about the fall. But I do think it suggests that my mother may actually be hazardous to my health.

The next day when I had to go back to the ER to get another CT scan to make sure the vertigo wasn't from something more sinister, my mom drove us to the hospital and stayed with us. At first we thought about playing our little heart monitor game again, but quickly realized we'd have to do a more PG-rated version. Thankfully there was a television in the room to pass the time. And also thankfully my CT scan ended up being normal. So my mom stepped out while A. helped me get dressed (him dressing me made me feel very child-like, in a kinky sort of way), after which he managed to steal a few soft, playful swats on my bottom with me bent slightly over the gurney.

Despite what my heart rate did when A. suggested he was going to spank me, my spanking mojo has actually remained mostly intact. But as this post is long enough, I'll post about that tomorrow. Promise.

Taunting gravity

So I got that spanking a few hours after my last post. It was a lovely over the knee, good-girl sort of spanking with A.'s hand. Just the perfect getting reacquainted kind of spanking.

However there have been a few kinks in our spanking play since then, despite both of us being eager to try out our new wooden-slatted futon-cum-spanking bench. There's been a family issue. And A.'s jet lag. And my shoulder getting really cranky. And then there was last Wednesday.

Once a week my massage therapist/acupuncturist massages and needles away my pain and makes my life just a little bit better. The only drawback is that her office is up a long flight of 23 hard wooden stairs. So every week I slowly make my way up the stairs with little rest breaks along the way and carefully make my way down after my session.

Except I wasn't very careful last Wednesday. I quite foolishly decided to attempt going down the stairs with my bum right knee, a cast boot on my left foot, a plastic bag of groceries and my cane in my right hand while holding onto the railing in my left hand. It only took one step for me to completely lose my balance and fall head first down each and every one of those 23 hard wooden stairs.

As I was falling -- you know, after the obligatory SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! -- I remember being amazed at what was happening to me. I mean, I never fall down head first. In all my years of bad balance, I've learned to fall backwards onto my butt or against the wall. I also remember thinking while I fell that I had to finally stop falling at some point. And eventually I did. I landed flat on my back on the concrete floor next to the door.

A woman in the shop next door heard me fall, came over and ordered me not to move. My massage therapist came down and (I think she was the one) called the ambulance. Someone got my mother sitting out in the car waiting for me. "Why hasn't the ambulance gotten here?" she demanded and was answered a moment later by the paramedics arriving.

There was a lot of concern about internal bleeding because I'm on Coumadin, but after being examined by a zillion nurses and doctors and various radiological equipment in one of those blindingly bright trauma rooms in the ER, I had only sustained a cracked nose (with a tiny bit of bruising under my right eye), a dislocated/broken left index finger (it makes typing LOADS o' fun!), and lingering vertigo (also great fun on the computer). And, of course, lots of beautiful bruises. Oh and a large scrape under my nose that A. says makes me look like Hitler (though it's close to gone thanks to Neosporin). I totally look like I've been fighting with the bruises on the knuckles of both hands and the broken nose. Or like a domestic violence victim (yes, we've been having fun joking about A. slapping me around -- not that domestic violence is anything to joke about!)

Everyone from the doctors to my family were amazed. A. figures I used up one of my nine lives (I think that makes four left). We can't decide if I was unlucky because I fell or lucky because the damage was so minor. I mean, I wasn't even that sore the next day like I expected to be. Though the vertigo has kept me from moving much -- both because moving aggravates it and because the medicine to treat it makes me very sleepy.

In some ways, the fall has actually been a good thing. It's been a reminder that I'm not as fragile as I sometimes feel. I've also stopped getting that sharp, icky feeling in my sternum that I had been getting lately when I thought of pain (a good thing for my spanking mojo!). And it seems to have actually relieved some of the chronic pain in my tailbone so that I've been able to lay on my back for the first time in awhile. It's all so very yin and yang, ya know?

And to top it all off, my neck and shoulder, which my massage therapist spent a lot of time working on during my session, felt great the next day. Now that's a good session!

I have some funny, kinky moments that A. and I had in the ER to share with you, dear reader, but I'll leave that for a later post.

I'm gonna get spanked...

...in about two hours (stupid late flight). Well, if he's up to it after flying for nineteen hours or so.

I'm a little tired too at the moment. I've been working on all kinds of things to prepare for A.'s arrival -- a few kinky things included -- and I'm starting to wear down a bit. But I've actually had energy to do some things before A. comes. That's right. No blood clots in my lungs. No fickle spanking mojo. No stubborn UTIs. This time just lots of pent up kinky energy and a tingly bottom (and other parts) hungry for attention. Finally.

Yes, I know it won't last forever. And I have to be careful not to exert myself. Indeed last night A. was reminding me of this. He didn't order or threaten. Just pleaded fervently with me to be careful and please, please not overdo it.

Well, okay, I probably overdid it just a little bit. But not enough to seriously set me back. Though maybe just enough to get spanked for it.

::grin::

Coming out

A few months ago my best friend T. and I were talking about the process we each went through in discovering our core sexuality (homosexuality for him, spanking for me). At one point we began comparing when this exploration took place and he suddenly exclaimed, "oh wow -- you came out the same time I did!"

I had never really thought of my spanko discernment as "coming out" but as I thought about it some more, there were certainly a lot of parallels to the experience gay people have in processing their sexual orientation. Though to be fair, some of my experience also reflected a combination of situations specific to me. But hey, isn't that the way it is for everybody?

I never really dated growing up. As I considered why this was, my first thought was that I was a very devout Evangelical and very adamant about saving myself for marriage. In addition, I was generally too busy with raising my siblings and church activities and school to have much time for it. And besides, I was fat and guys weren't really all that into me.

Yet I knew plenty of other Evangelicals who were just as adamant as I was about sexual abstinence and somehow they managed to date (though I don't doubt that some of them eventually abandoned their refusal to fornicate). Likewise my sister -- the next one down from me who was supposed to help out with babysitting -- also dated (it helped that she started working fast-food when she was 15 and therefore was out of the house a lot more than I was). And though I was fat, there were guys who were into me. It's just that I wasn't really all that into them.

That lack of connection really is what kept me from dating. Like most teenagers, I certainly fantasized about having a boyfriend and doing all those things girlfriends and boyfriends do (with the exception of sex), but that cultural expectation wasn't enough for me to date guys who were very sweet yet lacked that certain something I wasn't even aware yet I wanted.

And, of course, I fantasized a lot about getting spanked. Mostly by a stern but loving father-figure. Which caused me a great deal of angst because I didn't want to marry a guy in order to obtain the father I didn't grow up with. I wanted to be my future husband's partner. I mean, who wants to be married to someone who is a perpetual child? What sort of intellectual and emotional communion can exist in such a relationship?

Eventually Google came along and I found that I could have both: a loving disciplinarian and a partner. I remember those heady early days of exploring my spanking kink. Meeting all sorts of guys to spank me. Suddenly dating was easy. I finally had my first kiss -- at 27 from the first spanko guy I dated. Before I knew it, I was spanking around. I was a spanking slut, even if there was no sex involved.

Yet I worried what my friends might think. It felt weird hiding a whole part of my life -- and an increasingly important one at that -- from my friends and family. Indeed at one point T. complained that I was withdrawing from him, and he was right. I was so afraid I would accidentally spill the beans about my alternative life and I knew he would be horrified to know I was meeting guys off the Internet to spank me.

T. and I are very close. He was actually my sponsor when I converted to Catholicism and in the Byzantine rite I'd chosen, that made him my godfather. My priest even had to make sure that we wouldn't end up married down the line as it would be "awkward." My soon-to-be godfather hadn't come out yet, but like many fag hag relationships, we'd already explored the possibility of marriage and assured my priest there would be no potential bishopic dispensation needed. Looking back I know I was attracted to T. because he's such a natural disciplinarian. But like him, I hadn't come to terms with my own sexuality enough at the time to know the sort of verbal discipline he was so good at was not at all what I wanted. We did know, though, that there wasn't any chemistry even if we didn't know why yet.

In many ways I think the act of delurking on soc.sexuality.spanking five years ago really was a form of coming out, complete with coming out narrative, as it is for so many people introducing themselves in online forums. And the relief and euphoria that accompany finding other people like you probably is similar in some ways to the excitement T. felt when he first started dating and fucking guys, even if it lacks the pain and profound lifestyle change being gay was for my Arab-Catholic godfather.

It's funny but that above linked post, my spanking memoir, is invariably among the most popular pages -- if not the most popular post -- on this blog each day. This post, I suppose, is now a sort of adjunct to it, made possible by five and a half years of hindsight with which to analyze a bit deeper some of the issues I didn't understand quite yet then. Obviously, it was written before I met A. And I've also clearly decided against saving my hymen for a future husband. But then, how I came to that decision and my thoughts on marriage as an institution would be far more appropriate for an entirely different post. Probably on my non-kink blog.

The naughtiest of one all

Sorry to be so quiet this week. Apparently, Vitamin B complex makes me very very sleepy, and I've practically slept the week away.

But yesterday during my INR check, sans the Vitamin B, I wasn't quite so sleepy. When it was super high (4.8), I grinned mischievously at my nurse.

"Uh oh. I guess that makes me naughty," I said. To be fair, it wasn't really my fault but the fault of the antibiotic from the week before that interacted with the Coumadin.

"Yes, now I have to consult with the doctor," Nurse K. replied with mock annoyance.

Now, don't go getting all pervy on me, dear reader. She just meant that she couldn't instruct me on my Coumadin dosage herself because it was in the "panic" range. Really. The computer even highlights it in yellow and says "panic." Though, it's not really "panic" in the ER-get-me-a-shot-of-whatever-stat! way. More like the make-extra-sure-not-to-blow-this-off sort of panic.

At any rate, she couldn't remember what the exact number my INR was so she checked the little machine that sips my blood to see how quickly or slowly my blood is clotting (actually it's a lot like a big glucose meter). After she found it, she started pressing the button several more times.

"Hey, wanna see what everyone else's INR has been today?" She asked. Don't worry, it didn't show who any of those patients were so there was no breech of confidentiality or anything.

3.1...1.7...3.3...3.1...1.9...1.6...4.2

"Wow, so nobody's been therapeutic today," I exclaimed. (Therapeutic is generally between 2.0-3.0, though for some patients it can be between 2.5-3.5.)

"Yes, but yours has been the highest."

"Oh. So I suppose that means I'm the naughtiest one of all."

"Yes, Michelle. You're very, very naughty," Nurse K. said with mock sterness.

Right as she was telling me how naughty I was, one of the other nurses walked by the room.

"Ohhh, now I'm probably going to get in trouble for calling a patient naughty," she fretted.

Which, I suppose, would make me even naughtier for getting my nurse in trouble for having to tell me how naughty I am.

Though any forthcoming spanking for my naughtiness will just have to wait until my INR is lower.

I think the 10 days until A. gets here should be plenty of time. ::grin::