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.

Kinky gingerbread fun

Somehow I missed making it over to Jigsaw Analogy/Dyke Grrl's blog the last few weeks (actually, I've missed making it to a lot of blogs the last few weeks) where she has some kinky gingerbread baking fun. My personal favorite is the naughty school girl made of chocolate fondant.

That Dyke Grrl is quite the kinky Martha Stewart, whether it's making cookies or loopy toys. Well, you know, except she's actually nice.

Caned for...reading about the 1948 defenestration of Jan Masaryk in Prague?

So I was just getting caught up on reading my Robert Fisk, probably the single greatest English-speaking journalist writing about the Middle East, when I came to his article from earlier today. It began with this rather brutal anecdote.

When I was at school, I was once beaten by a prefect for reading a book on Czech history at a football match...back in 1960, screaming "Come on, Sutton!" at a bunch of grunting, muddied idiots in blue, black and white shirts was deemed more important than the 1948 defenestration of Jan Masaryk in Prague. A prefect later lashed me with a cane on the orders of a spectacularly cruel housemaster whose unwillingness to prevent the most vicious beatings almost equalled his love of soccer and rugby football.

Lordy, not only did you risk being unpopular at public school as a nerd, but apparently you also risked getting beaten!

Spanking fetish aside, I have to say I'm glad my rather strong nerdy tendencies in high school only cost me momentary embarrassement from time to time.

An advent of a different sort

Yesterday I was throwing away my now empty chocolate advent calendar, and as I'm now in a new advent of sorts -- A. comes in ten more days -- it occurred to me that I really need a new advent calendar. My dearest isn't exactly my savior/messiah. But he is more cuddly.

So, I was thinking of a calendar counting down to the day he arrives where each day I open a window revealing a picture of a different implement. And there are a fair number of past implements to chose from...

Granted, considering the dashed spanking expectations of the last few arrivals, we're not making too many plans this time, aside from my overdue birthday spanking (December 8). And, um, a few punishment spankings that merited being delivered in person (::gulp::).

One thing we are looking forward to is our belated Christmas dinner togther. You know, it will sorta be around the same time as Eastern Christmas. And I'm Byzantine Catholic so it'll be kinda like the old country (never mind that neither of us have ancestors from an "old country" that celebrates Christmas on the Julian calander). We've been discussing the menu for said dinner and have reached an impasse regarding the poultry: turkey or chicken.

"But we never get to eat turkey except once or twice a year," I whined.

"And clearly if it was so great, people would be eating it more," A. noted.

"Nuh huh..."

I decided to try a different approach.

"So, uh, if you let us eat turkey I'll let you spank me," I offered. A. laughed.

"Yes, that would be such a sacrifice for you."

I think I've got him talked into turkey, but I also think he's leaning toward my offer. His last words in our dinner discussion, I believe, were something along the lines of "You are going to get such a beating."

::giggle::

Cool.

Merry Spankin' Christmas

Not that Santa is keeping track, but I have been a bit naughty lately.

Last night I introduced my nieces (12 and 10) to "Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo." It goes without saying that they loved it. And then I decided that it would probably be okay to show them an episode of South Park (the very first one -- "Cartman gets an anal probe"). Err... I just hope they didn't go home and ask their mom what a dildo is. Granted, they were going home rather hyped up on sugar. I fed them pumpkin pie for breakfast. And they ate caramels and cookies and other sugary stuff throughout last night and today. Though, they did eat some roasted pumpkin seeds (my favorite part of making pumpkin pie). That's sorta nutritious.

And A. kept telling me that I better not over do it, to which I would respond with silence and then attempt to change the subject. I do have a tendency to push myself at the holidays and then spend days in bed feeling really shitty afterwards. I think the fact that my nieces asked me a couple of times to come sit with them and relax probably means I was over doing it.

Damn.

I did that at Thanksgiving too. And spent several days barely able to take care of myself. Not only did A. tell me that he has plans to deliver my punishment for that in person, but even my caregiver scolded me.

But the Vitamin B-12 No Shot has been giving me more stamina and, well, it's Christmas.

::sweet angelic smile::

Eeek! It's 12:15 am!

Er...Merry Christmas all.

Cartoon memories of a spanko

News of Joseph Barbera's death today caused me to think of all the wonderful cartoons of his I've enjoyed through the years, Scooby-Doo probably being my favorite. But being the sick pervert that I am, I couldn't help but remember some of his delightful cartoons that mesmerized me as a budding, if not yet conscious, spanko.

There was Tom and Jerry, where every now and then Tom's owner would give him a sharp smack on his behind that would show up as a bright red hand print. Oh, how I longed for a bright red handprint on my backside!

But the one that I think really captured my imagination was The Flintstones, where there were a handful of spanking references here and there but one episode in particular that lived repeatedly in my mind: Ladies' Night at the Lodge. It's the one where Wilma and Betty dress up as men so that they can join the Water Buffalo Lodge. But, first they have to make it through the initiation. With lots of paddles. They get paddled over and over. And in the last scene they are at home, playing cards, standing up because their bottoms hurt too much to sit.

As you might imagine, I soooo wanted to join the Water Buffalo Lodge...

Surreal spanko dream land

I had the most bizarre dream last night. Well, yes, I know. Don't we all? ::grin::

After waking up from a dream about a sort of Israel-Palestine museum of understanding in the woods in which an Israeli friend and my Arab-American godfather were both present, and I was trying to keep a shelve of glass dishes from falling on me and breaking all over (gawd I really need to stop reading the Indy so much), I fell back asleep and dreamt I was in an office/apartment (also in the woods -- sorta like a treehouse but with an early 80s modern, autumnal toned interior) in which the cast members of Scrubs and Ally McBeal were mingling. And there was this one woman (who I don't recall belonging to either cast) who I really wanted to spank me.

At one point we were in a room or porch (it was open air but had sofas) alone together and she asked me to spank her. So I shrugged, nodded, and said, "okay." Then I paddled her ass. But she seemed very, very tall (in fact, I vaguely remember a basketball hoop above the couch). Now, granted, I'm only 5', so just about everybody seems tall to me. Yet, as she was bent over with her hands on the sofa, her large, white backside presented for me to spank, my head was just barely taller than her waist.

After paddling her for a bit, she finally told me to stop because she had to leave to go on a trip (also vaguely remember a plane taking off in the background) and she didn't want to be too sore to sit in the plane seat for a lengthy period of time. So, I stopped. And sat on the couch. And still wanted very much for her to spank me. I was contemplating bratting for it when she left.

I woke up this morning feeling profoundly disappointed.

Speaking of planes, A. is hoping to be here just after the first of the year. If you'd like to contribute to his ticket so you can read more posts about me getting spanked, feel free to click on the donation button in the left sidebar. For personal reasons, we have to use my mom's PayPal account, hence the crazy username/email addy.

Absolutely behaving

Don't ya hate it when people flirt with you in a spanko sort of way who you really don't want to?

Okay, yes I suppose this works on a non-spanko level too...

At any rate, yesterday I was taking the trash out when my neighbor popped his head out the door. Now, he always makes me rather uncomfortable. He called security on me once because I was supposedly making too much noise when I was simply sitting quietly in the kitchen. On the other hand, in person he's always very chatty with me -- chatting that usually includes bitching about other people being loud. On one of those occassions when he noticed I had a woman's clothing catalogue in my hand (junk mail is great, isn't it?), he asked if he could have it because he likes to look at them. He routinely has a box of beer cans in front of his door. And when I asked what his name was after he asked mine, he responded, "The Chief."

Um...yeah.

So I'm dragging my trash and recycling bags to the elevator when he asks, "whatchya you doing?"

"Oh, just taking the garbage out." I smile politely. And push the down button.

"You behaving yourself?"

Now, if this was my nurse asking this, she'd get a mischievous grin. When A. asks this question, I get that delicious, squirmy feeling in my belly and, er, down a little further. When The Chief asks me? Um, well, there's this uncomfortable tension in my sternum and a tad bit of disoriention.

"Yes." I smile abruptly. And push the down button again.

"Well, okay then." And he closes the door.

Feels sorta weird answering that question without the slightest bit of naughty intonation, ya know?

Beware of Saudi high school teachers with big sticks

This post over at the Spanking Writers brought back memories of my Saudi "brother" from college.

W. and I were meeting for lunch at the student union after my Arabic class one day, where my professor had explained to us that it is common in Arab culture when a man and a women have to be together alone at, say, a bus stop, for the man to put his hand over his heart and say "you are my sister" (anti 'ukhti). So, at lunch I decided to try out my new Arabic and met W. with anta akhi - you are my brother. He looked at me for a second and then said, "yes, Meechelle, you are my sister." And we called each other sweetie brother and sweetie sister from then on.

What does that have to do with Abel's post? Well, one night when I was supposed to be helping W. with his history class, I got him talking about school in Saudi Arabia where apparently discipline varies considerably from teacher to teacher.

One teacher he had didn't even really care if they showed up and, if I remember correctly, even let them smoke in class (this is the Arab World, after all, where chain smoking is not only not banned, but sort of expected).

Another teacher, however, would walk into the room and bark out, "whoever didn't finish his homework, stand up!"

"And you just did because he was going to know in about five minutes and it would be worse," W. said.

Then he'd call the first student up, who'd hold out his hand upon which the teacher would slam his big stick. And if the student pulled his hand back, the teacher would start beating his leg until he put his hand back out.

"You always hoped you'd be last so he'd be tired," said W. "I was lucky. My hand never broke."

Um, yeah. Like I said, it varied considerably.

Fragments

I came across a poem describing a feminist the other night when I was catching up on some blog reading that, with all the talk about feminism and BDSM over at the Punishment Book, felt so appropriate.

sometimes,
wrists red,
thighs spread or sewn
with purple tape to match
the next morning’s bruises.

Go check out the entire thing here.

My Appalled Feminist and Me

As I've alluded to at times here and over at the Punishment Book, I've been struggling a lot with my punishment fetish this last year. And I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to articulate the whole thing. Well, I've started to with this post at the PB today about how my Appalled Feminist and I have come to some sort of uneasy truce about the whole thing.