It wasn't enough to have a bed and breakfast set in an old public school. McMenamins, a local chain of brewhouses and hotels here in Oregon, then had to go on to convert a Catholic school complete with nunnery and friary into a brewpub and B&B, and is now going to convert a jail (hit the 'watch video' button to the right) into a brewpub and B&B complete with wedding chapel.
If the McMenamin brothers aren't kinky themselves, they sure know how to cater to the kinky set.
Actually, I've been to Kennedy School on several occasions as it also includes two restaurants, a movie theatre, two bars, and a gym that doubles as a concert venue (or prom venue). The ATM is in the school office which includes the old principal's office, and the first time I went to get some cash there I overheard one of the employees discussing paddles, saying something like, "you know there was a lot of paddling going on in this room -- assume the position!"
Indeed, the history section on the Kennedy School website used to be longer and included a section about one of its more beloved principals, even if she was rather stern. It even included a ditty about her smacking bottoms, but it's no longer there. ::pout::
The B&B rooms at Kennedy School include chalkboards along the walls, perfect for writing lines. In fact, if you scroll through the pictures of the room on their webpage, the one of the chalkboard in the hallway shows just such a scenario. There is a small desk as well should you have to write lines on paper. It's definitely the perfect place for a kinky couple to spend the night. Not that A. and I have yet, as money has usually been pretty tight when he's been here. But I did hang out with an out-of-town spanko friend staying there once. Though, alas, we didn't make nearly as much use of the chalkboard as we had planned.
But just imagine what new sorts of punishment scenarios could occur in a room that is also a jail cell. ::grin::
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
When pervin' leads to thinkin'
Now that I lead a life of leisure, I've been working my way through my Netflix queue trying to catch up on cultural reference points, one of which was Midnight Cowboy. And not only did it helped me contextualize, "hey, I'm walkin' here!," but it even had something to feed my insatiable inner perv.
There's a dream sequence in which protagonist Joe (Jon Voight) is remembering a traumatic incident when he and his girlfriend are dragged naked from their car by a group of sneering, salivating men. Interspersed amid the haunting event are memories of Joe's grandma, including one in which she is giving him a spanking.
Half the men drag off his girlfriend and rape her, while the other half bend Joe over the front of the car and rape him (totally understand why this movie got an X rating back in 1969). As they pull his legs apart, there's another flash memory of his grandma preparing to give him an enema.
As you might imagine, the dream sequence was terrifically sexually charged for a pervert like me. Rape, spanking, anal rape over the hood of a car, an enema -- it's enough to get a girl rather hot and bothered.
But as I watched the dream sequence again to catch the spanking, it seemed like the boy was naked, which felt odd. I mean, it could have been that he had just gotten out of the bath or something. But the only children being stripped completely nekkid for a spanking I've ever heard of have been in spanking porn. And while it turns out that if you look at the picture closely there are pants scrunched up around his knees, it did make me wonder how much sexuality intermingles with the discipline of children, whether consciously or not.
I think about it a lot in terms of the environment in which I grew up. Not just in my family, but within the Evangelical community I was a part of throughout my youth. In first grade I went to a Fundamentalist Christian school where spankings were a daily occurrence. And on our birthdays the teacher would have us come to the front of the room, give us a traditional birthday spanking, as well as "a pinch for an inch" on our bottoms and "a hug to grow on." That's right, my first grade teacher pinched my ass. Now, I don't think she molested me or anything (though I doubt such a practice exists today at that school). She was a wonderful woman who would never have done anything to consciously harm a child.
Yet sexual awareness can be a lot like eating from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Though I think there are better ways to teach kids other than hitting them, I also know I couldn't possibly spank any children I'd have because sexuality is so attached to it for me. And I'd feel profoundly uncomfortable playing "spanking tag" with my nieces today, while I didn't at all many years ago before I began exploring my spanking fetish.
I wonder if that's why today pedophilia has become worse than mass murder. Now that we've eaten the fruit of knowledge, it's opened our eyes, but now we're banished from the paradise of ignorance. Don't get me wrong, I in no way condone pedophilia. Those who cross the line from ignorant, harmless bottom pinching to purposely hurting kids to get their jollies should indeed be locked up. Yet, what happens when the line isn't clear? When a person gets her jollies, but isn't always aware of it? Or gets his jollies from spanking young girls, but only spanks girls over the age of consent who look like they're not? I feel safe about where the line is regarding the later question, but not necessarily about the former.
There's a dream sequence in which protagonist Joe (Jon Voight) is remembering a traumatic incident when he and his girlfriend are dragged naked from their car by a group of sneering, salivating men. Interspersed amid the haunting event are memories of Joe's grandma, including one in which she is giving him a spanking.
Half the men drag off his girlfriend and rape her, while the other half bend Joe over the front of the car and rape him (totally understand why this movie got an X rating back in 1969). As they pull his legs apart, there's another flash memory of his grandma preparing to give him an enema.
As you might imagine, the dream sequence was terrifically sexually charged for a pervert like me. Rape, spanking, anal rape over the hood of a car, an enema -- it's enough to get a girl rather hot and bothered.
But as I watched the dream sequence again to catch the spanking, it seemed like the boy was naked, which felt odd. I mean, it could have been that he had just gotten out of the bath or something. But the only children being stripped completely nekkid for a spanking I've ever heard of have been in spanking porn. And while it turns out that if you look at the picture closely there are pants scrunched up around his knees, it did make me wonder how much sexuality intermingles with the discipline of children, whether consciously or not.
I think about it a lot in terms of the environment in which I grew up. Not just in my family, but within the Evangelical community I was a part of throughout my youth. In first grade I went to a Fundamentalist Christian school where spankings were a daily occurrence. And on our birthdays the teacher would have us come to the front of the room, give us a traditional birthday spanking, as well as "a pinch for an inch" on our bottoms and "a hug to grow on." That's right, my first grade teacher pinched my ass. Now, I don't think she molested me or anything (though I doubt such a practice exists today at that school). She was a wonderful woman who would never have done anything to consciously harm a child.
Yet sexual awareness can be a lot like eating from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Though I think there are better ways to teach kids other than hitting them, I also know I couldn't possibly spank any children I'd have because sexuality is so attached to it for me. And I'd feel profoundly uncomfortable playing "spanking tag" with my nieces today, while I didn't at all many years ago before I began exploring my spanking fetish.
I wonder if that's why today pedophilia has become worse than mass murder. Now that we've eaten the fruit of knowledge, it's opened our eyes, but now we're banished from the paradise of ignorance. Don't get me wrong, I in no way condone pedophilia. Those who cross the line from ignorant, harmless bottom pinching to purposely hurting kids to get their jollies should indeed be locked up. Yet, what happens when the line isn't clear? When a person gets her jollies, but isn't always aware of it? Or gets his jollies from spanking young girls, but only spanks girls over the age of consent who look like they're not? I feel safe about where the line is regarding the later question, but not necessarily about the former.
Monday, August 27, 2007
A spanking conversation in the outside world
A month ago I mentioned that I was getting a new laptop, and yesterday I finally got it. Which is good because I couldn't use my old one anymore and for the last two weeks I've been almost completely offline. Yep, that's right. No blogging. No email. No newsgroup.
It sucked mightily.
It especially sucked because not quite two weeks ago, during my appointment with my massage therapist/acupuncturists, L., I had a most interesting conversation that I've been dying to share with you all.
As L. was working on my neck and shoulders, we started talking about pain and dissociation and living in the present. I explained that lately I've been trying to focus more on living in the present, as hard as that might be. When you live with chronic pain, dissociation is an important tool, but I tend to take it too far because the present usually sucks and I have an active imagination.
"So, where do you go with your imagination?" L. asked.
Er...to being about to go over A.'s knee and begging "No, Daddy! Not the hairbrush!"?
Or a naughty turn-of-the-century girl who is about the be whipped with her papa's razor strop?
Or a cruel, wicked princess who makes her servant do all kinds of degrading, shameful, nasty things and afterwards is herself punished severely?
Oh dear.
I froze. I mean, I couldn't tell her any of that, ya know?
Then I remembered that she said she once worked in a sex toy store.
"Um, well, it's sorta kinky," I finally said.
L. busted up laughing.
"That's great!" she exclaimed as she tapped my arm. Then she reminded me that she used to work at a sex shop where they held seminars on all kinds of kinky activities.
That's when I decided to come out.
"Actually, as my massage therapist, I should probably take this opportunity to tell you -- not that it really matters much at the moment -- that I have a spanking fetish." I said it sorta quickly and quietly. When she laughed some more, I notched it up to my normal voice. "So, you know, if you see a lot of bruises, they were obtained totally consensually."
"Right. So bruises down here are okay, " she said as she pointed to my backside."
"Exactly. And bruises anywhere else are probably thanks to the Coumadin."
"Got it." L. paused. "Actually I can go for a little spanking myself sometimes." Which made me giggle along with her. Then she said something about blood sports that I can't remember now because it was two weeks ago. "Though, for all I know, you guys might be into that."
"Nope. Which is good because it wouldn't mix well with the Coumadin," I said. "We had wanted to try single tails but now we probably can't."
"That's right. I suppose you have to be careful with the Coumadin."
"Yeah, certain implements can be tricky. Like, I start bleeding after 8 or 9 strokes with the cane."
"Oh wow."
"And of course, we have to be careful with heavy, wooden implements like paddles or hairbrushes."
As soon as I said that I became very aware of the fact that I was laying there discussing the merits of spanking implements with my massage therapist. You know, someone outside of my spanko world. Was I getting a little too TMIish? I mean, I have been known to at times (I have a spanking blog for gawd's sake). But, well, L. is an acupuncturist, meaning that she's trained to discuss a person's poo in great detail, so I doubt she felt uncomfortable.
"And even though I'm in pain all the time," I added, "It's nice to get the endorphines going, ya know?"
"Oh totally! Gets the blood flowing," she said.
"Exactly!"
Then there was the seven-minute lull that happens in every conversation, allowing me to focus on my breathing and her to focus on my right trapezius before the conversation went somewhere else entirely -- somewhere far less memorable.
And now that I look back on the whole thing, I keep thinking, why the hell didn't I ask her about her liking of a little spanking too?!
At any rate, stay tuned, dear readers. Now that I have a laptop that I can actually use lap-top in bed, I'm about to get a lot more talkative. ::grin::
It sucked mightily.
It especially sucked because not quite two weeks ago, during my appointment with my massage therapist/acupuncturists, L., I had a most interesting conversation that I've been dying to share with you all.
As L. was working on my neck and shoulders, we started talking about pain and dissociation and living in the present. I explained that lately I've been trying to focus more on living in the present, as hard as that might be. When you live with chronic pain, dissociation is an important tool, but I tend to take it too far because the present usually sucks and I have an active imagination.
"So, where do you go with your imagination?" L. asked.
Er...to being about to go over A.'s knee and begging "No, Daddy! Not the hairbrush!"?
Or a naughty turn-of-the-century girl who is about the be whipped with her papa's razor strop?
Or a cruel, wicked princess who makes her servant do all kinds of degrading, shameful, nasty things and afterwards is herself punished severely?
Oh dear.
I froze. I mean, I couldn't tell her any of that, ya know?
Then I remembered that she said she once worked in a sex toy store.
"Um, well, it's sorta kinky," I finally said.
L. busted up laughing.
"That's great!" she exclaimed as she tapped my arm. Then she reminded me that she used to work at a sex shop where they held seminars on all kinds of kinky activities.
That's when I decided to come out.
"Actually, as my massage therapist, I should probably take this opportunity to tell you -- not that it really matters much at the moment -- that I have a spanking fetish." I said it sorta quickly and quietly. When she laughed some more, I notched it up to my normal voice. "So, you know, if you see a lot of bruises, they were obtained totally consensually."
"Right. So bruises down here are okay, " she said as she pointed to my backside."
"Exactly. And bruises anywhere else are probably thanks to the Coumadin."
"Got it." L. paused. "Actually I can go for a little spanking myself sometimes." Which made me giggle along with her. Then she said something about blood sports that I can't remember now because it was two weeks ago. "Though, for all I know, you guys might be into that."
"Nope. Which is good because it wouldn't mix well with the Coumadin," I said. "We had wanted to try single tails but now we probably can't."
"That's right. I suppose you have to be careful with the Coumadin."
"Yeah, certain implements can be tricky. Like, I start bleeding after 8 or 9 strokes with the cane."
"Oh wow."
"And of course, we have to be careful with heavy, wooden implements like paddles or hairbrushes."
As soon as I said that I became very aware of the fact that I was laying there discussing the merits of spanking implements with my massage therapist. You know, someone outside of my spanko world. Was I getting a little too TMIish? I mean, I have been known to at times (I have a spanking blog for gawd's sake). But, well, L. is an acupuncturist, meaning that she's trained to discuss a person's poo in great detail, so I doubt she felt uncomfortable.
"And even though I'm in pain all the time," I added, "It's nice to get the endorphines going, ya know?"
"Oh totally! Gets the blood flowing," she said.
"Exactly!"
Then there was the seven-minute lull that happens in every conversation, allowing me to focus on my breathing and her to focus on my right trapezius before the conversation went somewhere else entirely -- somewhere far less memorable.
And now that I look back on the whole thing, I keep thinking, why the hell didn't I ask her about her liking of a little spanking too?!
At any rate, stay tuned, dear readers. Now that I have a laptop that I can actually use lap-top in bed, I'm about to get a lot more talkative. ::grin::
Friday, August 10, 2007
Three is a magic number
Three is a magic number,
Yes it is, it's a magic number.
Somewhere in the ancient, mystic trinity
You get three as a magic number.
Every time I think of three, I think of that Schoolhouse Rock* song. Though one would think "Naughty Number Nine" would seem more appropriate for a blog about spanking. However, three is indeed the magic number today because it's the third birthday of this here blog.
When I mentioned to A. that the blog is now three years old, he was a bit surprised. "I thought it's been longer." And the funny thing is, I feel like it's been a long three years as well. Maybe because my life has changed so much. When I first started blogging, I was still in graduate school. I was still somewhat mobile. Hell, I could still drive.
Initially, I started blogging because I wanted to give a stable home on the web to my spanking stories and essays that I had posted on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup over the years. But like everyone who blogs, I quickly discovered that it was a place to make friends. To share all those kinky hijinks and thoughts that I couldn't share with my vanilla colleagues and family (though, I'm not so sure my family is very vanilla).
Granted, there were only a handful of us in the spanking blogosphere back then: Patty, Tarte, Poiesia, Invidia and Bossman, Library Girl, Sparkle, and, of course, our originator, Dan (I know I'm missing others). Suddenly -- sometime in late 2005/early 2006 -- the number of spanking blogs exploded. But in early 2006 my spanking mojo dried up for a few months. When I came back, the size of the spanking blogosphere was overwhelming, and I don't think I've ever really caught up since. Indeed, I'm not sure if it is possible to catch up as there's just so many.
But it's definitely a case of the more, the merrier. I've been quite happy to see old friends from the newsgroup like Haron and Abel, Dyke Grrl, Alex Birch, Ted and now Jen join the fun -- each contributing their intelligent imaginations that I enjoyed so much before blogging. Mija, another newsgroup pal, has been blogging for a long time but has started blogging about fetish stuff more recently, while Pablo has been blogging for even longer (I think), including kink-related posts here and there.
Blogging is also, at times, as sort of therapy, albeit while thousands of people watch. In early 2005, when I had an improvement in my health and could write more, I processed so much about my kink -- how I use it to relate to my body, how it interacts with childhood abuse, how I integrate it into all of me, how it has helped heal old wounds. And, of course, since then when I haven't been writing about getting spanked, I've been writing about how I nourish my kink while dealing with a long-distance relationship, chronic pain, blood clots in my lungs and a debilitating illness. It hasn't always been sexy, but it's real life.
I remember starting this blog during a few-week reprieve between two very painful infections. And I named the blog after a character I wrote about in a non-kink story who represented the healthy, mischievous little girl I longed to be. The little girl that spanking allows me to be. It was also my nick on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup, so, you know, it made sense.
But I've never been able to escape the fact that I'm not really Natty, at least not the healthy, mischievous little girl. And more and more I find that I'm less interested in escaping. Don't get me wrong, there's always room for a little escaping. I mean, I'll always fantasize about being one of those poor, abused girls in a RGE-Lupus film. And I'll always have a little mischief in me. I mean, it wouldn't be very fun if I didn't.
But I also know that mostly I -- Michelle -- am both a woman and a little girl who thinks too much, is generally very good (indeed probably worries too much about being good), who is both strong and, yes, fragile. And who just needs a spanking every now and then. Or sometimes more. ::grin::
So, thanks for being with me through a lot of spankings -- with canes, straps, wooden spoons and even leeks -- and a lot more.
And on this august occasion, it'd be great to hear from some of you hundreds of nameless individuals who visit every day. Give a quick shout out in the comments section. Maybe share what you've liked over the years. Even a favorite post if you have one (mine is probably the "Under the apple tree" post, though I know a lot of people liked the Grand Canyon spanking). Think of it as NSB's Third Anniversary Delurk Day.
0O0
*For those of you who do not fit that narrow demographic of Americans chomping on Lucky Charms every Saturday morning while watching cartoons in the mid-1970s to early 1980s, Schoolhouse Rock was a campaign to educate us during commercial breaks with three minute cartoons featuring songs about math, science, history ::cough:: propaganda ::cough::, grammar, and personal finance. It was way cooler than it sounds because the songs kicked ass.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
I hate losing
Several weeks back A. and I got into a discussion about the size of Brazil within the whole of South America. He was certain Brazil takes up over a third of the land mass of South America whereas I thought it was less. As we do with so many things we disagree about, we made a kinky wager. In this case, an hour of slavery was at stake.
Well, A. finally got around to doing the math to figure out which one of us was right. He emailed me the following results:
Brazil = 8,514,877 sq km
South America = 17,840,000 sq km
= 47.73% of the continent = your sorry slave ass
::sigh::
And he was quite keen on me blogging about my geographic error.
Fuck I hate losing...
Well, A. finally got around to doing the math to figure out which one of us was right. He emailed me the following results:
Brazil = 8,514,877 sq km
South America = 17,840,000 sq km
= 47.73% of the continent = your sorry slave ass
::sigh::
And he was quite keen on me blogging about my geographic error.
Fuck I hate losing...
Thursday, August 02, 2007
"Two teenage girls are in trouble today"
The last couple of mornings I've awakened too early, or rather, woke up at the time normal people wake up but too early for someone who didn't fall asleep until 1:30 am and needs a good ten hours or so to maintain a certain tenuous level of health. While I waited to go back to sleep, I turned the radio on to listen to NPR.
Amidst the horrific news from Minnesota (I used to have nightmares all the time when I was little about a bridge collapsing while I was on it), the local feed reported that two teenage girls were in trouble for leading cops on a high speed chase. And they really started with "two teenage girls are in trouble today following a high speed chase involving..."
Now, maybe I've just had too much naughty on the mind lately, but lordy did my ears perk up when I heard the phrase "two teenage girls are in trouble today." I mean, don't you think it just screams "boiler-plate spanking story ahead?"
Needless to say, I couldn't fall back to sleep.
So, about a half an hour ago I started getting very sleepy. And now that Meals on Wheels has just shown up, I can go back to sleep without interruption.
Just you all wait 'til I get that new (used) laptop. You're going to be inundated with all my pent up spanking thoughts -- both here and at the Punishment Book.
Amidst the horrific news from Minnesota (I used to have nightmares all the time when I was little about a bridge collapsing while I was on it), the local feed reported that two teenage girls were in trouble for leading cops on a high speed chase. And they really started with "two teenage girls are in trouble today following a high speed chase involving..."
Now, maybe I've just had too much naughty on the mind lately, but lordy did my ears perk up when I heard the phrase "two teenage girls are in trouble today." I mean, don't you think it just screams "boiler-plate spanking story ahead?"
Needless to say, I couldn't fall back to sleep.
So, about a half an hour ago I started getting very sleepy. And now that Meals on Wheels has just shown up, I can go back to sleep without interruption.
Just you all wait 'til I get that new (used) laptop. You're going to be inundated with all my pent up spanking thoughts -- both here and at the Punishment Book.
Monday, July 30, 2007
First openly spanko TV personality?
Grand Inquisitor - News from the Big Brother house on Channel 4.com Annotated
"Well," chuckled Carole, "you'll have a laugh here. Are you married? Single?"
"I'm a virgin. I'm not into sex," came the intriguing response.
"Looking to find love?" continued an unfased Carole, "Are you heterosexual?" she added.
"I'm attracted to both genders," confessed Jonty, dropping a second bombshell. "I don't do sexual, I just do spanking instead."
A. told me yesterday afternoon about this conversation at the Big Brother Halfway House and he wondered, is Jonty now the first openly spanko TV personality?
Friday, July 27, 2007
Ramdom perving amidst real life
Ooof! Has it been over three weeks already?
While some of my absence has been related to adjusting to new medication and family stuff, mostly it's been due to my laptop. It's so rickety now that it's basically a desktop, which means I can only be online a couple of hours a day off and on. And as my laptop is sorta like a space heater with a keyboard, I didn't even turn it on a couple of weeks ago when it was in the 100s.
But fear not, my gentle readers, help is on the way. Some ME/CFIDS associates familiar with my laptop travails are donating a sturdy used Thinkpad that is pretty much an equivalent machine to what I currently own. Hopefully I should be getting it sometime next week (knock on wood). And when I do, I'll be able to curl up in bed and blog about all sorts of spanking-related thoughts, especially as I'm feeling a little better on the new medicine (Lyrica [Pregabalin] for you Fibromyalgia readers out there).
And being the pervert that I am, there's been plenty of spanking-related thoughts going on in my sick mind. Here is a random sampling:
While some of my absence has been related to adjusting to new medication and family stuff, mostly it's been due to my laptop. It's so rickety now that it's basically a desktop, which means I can only be online a couple of hours a day off and on. And as my laptop is sorta like a space heater with a keyboard, I didn't even turn it on a couple of weeks ago when it was in the 100s.
But fear not, my gentle readers, help is on the way. Some ME/CFIDS associates familiar with my laptop travails are donating a sturdy used Thinkpad that is pretty much an equivalent machine to what I currently own. Hopefully I should be getting it sometime next week (knock on wood). And when I do, I'll be able to curl up in bed and blog about all sorts of spanking-related thoughts, especially as I'm feeling a little better on the new medicine (Lyrica [Pregabalin] for you Fibromyalgia readers out there).
And being the pervert that I am, there's been plenty of spanking-related thoughts going on in my sick mind. Here is a random sampling:
- In this post, I mentioned that I've been having a fantasy about the, um, you know, that rectal exam I had back in March. So much so that I decided to buy some KY Jelly -- or rather the Safeway equivalent. And the label on the back talking about what it can be used for included "An excellent lubricant for insertion of rectal thermometers, enemas, douches and similar types of nozzles." I was seriously weak in the knees reading this...(insert dirty perv moan here).
- Thanks to the new medicine, I actually made it to a public lecture last month given by a guy who would probably have been my academic advisor had I not gotten sick. He was discussing the background to recent events in Gaza and the West Bank and when talking about Fatah's election loss he stated sternly "they should have taken their whipping and gone off into the corner." It was a lovely moment of perving in an otherwise very serious hour and a half.
- Television can provide a lot of pervy moments. A number of pals, like Mija or Haron (actually, she blogged about it a few times, as did Abel), have noted a recent episode of Dr. Who set in a British boys school in 1913 that gave them plenty of fodder. While I'm stuck watching the first series on PBS (and I should be grateful they bought a BBC show that wasn't My Hero), it too has had it's squirmy moments, particularly as my A. has a northern accent similar to Christopher Eccleston's. Like when Rose brings about the end of the world and the Doctor asks her to apologize. He even had the same sort of tone of voice A. has when he suggests I apologize for whatever misdeed -- real or imaginary -- that I've committed. Or when some alien force has taken over a little boy and the Doctor tells him sternly to go to his room. True, it's not the same as him holding a cane at a public school, but, well, I haven't gotten to that series yet.
- Along with drooling over stern moments in Dr Who, TV is peppered with spanking references, particularly if the characters are African-American. In just about every episode of Everybody Hates Chris, the mother is threatening or does spank her kids (always off screen). And just before going to sleep the other night while watching Bernie Mac I heard him threaten his nephew. "Boy you better start icing your ass now..." I can even remember an episode where he takes his nephew over his knee. I've always loved predominately African-American shows, most likely because of all the spanking references, but also because growing up poor, I could relate to a lot of the situations (Good Times was my favorite).
- And then there are John Wayne movies. I'm watching the Duke, along with other westerns, because should I ever get well enough to return to my thesis, one of the themes I'll be writing about is the western. So, you know, it's a perfect blend of kinky and academic Netflixing. Two little tidbits so far include Glen Campbell spanking Kim Darby in True Grit, which prompts Wayne to tell Campbell to stop as he was "starting to like it too much." And in Stagecoach, the Mexican helping out the stranded riders starts going on that "no matter how much I beat her, she never stops going." One of the riders asks "your wife?" Nope, it was his horse he was beating. I've also watched Mclintock, but, well, that whole movie is about spanking Maureen O'Hara. Think of it as The Quiet Man set in a frontier town, but with more spanking. There are more thoughts I have on John Wayne movies and spanking, but I'll save that for another post.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
A Fourth of July post
So, uh, the most popular page on this here blog today was the one about my stars and strips knickers. Seems appropriate. ::grin::
Can't tell if I'm just exhausted from new medication or if it's post-viral stuff or what, but hope to blog again soon.
In the meantime, hope you have plenty of fireworks tonight -- literally or figuratively. ;)
Can't tell if I'm just exhausted from new medication or if it's post-viral stuff or what, but hope to blog again soon.
In the meantime, hope you have plenty of fireworks tonight -- literally or figuratively. ;)
Friday, June 22, 2007
A bunch of random spanko ramblings
As that handful of you who read my non-kink blog may know, I'm getting over another virus (ah, the joys of a compromised immune system), hence the reason I haven't been posting much. But, aside from an odd day here and there, it hasn't really dampened my spanking mojo. Seriously, you have no idea how much I've been fantasizing about getting my ass whipped. Well, okay, I suspect a few of you probably do. ::grin::
Regarding my last post, I can report that I have had a bit more success in the orgasm department. Interesting enough, it happened while I was topping A. over the phone and trying to focus on being as cruel as possible to distract me from the vertigo and nausea from the virus in my inner ear. What can I say? I am definitely connecting with my inner domme. ::evil grin::
But, in the yin-yang world we live, I turned very subby after that -- as did A. turn very toppish. I began to fantasize about being a cruel princess who is then punished for treating her servant so horribly. Being ordered to appear in the throne room where I'd be stripped naked and tied to a bench. Whipped severely with a riding crop or maybe a birch. In the middle of my whipping, my nanny would be ordered to hold my cheeks apart while ginger root is inserted. Then the whipping would continue. ::dreamy sigh::
Actually the fantasy I've been having the last several days involves the um, rectal exam my doctor gave me in March. The thing is, the whole thing was so utterly embarrassing. Truly and wholly mortifying. But, um, well, it's that embarrassment that so turns me on now. I keep thinking of having to strip and have my ass probed with a gloved, KY-jellied finger. It's like all I can think about right now. ::moan::
Though my nurse the other day also gave me a bit to fantasize about when I was getting my blood checked. I was trying to swipe a couple of latex gloves while she was getting my chart and she caught me.
"I, um, was going to play with the glove," I lied as quickly as one would come to me.
"Huh?"
"You know, like, while I was waiting."
"I don't know what I'm going to do with you," she shook her head. Of course, I could think of a few things she could do...
Then when it was time to prick my finger, she told me to wash my hands.
"Already did it."
"Are your hands still warm?"
"I hope so," I said as I rubbed them together.
"Well, think hot thoughts." She paused. "Wait, that wasn't what I meant...I mean, not like that."
I laughed mischievously.
"I know what you were thinking. You're bad. Laughing like that. I suppose you were thinking of your boyfriend."
"Uh, yeah." Actually I was thinking of my boyfriend watching as she bent me over the exam table and probed and spanked my ass. ::evil giggle::
Okay, I'm watching Conan O'Brian right now and there's a comedian talking about how the doctor at the hospital gave him opiate suppositories. "It was like the best day of my life." That wonderful opiate feeling starting at the ass.
Oh, yes please. I could go for a bit of that. ::big smile::
Regarding my last post, I can report that I have had a bit more success in the orgasm department. Interesting enough, it happened while I was topping A. over the phone and trying to focus on being as cruel as possible to distract me from the vertigo and nausea from the virus in my inner ear. What can I say? I am definitely connecting with my inner domme. ::evil grin::
But, in the yin-yang world we live, I turned very subby after that -- as did A. turn very toppish. I began to fantasize about being a cruel princess who is then punished for treating her servant so horribly. Being ordered to appear in the throne room where I'd be stripped naked and tied to a bench. Whipped severely with a riding crop or maybe a birch. In the middle of my whipping, my nanny would be ordered to hold my cheeks apart while ginger root is inserted. Then the whipping would continue. ::dreamy sigh::
Actually the fantasy I've been having the last several days involves the um, rectal exam my doctor gave me in March. The thing is, the whole thing was so utterly embarrassing. Truly and wholly mortifying. But, um, well, it's that embarrassment that so turns me on now. I keep thinking of having to strip and have my ass probed with a gloved, KY-jellied finger. It's like all I can think about right now. ::moan::
Though my nurse the other day also gave me a bit to fantasize about when I was getting my blood checked. I was trying to swipe a couple of latex gloves while she was getting my chart and she caught me.
"I, um, was going to play with the glove," I lied as quickly as one would come to me.
"Huh?"
"You know, like, while I was waiting."
"I don't know what I'm going to do with you," she shook her head. Of course, I could think of a few things she could do...
Then when it was time to prick my finger, she told me to wash my hands.
"Already did it."
"Are your hands still warm?"
"I hope so," I said as I rubbed them together.
"Well, think hot thoughts." She paused. "Wait, that wasn't what I meant...I mean, not like that."
I laughed mischievously.
"I know what you were thinking. You're bad. Laughing like that. I suppose you were thinking of your boyfriend."
"Uh, yeah." Actually I was thinking of my boyfriend watching as she bent me over the exam table and probed and spanked my ass. ::evil giggle::
Okay, I'm watching Conan O'Brian right now and there's a comedian talking about how the doctor at the hospital gave him opiate suppositories. "It was like the best day of my life." That wonderful opiate feeling starting at the ass.
Oh, yes please. I could go for a bit of that. ::big smile::
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
A startled sister and fucking frustration
When last I left you, dear readers, my beloved had left me all hot and bothered and was making me wait until Friday (last Friday) to attend to my...um...shall we say, excitement.
Unfortunately his brother ended up staying over the weekend, and I had a nasty fall Thursday night (thanks to a medication that made my already poor balance truly awful) leaving me with some minor injuries and not much mojo. Hence we postponed our phone play until Monday.
So yesterday A. sent me an email telling me to be in my school uniform with the long handled brush and wooden spoon handy when he called at 5:30pm (my time - PST). And being the obedient girl that I am, I was appropriately dressed along with said implements (well, actually I couldn't find the wooden spoon so I substituted the wooden spatula) at 5:30pm sharp. A. finally got around to calling me at 5:50pm (ah, the double standards of the top/bottom relationship...) to tell me he was going out for a smoke and would call me back in a few minutes.
Ten minutes later the phone rings and I answer with a "heya" only to hear my little sister reply with "you were clearly expecting someone else." D'oh!
"Um, yeah..." ::giggle:: "Actually we were, um, going to be, um, doing stuff..." Standing there in my school uniform made me feel particularly conspicuous, even if she couldn't see me.
"Oh, oh, stop! Just...I don't want to hear about it!"
I helped raise my sister and, as you can see, there is still a bit of a mother-daughter dynamic between the two of us, though most of the time it's more like a Lorelei-Rory dynamic.
"Honestly, Michelle, I don't know what I'm going to do with you. You're naughty." She paused. "So, does that help your...whatever?"
I blushed and again felt remarkably conscious of the fact that I was in my school uniform.
"Um...well...actually...um...yes it will."
"Ohmygod! You guys are so weird!"
"Hey, you're the one who brought up the 'naughty' bit."
"Just...I don't wanna hear about you're little phone sex or whatever it is..."
And we then changed the topic for the next three or four minutes until A. called.
I'm not too worried about her thinking that we're weird. For one thing, it's not like it affects our relationship. But I also have long suspected that my dear little sister is a spanko in deep denial. She's quite conservative when it comes to sex and that conservativism extends to all things kinky. But someday when she's ready...
At any rate, A. thought I was naughty too and spanked me (or...well, you know how phone spanking works) for being a slutty school girl. Then he finally let me attend to my state of arousal. Except that I COULDN'T FUCKING COME! When I finally realized that it wasn't going to happen, I yelled out a hearty "Goddamnit!" and just about started to cry.
I think I've only had one half-way decent orgasm since Valentine's Day. I'll always be just about there and then everything stops. Sorta like the Little Engine That Could, except this is more like the little clitoris that can't. Or whatever the mechanism is that causes orgasm.
I know it's just an energy issue. Sex is a lot of work, and I just don't have the energy resources that are needed for it. And it's certainly not a topic people talk about in ME/CFIDS groups. Granted, most people with ME/CFIDS don't even have a libido so I guess I'm lucky in that respect. But the whole thing is really pissing me off.
Hmm...this is the third Tuesday on the trot that I've posted. This might start to become a routine if I'm not careful. ::grin::
Unfortunately his brother ended up staying over the weekend, and I had a nasty fall Thursday night (thanks to a medication that made my already poor balance truly awful) leaving me with some minor injuries and not much mojo. Hence we postponed our phone play until Monday.
So yesterday A. sent me an email telling me to be in my school uniform with the long handled brush and wooden spoon handy when he called at 5:30pm (my time - PST). And being the obedient girl that I am, I was appropriately dressed along with said implements (well, actually I couldn't find the wooden spoon so I substituted the wooden spatula) at 5:30pm sharp. A. finally got around to calling me at 5:50pm (ah, the double standards of the top/bottom relationship...) to tell me he was going out for a smoke and would call me back in a few minutes.
Ten minutes later the phone rings and I answer with a "heya" only to hear my little sister reply with "you were clearly expecting someone else." D'oh!
"Um, yeah..." ::giggle:: "Actually we were, um, going to be, um, doing stuff..." Standing there in my school uniform made me feel particularly conspicuous, even if she couldn't see me.
"Oh, oh, stop! Just...I don't want to hear about it!"
I helped raise my sister and, as you can see, there is still a bit of a mother-daughter dynamic between the two of us, though most of the time it's more like a Lorelei-Rory dynamic.
"Honestly, Michelle, I don't know what I'm going to do with you. You're naughty." She paused. "So, does that help your...whatever?"
I blushed and again felt remarkably conscious of the fact that I was in my school uniform.
"Um...well...actually...um...yes it will."
"Ohmygod! You guys are so weird!"
"Hey, you're the one who brought up the 'naughty' bit."
"Just...I don't wanna hear about you're little phone sex or whatever it is..."
And we then changed the topic for the next three or four minutes until A. called.
I'm not too worried about her thinking that we're weird. For one thing, it's not like it affects our relationship. But I also have long suspected that my dear little sister is a spanko in deep denial. She's quite conservative when it comes to sex and that conservativism extends to all things kinky. But someday when she's ready...
At any rate, A. thought I was naughty too and spanked me (or...well, you know how phone spanking works) for being a slutty school girl. Then he finally let me attend to my state of arousal. Except that I COULDN'T FUCKING COME! When I finally realized that it wasn't going to happen, I yelled out a hearty "Goddamnit!" and just about started to cry.
I think I've only had one half-way decent orgasm since Valentine's Day. I'll always be just about there and then everything stops. Sorta like the Little Engine That Could, except this is more like the little clitoris that can't. Or whatever the mechanism is that causes orgasm.
I know it's just an energy issue. Sex is a lot of work, and I just don't have the energy resources that are needed for it. And it's certainly not a topic people talk about in ME/CFIDS groups. Granted, most people with ME/CFIDS don't even have a libido so I guess I'm lucky in that respect. But the whole thing is really pissing me off.
Hmm...this is the third Tuesday on the trot that I've posted. This might start to become a routine if I'm not careful. ::grin::
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Naked Bottom Days
Recently one of our more prolific writers at the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup posted a story called "Spanking Itch." And I dare say, like many of you, there are days when I definitely have the spanking itch.
Now, I might be revealing just how weird I am, but on those days I like to dispense with panties and trousers altogether. There's something very sensual and even naughty about feeling textures other than the usual cotton on my backside. In a way, it's like trying to scratch that itch even if it doesn't make the itch go away.
Since it's almost 90 degrees out, and A. just got me all hot and bothered on the phone before leaving me to go to bed (he has a penchant for doing that to me -- and this time he's making me wait until Friday before I can, um, tend to that...mean, mean, mean!), I decided this would make a great Naked Bottom Day.
Funny thing though. Several weeks back I was having a perfectly lovely Naked Bottom Day when I ended up making it to bed a little past my bedtime. Suddenly my itch disappeared upon the realization that I was going to be spanked the next day.
Impending punishment can be a bitch that way. Well, you know, along with all the other ways it's not very pleasant...
Now, I might be revealing just how weird I am, but on those days I like to dispense with panties and trousers altogether. There's something very sensual and even naughty about feeling textures other than the usual cotton on my backside. In a way, it's like trying to scratch that itch even if it doesn't make the itch go away.
Since it's almost 90 degrees out, and A. just got me all hot and bothered on the phone before leaving me to go to bed (he has a penchant for doing that to me -- and this time he's making me wait until Friday before I can, um, tend to that...mean, mean, mean!), I decided this would make a great Naked Bottom Day.
Funny thing though. Several weeks back I was having a perfectly lovely Naked Bottom Day when I ended up making it to bed a little past my bedtime. Suddenly my itch disappeared upon the realization that I was going to be spanked the next day.
Impending punishment can be a bitch that way. Well, you know, along with all the other ways it's not very pleasant...
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Story: Wrong Driver [M/F]
I'm doped up on a lot of drugs this week and don't know when I'll be awake enough to post something original. So, I dug around my archives and found this oldie.
It's another story looking at the darker side of the kink that I wrote after one of many lengthy threads on the newsgroup about discipline vs play spankings in which a friend of Mija compared disciplinary relationships (or domestic discipline if you are so inclined to call it that) to driving. It was an excellent discussion and the driving analogy helped me understand why an earlier spanking relationship I had didn't quite work, as well as inspired the following story.
*********************************************
Story: The Wrong Driver [M/F]
The dishes were still in the sink. Some crusty. Others floating in chili bean slime since Jenny went to visit her sister. And in the living room, Matlock was on.
“Oh, honey, you’re back!” James dropped the remote on the coffee table and jumped up from the recliner. Jenny let him embrace her, but didn’t return the hug. Just stood looking at the empty boxes that should be filled with the pictures and knick-knacks on the walls that would be moving in two days. Boxes he promised to pack while she was gone. “Oh, I missed you so much.” He squeezed her close.
“Yeah? Well, it’s probably good that I’m back then…Especially as those dishes need to be done," Jenny said a flat, tight voice. James blushed.
“I’ve been meaning to do those.” Then he straightened up. “But you’re not doing any dishes – the doctor said you’re suppose to rest. And if you don’t rest, I’ll beat yer butt.” Almost like he were taunting her. Jenny rolled her eyes.
[...]
“Then do the damn dishes.”
“Hey, don’t take that tone with me, young lady, or I’ll take you over my knee right now.” He was half smiling, but she knew he would.
“Fine. I’m gonna go lay down.”
“Alright.” He sat down and picked up the remote. “You did go to your doctor’s appointment yesterday, right?”
“No…” Fuck! “With the whole thing with Mom, I totally forgot. But, it’s just a routine blood test. No big deal to reschedule.”
“I understand, but…” He put the remote down and stood up. “We made the rule. No skipping doctor’s appointments”
“Oh c’mon, James. It was an honest mistake. Yesterday was crazy.”
“I know, but doctor’s appointments are important.”
She was too tired to argue as he pulled her over his lap.
The sting was gone as Jenny laid in bed that night but she was still sullen and she wasn’t sure why. Yes, she had agreed to the rule. It was a fair, necessary rule. And she liked rules. Structure. Discipline.
Yet, she also thought of the dishes, which he finally did after Matlock. The empty boxes, several of which he filled that evening. But only because she was home to make sure. To give him exact instructions. Like she did last month at the airport when she had to stay with him throughout the check-in process to be sure he didn’t get into an argument with anyone that would keep him from his flight. Or had been trying to teach him to call the temp agencies early in the morning to get jobs. And to sound peppy on the phone.
She knew he liked taking care of her. Liked trying to provide the structure she craved. But…
“I don’t want you to punish me anymore,” she explained when he came to bed.
...It was like being in a car with a driver who speeds excessively. Tailgates constantly. Is lost all the time…
And she didn't want him to drive anymore.
Copyright 2002 Natty
It's another story looking at the darker side of the kink that I wrote after one of many lengthy threads on the newsgroup about discipline vs play spankings in which a friend of Mija compared disciplinary relationships (or domestic discipline if you are so inclined to call it that) to driving. It was an excellent discussion and the driving analogy helped me understand why an earlier spanking relationship I had didn't quite work, as well as inspired the following story.
*********************************************
Story: The Wrong Driver [M/F]
The dishes were still in the sink. Some crusty. Others floating in chili bean slime since Jenny went to visit her sister. And in the living room, Matlock was on.
“Oh, honey, you’re back!” James dropped the remote on the coffee table and jumped up from the recliner. Jenny let him embrace her, but didn’t return the hug. Just stood looking at the empty boxes that should be filled with the pictures and knick-knacks on the walls that would be moving in two days. Boxes he promised to pack while she was gone. “Oh, I missed you so much.” He squeezed her close.
“Yeah? Well, it’s probably good that I’m back then…Especially as those dishes need to be done," Jenny said a flat, tight voice. James blushed.
“I’ve been meaning to do those.” Then he straightened up. “But you’re not doing any dishes – the doctor said you’re suppose to rest. And if you don’t rest, I’ll beat yer butt.” Almost like he were taunting her. Jenny rolled her eyes.
[...]
“Then do the damn dishes.”
“Hey, don’t take that tone with me, young lady, or I’ll take you over my knee right now.” He was half smiling, but she knew he would.
“Fine. I’m gonna go lay down.”
“Alright.” He sat down and picked up the remote. “You did go to your doctor’s appointment yesterday, right?”
“No…” Fuck! “With the whole thing with Mom, I totally forgot. But, it’s just a routine blood test. No big deal to reschedule.”
“I understand, but…” He put the remote down and stood up. “We made the rule. No skipping doctor’s appointments”
“Oh c’mon, James. It was an honest mistake. Yesterday was crazy.”
“I know, but doctor’s appointments are important.”
She was too tired to argue as he pulled her over his lap.
The sting was gone as Jenny laid in bed that night but she was still sullen and she wasn’t sure why. Yes, she had agreed to the rule. It was a fair, necessary rule. And she liked rules. Structure. Discipline.
Yet, she also thought of the dishes, which he finally did after Matlock. The empty boxes, several of which he filled that evening. But only because she was home to make sure. To give him exact instructions. Like she did last month at the airport when she had to stay with him throughout the check-in process to be sure he didn’t get into an argument with anyone that would keep him from his flight. Or had been trying to teach him to call the temp agencies early in the morning to get jobs. And to sound peppy on the phone.
She knew he liked taking care of her. Liked trying to provide the structure she craved. But…
“I don’t want you to punish me anymore,” she explained when he came to bed.
...It was like being in a car with a driver who speeds excessively. Tailgates constantly. Is lost all the time…
And she didn't want him to drive anymore.
Copyright 2002 Natty
Sunday, May 13, 2007
ME/CFIDS Awareness Day: Being Understood
Right, so this is going to be a little off topic for a moment.
May 12 is the day when ME/CFIDS organizations around the world recognize ME/CFIDS Awareness Day. Those of you who read this blog much know that I frequently mention having this disease. However, it occurred to me a few months back that I haven't ever really explained what that means precisely like I have with being on anti-coagulants (blood thinners) or having Fibromyalgia (which shares this awareness day with us, as it's a fairly common co-morbidity and includes a lot of the same symptoms). So I decided then that a great way to celebrate Awareness Day would be to create a little more awareness here about ME/CFIDS. And I should have started working on this post then because it's been a lot harder to write than I thought it would be, hence the reason it's a bit late...
[...]
First, the name. The "ME" stands for Myalgic Encephalomeylitis, which literally means "pain and inflammation of the brain" and has traditionally been a British designation for a disease known in the United States -- both unfortunately and incorrectly -- as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, a term that was created in the mid 1980s by the Centers for Disease Control (CDC).
In the 1990s, a group that later went on to form the CFIDS Association (the primary advocacy group here in the US), added "Immune Dysfunction" to the title to emphasize the immune system abnormalities that have long been associated with this disease, such as the low activity of Natural Killer cells, low molecular weight RNase L (an antiviral enzyme) and higher rates of apoptosis (programmed cell death) and gene expression of white blood cells.
I use both ME and CFIDS because at the moment there is a huge debate going on in the community about renaming the disease, with a committee of top physicians and researchers recently choosing the less specific term Myalgic Encephalopathy (i.e. pain and brain pathology) to replace the universally despised "Chronic Fatigue Syndrome." However, they have also chosen to use the two together until government agencies such as the CDC or Social Security (for people like me who can't work because we're too sick) recognize ME in place of CFS. To me, using them together just feels a tad more accurate for now.
Second, what is ME/CFIDS? I think Maryann Spurgin of the ME Society of America summarizes it best by stating that it's "a multi-system disease adversely affecting the cellular mitochondria and the heart, brain, neuroendocrine, immune, and circulatory systems." While fatigue, or more accurately, profound exhaustion, is indeed one symptom, calling this Chronic Fatigue Syndrome is like calling a concussion merely "a headache" or Tuberculosis something like "Chronic Coughing Syndrome." In other words, it's a hell of a lot more than just being tired.
I've often compared it to having the flu forever. However, in this post, Dyke Girl (aka Jigsaw Analogy) pointed out that it's actually worse than that. And she's right. In addition to flu-like symptoms -- muscle and joint aches, headaches, low grade fever, feeling chilled, tender lymph nodes and sore throat -- people with ME/CFIDS will usually have post-exertional malaise (riding an exercise bike for even just three minutes can send me to bed for the rest of the day), shortness of breath, widespread pain, irritable bowel as well as neurological problems such dizziness and balance problems, impaired spatial perception and cognitive abilities, difficulty processing sensory information and orthostatic intolerance (fainting or near fainting due to blood pressure drops). The most annoying part of all this is that all these symptoms are remarkably variable. Some days I can do things that two or three days later I couldn't even dream of doing. Why? Got me. I mean, obviously over activity will exacerbate symptoms (hence the reason I get into a lot of trouble for overdoing it). But a lot of the time it's completely arbitrary.
Lately I've started comparing it to having both Multiple Sclerosis and mild Congestive Heart Failure. My best friend has Multiple Sclerosis and he is often amazed at how similar our symptoms are, except mine are more severe (indeed, he's still in his PhD program and I'm not). A lot of that reflects the fact that his doctor knows what causes his symptoms and has medicines that can treat his MS. That's not yet the case with ME/CFIDS.
Third, so what causes ME/CFIDS? That's the million dollar question and a lot of the problem is sort of a chicken and egg one. Some have speculated that it's a virus that attacks specific parts of the immune system (whereas HIV is a catastrophic attack on the immune system). Some think it's undiagnosed chronic bacterial infections such as Lyme Disease, but the use of antibiotics (and growing antibiotic resistance) makes this a very contentious topic. One provocative theory argues that ME/CFIDS and Autism are one and the same disease caused by a genetic inability to maintain adequate levels of glutathione and that a person gets Autism if the glutathione problem develops within the womb and up to three years of age, while it becomes ME/CFIDS if the problem happens after three years old. But most of the more prominent research, however, has focused on the immune system and the brain, though in the last few years more and more research has also focused on oxidative stress, mitochondrial deficiencies, and the cardiovascular system.
Fourth, why they hell would I talk about this on a spanking blog? Well, I've been talking about having ME/CFIDS since the first few months of starting this blog back in 2004 (wow -- can you believe that was almost three years ago?). I mean, it touches just about every part of my life so it would be difficult to not talk about. And while I may have a disabling disease, it doesn't keep me from living. This blog is my way of talking about one particular way I live life to it's fullest as best I can.
I also wanted to provide some context. I've had this disease on some level for about 24 years now -- in it's more debilitating form for about 8. I'm not getting better anytime soon (indeed, I've been getting progressively worse save for a slight improvement in 2003 and the winter of 2005). Now, there may well be a breakthrough in the research down the road that will provide some relief (God-willing!) but I've come to terms with life as it is. While I'm sure there are going to be more good days in my future at some point, I also know there are going to be more health-related problems as well.
And when I write about those bad times, I understand that it's natural to feel badly after reading them. But making people feel badly isn't really my aim. I write about that stuff for the same reason that so many people blog: we are relational beings and sharing our stories is part of connecting with other people, of being human. C.S. Lewis once said that we read to know that we are not alone, and I think the same is true of writing. We string together words and send them out in the hopes that they resonate with somebody else -- an act that, perhaps, I appreciate all the more being housebound (seriously -- it beats talking to the cockroaches, which I've found myself doing lately with disturbing frequency...).
In other words, it's okay to look past whatever illness related context I may start out a post with and enjoy or contemplate whatever larger theme/story I'm writing about. It's okay to make jokes (like Alex did in this post). It's okay to ask questions. And, of course, it's okay to feel whatever the hell you want to feel about them.
Lastly, a little disclaimer. Everybody who has ME/CFIDS has had the experience of meeting somebody who had it (or knows of someone who had it) but got better thanks to [insert magic cure of your choice]. And there are some people who do eventually recover after a lot of rest and combinations of pharmaceuticals and nutritional supplements. I want to assure you that one, I stay more aware of current ME/CFIDS research than all but a small handful of people on this planet. I've also studied and utilized many forms of alternative medicine (and continue to do so). If I haven't tried something it's because there's either not enough evidence (including even anecdotal) to support its efficacy or, more likely, I haven't the money (this disease can be a bottomless pit financially). Ultimately, spending all my time trying out every magic cure out there is not only hard on the pocket book, but it doesn't leave me with much energy to do any, um, you know, living.
So now you know a little bit more (well, probably far more than you really wanted to know) about what those seven capital letters with a slash in the middle that I frequently refer to mean. The woman who makes the t-shirts at the beginning of this post, Ricky Buchanan, has also written An Open Letter to Those Without CFS or Fibromyalgia that you may also want to check out. She ends by saying that most importantly she wants people to understand her. And that's really what this post -- indeed my blog and any blog -- is about. All of us, healthy and ill, just want to be understood. I hope this post has helped you to understand me and all ME/CFIDS patients a little bit more.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned...
Between Mija's post at the Punishment Book and newsgroup pal Domino's story "Secret of the Confessional," a priest/penitent fantasy had been sounding mighty appealing. Then tonight I turned on PBS (yes, I know, I'm a total nerd) to watch "Secret files of the Inquisition" and when they talked about the practice of making repentant Cathars wear a yellow cross (which, in this show, were all women), well, what can I say? I think my spanko fantasies are now going into overdrive.
It's funny because I think one of the reasons that the priest/penitent fantasy works for me is because within the Roman rite (i.e. the vast majority of Catholics in the world), confession is so very different than in the Eastern Church. We have confession face to face, which makes it harder in some ways. Though the priests who have been my confessors (see here, for example) have generally been very kind -- including their facial expressions. The prayers are different. The listing of sins is discouraged in place of focusing on themes (at least in my experience). And, of course, penance is not meant to be punishment but medicinal. Going to confession is like going to the doctor.
So, reading Mija and Domino's posts almost felt like reading about a different culture. A culture that felt uncomfortable to my spiritual self, but tantalizing to my kinky self.
It's funny because I think one of the reasons that the priest/penitent fantasy works for me is because within the Roman rite (i.e. the vast majority of Catholics in the world), confession is so very different than in the Eastern Church. We have confession face to face, which makes it harder in some ways. Though the priests who have been my confessors (see here, for example) have generally been very kind -- including their facial expressions. The prayers are different. The listing of sins is discouraged in place of focusing on themes (at least in my experience). And, of course, penance is not meant to be punishment but medicinal. Going to confession is like going to the doctor.
So, reading Mija and Domino's posts almost felt like reading about a different culture. A culture that felt uncomfortable to my spiritual self, but tantalizing to my kinky self.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Something to do with "naughty"
The other day I turned the television on to PBS during the middle of the day (I almost never turn the TV on before 5 or 6pm) and was greeted by a kindly Irish grandpa teaching painting. He would look into the camera and talk directly to the viewer -- which, at this point, included me.
Most of the time he was explaining which watercolor to use or which paintbrush, or how to paint a sky or moss-thatched cottage. Every now and then he would degenerate into gentle scolding. "Don't just watch me but try this out for yourself...It's no use for me to just sit here painting alone like a madman."
It always made me giggle a little. Maybe because I was feeling a little guilty.
But this noon as I watched him tell the story of a "naughty" Irish queen who stole a bull, I giggled like a little girl. It had something to do with him saying "naughty."
The only Frank Clarke I'd ever heard of before this week was some old football player A. told me about. But now, I think I'm becoming a Frank Clarke -- The Simply Painting One -- fan. (Though he seriously needs some fashion help!)
Who knows...I might even buy some paints. ;)
Most of the time he was explaining which watercolor to use or which paintbrush, or how to paint a sky or moss-thatched cottage. Every now and then he would degenerate into gentle scolding. "Don't just watch me but try this out for yourself...It's no use for me to just sit here painting alone like a madman."
It always made me giggle a little. Maybe because I was feeling a little guilty.
But this noon as I watched him tell the story of a "naughty" Irish queen who stole a bull, I giggled like a little girl. It had something to do with him saying "naughty."
The only Frank Clarke I'd ever heard of before this week was some old football player A. told me about. But now, I think I'm becoming a Frank Clarke -- The Simply Painting One -- fan. (Though he seriously needs some fashion help!)
Who knows...I might even buy some paints. ;)
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
My wankin' spankin' tool
You, gentle reader, might remember the little flogger my ever so handy A. made back in January (okay, I have to laugh a little about A. being handy when I remember the two of us stuck camping with a gas stove that neither of us could figure out how to turn on for several hours...but I digress).
Now that he is away, but certain urges aren't, I've had to make do on my own and what I've discovered is that little flogger is THE MOST PERFECT SELF SPANKING IMPLEMENT EVER!
Really.
It requires little effort or awkward twisting and turning to whack myself pretty well with it. But, because I'm logistically incapable of giving the swing a lot of power, when each little cord hits my skin, it has a very similar sensation to the strap or a belt for me: it hurts the minute it hits my skin, but instantly turns into a very pleasurable sensation. So, you know, it's very handy for wankin' spankin'.
I even get that lovely swishing sound with it that normally I'd only hear with something like the cane -- an implement that is categorically impossible to use on oneself.
Yes, my beloved has earned my undying admiration for his skill with unused electrical cord and duct tape.
Now that he is away, but certain urges aren't, I've had to make do on my own and what I've discovered is that little flogger is THE MOST PERFECT SELF SPANKING IMPLEMENT EVER!
Really.
It requires little effort or awkward twisting and turning to whack myself pretty well with it. But, because I'm logistically incapable of giving the swing a lot of power, when each little cord hits my skin, it has a very similar sensation to the strap or a belt for me: it hurts the minute it hits my skin, but instantly turns into a very pleasurable sensation. So, you know, it's very handy for wankin' spankin'.
I even get that lovely swishing sound with it that normally I'd only hear with something like the cane -- an implement that is categorically impossible to use on oneself.
Yes, my beloved has earned my undying admiration for his skill with unused electrical cord and duct tape.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
More spanking highlights
Yes, the trip down memory lane continues over at the Punishment Book where I posted about one of the few disciplinary spankings (the only?) I got while A. was here.
Not sure if all this remembering when he was here is a good thing or just makes me miss him more...
Not sure if all this remembering when he was here is a good thing or just makes me miss him more...
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Story: The Office of Discipline Application [M/f]
This is the very very very first spanking story I ever wrote in March of 2002. At the time it was a recurring fantasy, and as I'd just joined the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup where everybody writes and shares stories, I thought I'd give it a go.
This has been slightly edited from it's original posting. Mostly to break up one long-ass paragraph the editor in me just couldn't handle posting as it was.
The Office of Discipline Application [M/f – school]
Natty gripped the cold silver door handle of the ODA and sighed. Rolled her eyes. Swung the door open wide and walked inside.
“Natalie…sent down again, eh?” Mrs. Franzen turned her head from her computer. Looked down her beak-like nose over her glasses. Natty bit her bottom lip.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Well, take a seat. Father Michael is on a phone call at the moment.” Mrs. Franzen turned back to her computer.
[...]
Natty sat down on one of the hard, plastic chairs with her arms folded, next to the thick wooden door of the Application Room. Checked off the familiar artifacts of Mrs. Franzen’s L-shaped desk separating her from the rest of the office. School photos of her two children. A verse-a-day calendar. A mug with a rainbow painted on it holding pens, pencils, scissors, and a letter opener. Laser printer and copy/fax machine behind her with trays holding plain and letterhead paper. Pictures colored by her kids hung on the wall, underneath a crucifix. A spider plant on top of the file cabinets…
“Natalie?” Father Michael stood at the door of his office, across from Mrs. Franzen’s desk.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, Father…” Natty stood and stumbled into the office.
“Have a seat, dear.” He pointed his pudgy hand to the chair in front of his desk as he took his seat behind it. “Well, what brings you here today?” he asked while pointing, clicking and typing to bring up her file on the computer.
“Um, Sister Rita sent me.”
“And why’s that?”
“Well, she sorta caught me reading during math class – I was reading The Bronze Bow and I’m at the part where they’re trying to rescue Joel from the Romans leading him off to the galleys and I just couldn’t stop for some stupid math lesson– but Sister Rita asked me a question, which I didn’t realize she had cause I was so into the story..."
Father Michael took off his glasses and wiped them clean with his handkerchief as Natty continued her tale in rapid speech.
"...so she came over and found me reading instead of paying attention to whatever it was she was trying to teach – something about exponents or something – anyway, then she went on at me about reading during her lesson which she spent a great deal of time to prepare and how it was rude, and then asked where my homework was and where in heaven’s name was my math book..."
The principal-priest suppressed a smile as he put his handkerchief back in his pocket while Natty took a breath and continued.
"...I told her that I’d sorta not had time to do my homework and sorta accidentally left my math book at home. She asked me why I hadn’t had time and I said cause I had been reading. She said that she appreciated that I like reading but I also had to do my math lessons and so I asked why and she said because it would better prepare me for the real world..."
Another breath in...
"Then I said that I didn’t see how exponents were going to help me in the real world because I want to be a writer and in fact, I think the school is doing a great disservice to me because they make me spend eight hours a day in classes that take my time from writing or reading other people’s writing and then they give me homework that takes even more time away and…well…that’s when she said to quit being cheeky and to come down here…” Natty took in a big breath then breathed heavily out and looked at the floor.
Father Michael smiled wryly and then drew in a breath of sternness.
“Well, Sister Rita was right on several counts. You were being very rude reading during her lesson. Teacher’s do spend a great deal of time preparing lessons to make sure you’ll understand the concepts they are trying to teach.”
“Yes, Father,” Natty nodded, still looking at the floor.
“She’s certainly right to ask about your homework – which takes just as much of her time as it does yours – and she is most definitely trying to teach you things which you will need to know later in life.”
“But how am I ever going to use exponents?” Natty’s eyes darted up and at Father Michael.
“Exponents themselves you may not use, but it’s the thinking behind them that you will – that is, if you’ve learned it. Especially if you’re going to be a writer. You have to be able to think in many different ways – use different parts of your brain to be a truly great writer. What if you have to write about a character who is a mathematician?”
“Hmm…I guess I’d never thought of that…”
“Yes, my dear, there are a good many things you never think of, which is why I get to see you so often…” Father Michael looked back at his computer screen. “It seems this is your fifth visit here this semester.” Natty gulped and looked back down at the floor. Father Michael scowled. Scratched his left temple where there used to be hair. Sighed. “Well, I’ll be getting Sister Rita’s report by the end of the day. And you can plan on attending detention tomorrow.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Off you go now, back to class.”
The next day Natty again opened the door to the ODA. She walked past the Application Room, Mrs. Franzen’s desk, and Father Michael’s office to the Detention Room. A narrow cave with gray walls and a high ceiling. A chalkboard at the front. Underneath a crucifix. Twelve small tables with wooden stools filled the room. A catechism, paper, and pen lay on each table like party favors at a festival. A warped, twisted party, thought Natty as she sat down on a stool. Several other students staggered in and took seats. The detention bell rang and Mrs. Franzen stepped in and stood in front of the chalkboard.
“Alright, detention has now begun. You will begin copying from page 357 and wait for your name to be called to see Father Michael in the Application Room.” She walked back out while each person picked up their pen, opened the catechism and began copying.
The first time Natty had detention she only pretended to copy from the catechism while she wrote a story from her own imagination. But at the end of detention discovered she had to hand in what she was supposed to have copied and was thus assigned another day in detention. And another trip to the Application Room.
“Natalie Taylor,” Mrs. Franzen called out as a black-haired boy with swollen eyes rubbed his khaki-clad bottom while walking into the Detention Room. Natty put down her pen, stood and straggled along to the Application Room.
“Natalie.” Father Michael nodded to her as he sat at a table writing something on a file folder with his black shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
The yellow walls were muted underneath the flickering of the florescent lights. On the wall to the left of Natty hung two paddles, one with and one without holes, and several thick wooden rulers. Beneath that was a cherrywood bookcase with two crook-handled canes on the top shelf and two leather tawses on the bottom. Father Michael put down his pen and closed the file folder. “Well, now, Miss Natalie, I read Sister Rita’s report and it seems to run along the same lines as what you described yesterday. Though, she also added that you are missing seven assignments over this semester so far.”
“Yeah? I, uh, didn’t realize it had been so many…” Natty looked down at her Mary Janes.
“Well, I think it’s high time you realize these things, as well as pay attention in class and treat your teachers with more respect.”
“Yes, Father.” Her stomach felt heavy.
“So, for your punishment today it’ll be 10 with the ruler for arguing with Sister Rita, 10 with the paddle for reading during math class, and 7 with the tawse for each assignment you’re missing.”
“Yes, Father.” Natty gulped and scowled at the floor.
“Well then, unbutton your skirt, bare your bottom and then over the Bench with you.” Father Michael stood and walked around the Application Bench towards the other side of the room where all his tools were.
The Application Bench was a wooden box-like structure that stood in the middle of the room on a platform. The side of the box facing Natty was vertical with padded navy blue upholstering that ran from the cover of the small step at its foot, up over the top and down the other side, which was slanted. Natty stepped up onto the platform. Undid the buttons on the right side of the wrap-around skirt of her red plaid jumper. Pulled down her tights and panties until they were down around her ankles. Knelt down on the step in front of the bench and laid her torso down the slanted side with her braided pigtails pointing to the floor. Shivered and waited for Father Michael, who pulled her white shirt up and tucked it into the waistline of her skirt. Then velcroed straps connected to the Bench around her wrists, waist, and calves.
“Now, ten with the ruler for arguing. And might I suggest you reconsider quarreling with your teachers in the future.”
Natty winced and whimpered through ten sharp swipes of the ruler along her bottom and upper thighs. Perhaps discussing the usefulness of exponents with Sister Rita had not been one of her better moves…
“Now ten with the paddle for reading during math class…”
Each of the ten thuds and stings of the paddle made Natty whimper and moan and reassess whether reading about Joel’s rescue could have indeed been put off for a few hours…
“Now, seven with the tawse for those missing assignments.”
It took until the second stroke for Natty to appreciate the bite of the tawse. Especially on skin that was already raw. She tried to wiggle. To shift her weight in some way to offset the strikes. The Velcro straps held her firm.
“Four…”
Natty released the sobs she had been suppressing. She never cried when she was spanked. At least not most of the time. But three spankings in a row was hard…
“Five…” That one hit the inside of her left thigh. And it really hurt…
She tensed up to brace for the last two but there was no more strength left to hold herself rigid. Limp, she whimpered and sobbed through the final burning blow.
Father Michael return his tools to their appointed homes. He came over to the Bench and pulled the Velcro straps apart. Brushed his hand on the middle of Natty’s back.
“There, there, child. Take the time you need to gather yourself together.” Then sat down on the table to the right of the Bench and wrote in a file folder.
After a few minutes of deep breaths, Natty dragged herself upright, pulled up her tights and panties over her seared bottom, and buttoned up her skirt. She stood in front of Father Michael, hands behind her back, staring at her Mary Janes.
“Well, now, off you go back to detention.” He said.
“Yes, Father.” Natty turned and opened the door.
“And Natalie…don’t pay me another visit anytime soon, alright?” He winked.
“Yes, Father.” Natty smiled and returned to the Detention Room, where she aimed her bottom for the stool, placed it down gently and determined she would not be visiting the Office of Discipline Application for a very long time.
Copyright 2002 Natty
This has been slightly edited from it's original posting. Mostly to break up one long-ass paragraph the editor in me just couldn't handle posting as it was.
The Office of Discipline Application [M/f – school]
Natty gripped the cold silver door handle of the ODA and sighed. Rolled her eyes. Swung the door open wide and walked inside.
“Natalie…sent down again, eh?” Mrs. Franzen turned her head from her computer. Looked down her beak-like nose over her glasses. Natty bit her bottom lip.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Well, take a seat. Father Michael is on a phone call at the moment.” Mrs. Franzen turned back to her computer.
[...]
Natty sat down on one of the hard, plastic chairs with her arms folded, next to the thick wooden door of the Application Room. Checked off the familiar artifacts of Mrs. Franzen’s L-shaped desk separating her from the rest of the office. School photos of her two children. A verse-a-day calendar. A mug with a rainbow painted on it holding pens, pencils, scissors, and a letter opener. Laser printer and copy/fax machine behind her with trays holding plain and letterhead paper. Pictures colored by her kids hung on the wall, underneath a crucifix. A spider plant on top of the file cabinets…
“Natalie?” Father Michael stood at the door of his office, across from Mrs. Franzen’s desk.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, Father…” Natty stood and stumbled into the office.
“Have a seat, dear.” He pointed his pudgy hand to the chair in front of his desk as he took his seat behind it. “Well, what brings you here today?” he asked while pointing, clicking and typing to bring up her file on the computer.
“Um, Sister Rita sent me.”
“And why’s that?”
“Well, she sorta caught me reading during math class – I was reading The Bronze Bow and I’m at the part where they’re trying to rescue Joel from the Romans leading him off to the galleys and I just couldn’t stop for some stupid math lesson– but Sister Rita asked me a question, which I didn’t realize she had cause I was so into the story..."
Father Michael took off his glasses and wiped them clean with his handkerchief as Natty continued her tale in rapid speech.
"...so she came over and found me reading instead of paying attention to whatever it was she was trying to teach – something about exponents or something – anyway, then she went on at me about reading during her lesson which she spent a great deal of time to prepare and how it was rude, and then asked where my homework was and where in heaven’s name was my math book..."
The principal-priest suppressed a smile as he put his handkerchief back in his pocket while Natty took a breath and continued.
"...I told her that I’d sorta not had time to do my homework and sorta accidentally left my math book at home. She asked me why I hadn’t had time and I said cause I had been reading. She said that she appreciated that I like reading but I also had to do my math lessons and so I asked why and she said because it would better prepare me for the real world..."
Another breath in...
"Then I said that I didn’t see how exponents were going to help me in the real world because I want to be a writer and in fact, I think the school is doing a great disservice to me because they make me spend eight hours a day in classes that take my time from writing or reading other people’s writing and then they give me homework that takes even more time away and…well…that’s when she said to quit being cheeky and to come down here…” Natty took in a big breath then breathed heavily out and looked at the floor.
Father Michael smiled wryly and then drew in a breath of sternness.
“Well, Sister Rita was right on several counts. You were being very rude reading during her lesson. Teacher’s do spend a great deal of time preparing lessons to make sure you’ll understand the concepts they are trying to teach.”
“Yes, Father,” Natty nodded, still looking at the floor.
“She’s certainly right to ask about your homework – which takes just as much of her time as it does yours – and she is most definitely trying to teach you things which you will need to know later in life.”
“But how am I ever going to use exponents?” Natty’s eyes darted up and at Father Michael.
“Exponents themselves you may not use, but it’s the thinking behind them that you will – that is, if you’ve learned it. Especially if you’re going to be a writer. You have to be able to think in many different ways – use different parts of your brain to be a truly great writer. What if you have to write about a character who is a mathematician?”
“Hmm…I guess I’d never thought of that…”
“Yes, my dear, there are a good many things you never think of, which is why I get to see you so often…” Father Michael looked back at his computer screen. “It seems this is your fifth visit here this semester.” Natty gulped and looked back down at the floor. Father Michael scowled. Scratched his left temple where there used to be hair. Sighed. “Well, I’ll be getting Sister Rita’s report by the end of the day. And you can plan on attending detention tomorrow.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Off you go now, back to class.”
The next day Natty again opened the door to the ODA. She walked past the Application Room, Mrs. Franzen’s desk, and Father Michael’s office to the Detention Room. A narrow cave with gray walls and a high ceiling. A chalkboard at the front. Underneath a crucifix. Twelve small tables with wooden stools filled the room. A catechism, paper, and pen lay on each table like party favors at a festival. A warped, twisted party, thought Natty as she sat down on a stool. Several other students staggered in and took seats. The detention bell rang and Mrs. Franzen stepped in and stood in front of the chalkboard.
“Alright, detention has now begun. You will begin copying from page 357 and wait for your name to be called to see Father Michael in the Application Room.” She walked back out while each person picked up their pen, opened the catechism and began copying.
The first time Natty had detention she only pretended to copy from the catechism while she wrote a story from her own imagination. But at the end of detention discovered she had to hand in what she was supposed to have copied and was thus assigned another day in detention. And another trip to the Application Room.
“Natalie Taylor,” Mrs. Franzen called out as a black-haired boy with swollen eyes rubbed his khaki-clad bottom while walking into the Detention Room. Natty put down her pen, stood and straggled along to the Application Room.
“Natalie.” Father Michael nodded to her as he sat at a table writing something on a file folder with his black shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
The yellow walls were muted underneath the flickering of the florescent lights. On the wall to the left of Natty hung two paddles, one with and one without holes, and several thick wooden rulers. Beneath that was a cherrywood bookcase with two crook-handled canes on the top shelf and two leather tawses on the bottom. Father Michael put down his pen and closed the file folder. “Well, now, Miss Natalie, I read Sister Rita’s report and it seems to run along the same lines as what you described yesterday. Though, she also added that you are missing seven assignments over this semester so far.”
“Yeah? I, uh, didn’t realize it had been so many…” Natty looked down at her Mary Janes.
“Well, I think it’s high time you realize these things, as well as pay attention in class and treat your teachers with more respect.”
“Yes, Father.” Her stomach felt heavy.
“So, for your punishment today it’ll be 10 with the ruler for arguing with Sister Rita, 10 with the paddle for reading during math class, and 7 with the tawse for each assignment you’re missing.”
“Yes, Father.” Natty gulped and scowled at the floor.
“Well then, unbutton your skirt, bare your bottom and then over the Bench with you.” Father Michael stood and walked around the Application Bench towards the other side of the room where all his tools were.
The Application Bench was a wooden box-like structure that stood in the middle of the room on a platform. The side of the box facing Natty was vertical with padded navy blue upholstering that ran from the cover of the small step at its foot, up over the top and down the other side, which was slanted. Natty stepped up onto the platform. Undid the buttons on the right side of the wrap-around skirt of her red plaid jumper. Pulled down her tights and panties until they were down around her ankles. Knelt down on the step in front of the bench and laid her torso down the slanted side with her braided pigtails pointing to the floor. Shivered and waited for Father Michael, who pulled her white shirt up and tucked it into the waistline of her skirt. Then velcroed straps connected to the Bench around her wrists, waist, and calves.
“Now, ten with the ruler for arguing. And might I suggest you reconsider quarreling with your teachers in the future.”
Natty winced and whimpered through ten sharp swipes of the ruler along her bottom and upper thighs. Perhaps discussing the usefulness of exponents with Sister Rita had not been one of her better moves…
“Now ten with the paddle for reading during math class…”
Each of the ten thuds and stings of the paddle made Natty whimper and moan and reassess whether reading about Joel’s rescue could have indeed been put off for a few hours…
“Now, seven with the tawse for those missing assignments.”
It took until the second stroke for Natty to appreciate the bite of the tawse. Especially on skin that was already raw. She tried to wiggle. To shift her weight in some way to offset the strikes. The Velcro straps held her firm.
“Four…”
Natty released the sobs she had been suppressing. She never cried when she was spanked. At least not most of the time. But three spankings in a row was hard…
“Five…” That one hit the inside of her left thigh. And it really hurt…
She tensed up to brace for the last two but there was no more strength left to hold herself rigid. Limp, she whimpered and sobbed through the final burning blow.
Father Michael return his tools to their appointed homes. He came over to the Bench and pulled the Velcro straps apart. Brushed his hand on the middle of Natty’s back.
“There, there, child. Take the time you need to gather yourself together.” Then sat down on the table to the right of the Bench and wrote in a file folder.
After a few minutes of deep breaths, Natty dragged herself upright, pulled up her tights and panties over her seared bottom, and buttoned up her skirt. She stood in front of Father Michael, hands behind her back, staring at her Mary Janes.
“Well, now, off you go back to detention.” He said.
“Yes, Father.” Natty turned and opened the door.
“And Natalie…don’t pay me another visit anytime soon, alright?” He winked.
“Yes, Father.” Natty smiled and returned to the Detention Room, where she aimed her bottom for the stool, placed it down gently and determined she would not be visiting the Office of Discipline Application for a very long time.
Copyright 2002 Natty
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Netflix for spankos?
I have decided with all of my Netflix patronage over the last two months that we need a Netflix for spanking porn. I don't generally want to actually buy spanking movies, just view them once. And downloading them onto my laptop is not ideal either because my laptop sucks and overheats too easily. Plus, it's way too expensive.
I suppose the problem with starting such a venture would be decency laws and all that. But, if somebody could figure out a way around that, I'd so be signing up. Think of it as a service to a poor sick shut-in... ::grin::
I suppose the problem with starting such a venture would be decency laws and all that. But, if somebody could figure out a way around that, I'd so be signing up. Think of it as a service to a poor sick shut-in... ::grin::
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