I have a new hypothesis about what has been causing my pathetic spanking pain thresholds of late: Coumadin.
As those of you who read this blog regularly may know, I take this anticoagulant (or "blood thinner") after inexplicably developing blood clots in my lungs two years ago. However last Sunday night I had to stop taking it for a few days in preparation for a colonoscopy to see why I keep getting the "stomach flu." The colonoscopy didn't really solve that puzzle, but the lack of Coumadin means I clot a bit faster than I have been and bruise less. Even though I resumed Coumadin on Tuesday after the colonoscopy, my INR (a measure of how quickly or slowly my blood is clotting) is still quite low. When my nurse checked it today, it was 1.2 whereas it's supposed to be -- and normally is -- between 2 and 3.
Prior to leaving for my appointment this afternoon, A. decided to take me over his knee. After a few smacks, he asked how I did on my schedule of goals for last week. Alas, I had missed a few bedtimes and forgotten about some reading I had planned to do. And we all know the remedy for missed bedtimes and forgotten tasks is a good spanking. So he started in on my poor bottom with his hand. I tensed up expecting the scalding pain of the last few spankings. Except it didn't really scald. Hurt? Sure. But I wasn't squirming and whimpering like I have been.
My lack of noise and movement prompted A. to fish out the ping pong paddle in the box beneath the bed. Then, my dear friends, there was scalding. Especially when he kept hitting my right thigh with the damn thing. When he finally finished, I made the mistake of noting this with what was probably just a tad bit of annoyance.
"You don't look very contrite," A. said to me as he brushed back my hair.
"Oh I'm contrite," I offered up enthusiastically. "Very contrite. I'm penitent. Repentant." Though it was true that I wasn't very broken. While there had indeed been scalding, it wasn't necessarily unbearable scalding.
"No, you have a defiant look in your eye."
"Nooo, not defiant. I'm penitent," I pleaded. But to no avail. A. reached back down into the toy box and took out the black rubber paddle.
If I wasn't feeling contrite before, I was certainly feeling so when I saw that black rubber evil. I tensed up once more expecting intolerable pain.
Yet again it hurt. I whimpered more. And squirmed more. But it was like I finally had endorphines where before I had none. However after a few minutes A. decided to stop because I was really starting to mark, even though I still had a tiny hankering for the cane.
I should note, though, now that the endorphines are gone, I'm blogging on a very sore bottom.
It makes me wonder if having a lower INR so that I bruise less easily makes spanking a lot more bearable. Then again, my INR has been at its normal therapeutic level when my inner pain slut has made appearances in the past, so maybe it's just a fluke.
Oh and speaking of bruising and colonoscopies, I was very worried earlier this week when my ass was deeply bruised while I had an impending medical procedure in which my ass was going to be most prominent. However after a lot of arnica gel, ice, and then heat 48 hours after my spanking on Friday, I managed to make most of the bruising disappear by Tuesday morning. Just thought I'd share that with you, dear friends, in case you ever find yourself in a similar position.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Nothing more British
The current Max Mosley case in Britain has brought with it a lot of attention to the BDSM community, including this interesting piece in the BBC Magazine. I thought it did a decent job of explaining BDSM to those not familiar with how it works, or are only familiar with lurid cases when it doesn't (or funny cases, as it may be -- hat tip to Tom). I think my only real criticism of the piece is that I have no idea how they managed to leave out of a discussion regarding how much spanking is part of British culture without mentioning that the French actually called it "le vice Anglais" -- the English vice.
For whatever other derelictions the piece had, the comments more than made up for. My favorite is from a James Rigby of Wickford, Essex who states, "There's nothing more British than a right royal spanking followed by a nice cup of tea. It helped build the Empire."
Quite.
*******************
Update: Pandora has a thoughtful post about the Mosley case, as well as the disturbing legislation targeting kinky sex in the UK. Nikki also talks about the case and how Northern Spanking got -- wrongly -- implicated with disastrous results for the owners of NS. You can help them out by becoming a member of Northern Spanking, giving you a warm fuzzy feeling both in your heart and down south.
For whatever other derelictions the piece had, the comments more than made up for. My favorite is from a James Rigby of Wickford, Essex who states, "There's nothing more British than a right royal spanking followed by a nice cup of tea. It helped build the Empire."
Quite.
*******************
Update: Pandora has a thoughtful post about the Mosley case, as well as the disturbing legislation targeting kinky sex in the UK. Nikki also talks about the case and how Northern Spanking got -- wrongly -- implicated with disastrous results for the owners of NS. You can help them out by becoming a member of Northern Spanking, giving you a warm fuzzy feeling both in your heart and down south.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Spanking and the spiritual imagination
Last week (when I started this post) I had a couple of comments from individuals of a spiritual nature. It's made me think about how much I've talked about my own faith over the years here. Indeed, when I did a search for the word "church" on this blog, I was surprised at how many posts came up. And how many of them were some of the most personal posts I've written.
My spiritual life began early. I grew up Conservative Baptist. Accepted Jesus into my heart when I was four years old. Later I participated in AWANA, where I wowed adults and kids alike with my Bible memorization prowess (I still own my gray uniform with all the patches and trinkets on it that, if it only still fit, would make a perfect outfit in which to be spanked). In junior high I was crowned Miss CBA -- a title I won based on my biblical knowledge and public speaking skills rather than my looks -- and my duties in that role included going to girls' retreats where I shared what Jesus had done for me. At 14 years old I certainly didn't have a testimony about a life steeped in sin and debauchery, but I was quite honest when I talked about how the Jesus in my heart and my mind was with me through my mother's divorce, dating, and remarriage, as well as life with my new, abusive stepfather.
Spanking, of course, was also in my heart and head. Being among Baptists meant my imagination was frequently fed with tales about daddys' belts and paddles with Bible verses on them from friends, youth leaders, and pastors. And even though I was about as good a girl as it gets (to the point that every now and then -- to my great chagrin -- parents would ask my friends why they couldn't "act more like Michelle"), I spent a lot of time wishing for and imagining some sort of strict but loving father figure, such as the angel in this story. Though that fantasy was not yet in its Byzantine incarnation.
The Byzantine part came in graduate school. While I remained a devout Christian all through college (I even went to an Evangelical university -- at least for my freshman year until I couldn't afford it any longer and had to transfer to a state school), I became an increasingly uncomfortable Evangelical. A great deal of that had to do with the fact that I was studying the history of Evangelicalism as part of my research, which is sorta like seeing how sausage is made. I think I was also bored with the liturgical aspects of Evangelicalism -- or rather, the lack thereof. I've always craved ritual. As a teenager during Holy Week I would try diligently each day to follow the events of the week in the Gospels. And in college I put together a mixed tape of contemporary Christian music that had to do with Easter. But it felt so woefully inadequate.
When I finally started attending an Orthodox church, the priest's wife -- who was herself a former Evangelical -- welcomed me to "Easter on steroids." I loved it. As well as the Divine Liturgy -- the equivalent of Mass. It felt so other-worldly. So vertical. So connected with my spiritual imagination and my hunger for ritual. There was an aesthetic about it that my very cells relished. Though I became an Orthodox catechumen, at the end of the day I ended up Catholic for theological reasons that seemed very important to me at the time but seem less important now. And thankfully there was an Orthodox liturgical equivalent in the Catholic Church -- the Byzantine or Greek rite.
Around the same time as my chrismation (or confirmation) I began to explore my spanking kink, and I feel certain that connecting with ritual and my imagination on a spiritual level prompted me to connect to ritual and my imagination on a sexual level. Indeed one of the things I loved about my new faith was how sensual it was. How the Byzantine church seeks to utilize each one of the five senses in worship.
I certainly don't believe sex and spirituality are contradictory -- at least not now. At the time, however, they seemed as diametrical as they come, and I had no idea how to reconcile them. And so, like all good Catholics -- and, I would argue, good Baptists -- I simply dog-paddled about in guilt. I mean, what kind of good Christian girl posts to a newsgroup called soc.sexuality.spanking? Or talks to strange men on the Internet in spanking chatrooms?
Yet the Bible never says you shouldn't spank or be spanked. Indeed one could argue there are a fair number of verses to suggest it almost encourages it. But I couldn't deny a link between my spanking kink and sex. And sex -- and everything that goes with it -- was certainly bad. Or at least felt like it was. After a night of heavy petting and spanking play with a guy I was going out with, I quickly sought out my priest for confession. He counseled me that the only thing the Bible prohibited was sexual intercourse outside of marriage and for everything else, I was going to have to decide where I wanted to set the boundaries.
Clearly spanking was going to be well within the boundaries upon which I decided. But eventually as I became an increasingly uncomfortable Catholic and no longer took the Bible (or the Magisterium) as literally as I had before, fornication also moved to well within my boundaries. As has embracing the sexualities of others including not just homosexuality or BDSM, but polyamory and sex work. I don't doubt that my inability to attend Divine Liturgy on a regular basis (it's been two years since I was last able to go, though I hope my improving health will change that) hastened my changing faith. Or rather, made its evolution feel a bit less dissonant and guilt-ridden.
But as I said above, kink and faith are not necessarily dissonant. I think my favorite example of this is the story Raven shared in this comment about coming out to her spiritual director. "...[H]e reassured me that he didn't find it to be problematic or strange and thought it was a wonderful gift that God had given to me." Isn't it just? I responded to her comment at the time by mentioning something my priest had once said about how, because we are made in the image of God, when we hide who we really are to the world, we hide some aspect of God. I can't say that I understand the Divine well enough to know exactly what aspect of being kinky is part of being made in the image of God. But I know it is, and that knowledge that God not only accepts me but wants me to be the person made in the image of God that I am -- kinky and all -- is a powerful and liberating thing.
I think it's when I'm getting a particularly hard or specifically disciplinary spanking that I feel spanking intersect with the spiritual the most. It's like communion in a way. Instead of the Eucharist binding us together, it's a hairbrush or ping pong paddle. There is sacrifice, suffering, and redemption. Something transcendent that binds the two of us together into one whole, if only for a few minutes.
And in those few minutes, I'm so grateful to be a spanko. So savor the spiritual. Am so at peace with myself.
*******************
Note: I found an old freewrite this afternoon when I was working on the last paragraphs of this post that I published over at the Punishment Book.
My spiritual life began early. I grew up Conservative Baptist. Accepted Jesus into my heart when I was four years old. Later I participated in AWANA, where I wowed adults and kids alike with my Bible memorization prowess (I still own my gray uniform with all the patches and trinkets on it that, if it only still fit, would make a perfect outfit in which to be spanked). In junior high I was crowned Miss CBA -- a title I won based on my biblical knowledge and public speaking skills rather than my looks -- and my duties in that role included going to girls' retreats where I shared what Jesus had done for me. At 14 years old I certainly didn't have a testimony about a life steeped in sin and debauchery, but I was quite honest when I talked about how the Jesus in my heart and my mind was with me through my mother's divorce, dating, and remarriage, as well as life with my new, abusive stepfather.
Spanking, of course, was also in my heart and head. Being among Baptists meant my imagination was frequently fed with tales about daddys' belts and paddles with Bible verses on them from friends, youth leaders, and pastors. And even though I was about as good a girl as it gets (to the point that every now and then -- to my great chagrin -- parents would ask my friends why they couldn't "act more like Michelle"), I spent a lot of time wishing for and imagining some sort of strict but loving father figure, such as the angel in this story. Though that fantasy was not yet in its Byzantine incarnation.
The Byzantine part came in graduate school. While I remained a devout Christian all through college (I even went to an Evangelical university -- at least for my freshman year until I couldn't afford it any longer and had to transfer to a state school), I became an increasingly uncomfortable Evangelical. A great deal of that had to do with the fact that I was studying the history of Evangelicalism as part of my research, which is sorta like seeing how sausage is made. I think I was also bored with the liturgical aspects of Evangelicalism -- or rather, the lack thereof. I've always craved ritual. As a teenager during Holy Week I would try diligently each day to follow the events of the week in the Gospels. And in college I put together a mixed tape of contemporary Christian music that had to do with Easter. But it felt so woefully inadequate.
When I finally started attending an Orthodox church, the priest's wife -- who was herself a former Evangelical -- welcomed me to "Easter on steroids." I loved it. As well as the Divine Liturgy -- the equivalent of Mass. It felt so other-worldly. So vertical. So connected with my spiritual imagination and my hunger for ritual. There was an aesthetic about it that my very cells relished. Though I became an Orthodox catechumen, at the end of the day I ended up Catholic for theological reasons that seemed very important to me at the time but seem less important now. And thankfully there was an Orthodox liturgical equivalent in the Catholic Church -- the Byzantine or Greek rite.
Around the same time as my chrismation (or confirmation) I began to explore my spanking kink, and I feel certain that connecting with ritual and my imagination on a spiritual level prompted me to connect to ritual and my imagination on a sexual level. Indeed one of the things I loved about my new faith was how sensual it was. How the Byzantine church seeks to utilize each one of the five senses in worship.
I certainly don't believe sex and spirituality are contradictory -- at least not now. At the time, however, they seemed as diametrical as they come, and I had no idea how to reconcile them. And so, like all good Catholics -- and, I would argue, good Baptists -- I simply dog-paddled about in guilt. I mean, what kind of good Christian girl posts to a newsgroup called soc.sexuality.spanking? Or talks to strange men on the Internet in spanking chatrooms?
Yet the Bible never says you shouldn't spank or be spanked. Indeed one could argue there are a fair number of verses to suggest it almost encourages it. But I couldn't deny a link between my spanking kink and sex. And sex -- and everything that goes with it -- was certainly bad. Or at least felt like it was. After a night of heavy petting and spanking play with a guy I was going out with, I quickly sought out my priest for confession. He counseled me that the only thing the Bible prohibited was sexual intercourse outside of marriage and for everything else, I was going to have to decide where I wanted to set the boundaries.
Clearly spanking was going to be well within the boundaries upon which I decided. But eventually as I became an increasingly uncomfortable Catholic and no longer took the Bible (or the Magisterium) as literally as I had before, fornication also moved to well within my boundaries. As has embracing the sexualities of others including not just homosexuality or BDSM, but polyamory and sex work. I don't doubt that my inability to attend Divine Liturgy on a regular basis (it's been two years since I was last able to go, though I hope my improving health will change that) hastened my changing faith. Or rather, made its evolution feel a bit less dissonant and guilt-ridden.
But as I said above, kink and faith are not necessarily dissonant. I think my favorite example of this is the story Raven shared in this comment about coming out to her spiritual director. "...[H]e reassured me that he didn't find it to be problematic or strange and thought it was a wonderful gift that God had given to me." Isn't it just? I responded to her comment at the time by mentioning something my priest had once said about how, because we are made in the image of God, when we hide who we really are to the world, we hide some aspect of God. I can't say that I understand the Divine well enough to know exactly what aspect of being kinky is part of being made in the image of God. But I know it is, and that knowledge that God not only accepts me but wants me to be the person made in the image of God that I am -- kinky and all -- is a powerful and liberating thing.
I think it's when I'm getting a particularly hard or specifically disciplinary spanking that I feel spanking intersect with the spiritual the most. It's like communion in a way. Instead of the Eucharist binding us together, it's a hairbrush or ping pong paddle. There is sacrifice, suffering, and redemption. Something transcendent that binds the two of us together into one whole, if only for a few minutes.
And in those few minutes, I'm so grateful to be a spanko. So savor the spiritual. Am so at peace with myself.
*******************
Note: I found an old freewrite this afternoon when I was working on the last paragraphs of this post that I published over at the Punishment Book.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
New updates on the blog and me
I've been doing a lot of fiddling with my blog the last couple of days. If you tried to access this blog yesterday with Internet Explorer, you may well have encountered a page that was mostly unreadable.
However, I've finally switched over to Blogger's new (or new to me) easy-to-use layout function when I became completely exasperated this afternoon pretending I actually know how to use HTML and fucked up the entire blog when I accidentally hit "tab" and "space." After spending a few hours recreating what I had with the layout function, as well as adding the bits I was trying to add earlier, I'm content for the time being. Even if the new layout function has some annoying quirks in it that limit my creativity. Well, hell, let's be honest. It's not my creativity but my anal-retentiveness it's impinging upon. But it will have to do for now. And it will make reading this blog easier on IE.
The added bits include the very first advertisement ever on NSB. Yes, I know. I'm a total whore. Vibe Review, a sex toy store that includes educational articles and toy reviews, approached me about becoming an editorial reviewer for their site. The deal means I get to play with sex toys for free, not to mention get a relatively generous commission on toys purchased by readers of this blog who follow the link from this blog to their site. What can I say? I've sold my blogging soul for free toys. But the ad was tasteful with nothing flashing (which I can't say for a few other spanking-related places I'd like to be an affiliate for), a lot of the toys are phthalate-free, and they have a very woman-friendly feel. Now I have told them quite frankly that their BDSM section sucks, and they are apparently working on that. But a good vibrator still comes in handy when you've spent a long night reading all those spanking blogs out there, right?
There will be another addition to the blog coming in the next week or so (hopefully by the time A. leaves). My dearest (who is quite the artist) has drawn a kick-ass picture that will serve as a logo for me and the blog. It's only in the doodle phase at the moment but I'm really looking forward to sharing it with you all.
And there should be a return to more frequent blogging (if I'm not jinxing it by saying so -- I do have a colonoscopy scheduled for Tuesday, eep!). The last few weeks I've been feeling better than I have in well over a year, so much so that I've been out of the apartment enjoying the summer in my limited way. But I'm slowly developing a routine with my new found energy, and hopefully that should mean more posts, including one tomorrow or Monday about spanking and my spiritual life that I've been working on for the last week or so, as well as some forthcoming posts for the Punishment Book.
So that's it folks. Welcome to the newly updated Natty's Spanking Blog.
However, I've finally switched over to Blogger's new (or new to me) easy-to-use layout function when I became completely exasperated this afternoon pretending I actually know how to use HTML and fucked up the entire blog when I accidentally hit "tab" and "space." After spending a few hours recreating what I had with the layout function, as well as adding the bits I was trying to add earlier, I'm content for the time being. Even if the new layout function has some annoying quirks in it that limit my creativity. Well, hell, let's be honest. It's not my creativity but my anal-retentiveness it's impinging upon. But it will have to do for now. And it will make reading this blog easier on IE.
The added bits include the very first advertisement ever on NSB. Yes, I know. I'm a total whore. Vibe Review, a sex toy store that includes educational articles and toy reviews, approached me about becoming an editorial reviewer for their site. The deal means I get to play with sex toys for free, not to mention get a relatively generous commission on toys purchased by readers of this blog who follow the link from this blog to their site. What can I say? I've sold my blogging soul for free toys. But the ad was tasteful with nothing flashing (which I can't say for a few other spanking-related places I'd like to be an affiliate for), a lot of the toys are phthalate-free, and they have a very woman-friendly feel. Now I have told them quite frankly that their BDSM section sucks, and they are apparently working on that. But a good vibrator still comes in handy when you've spent a long night reading all those spanking blogs out there, right?
There will be another addition to the blog coming in the next week or so (hopefully by the time A. leaves). My dearest (who is quite the artist) has drawn a kick-ass picture that will serve as a logo for me and the blog. It's only in the doodle phase at the moment but I'm really looking forward to sharing it with you all.
And there should be a return to more frequent blogging (if I'm not jinxing it by saying so -- I do have a colonoscopy scheduled for Tuesday, eep!). The last few weeks I've been feeling better than I have in well over a year, so much so that I've been out of the apartment enjoying the summer in my limited way. But I'm slowly developing a routine with my new found energy, and hopefully that should mean more posts, including one tomorrow or Monday about spanking and my spiritual life that I've been working on for the last week or so, as well as some forthcoming posts for the Punishment Book.
So that's it folks. Welcome to the newly updated Natty's Spanking Blog.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
An all natural spanking
Lately my pain threshold has been very low, perhaps due to daily morphine causing a bit of opioid-induced hyperalgesia. What it means in spanking terms is that even the lowliest hand spanking hurts.
After my spanking last night for staying up past my bedtime a few nights in a row (PB post forthcoming) -- a spanking which only involved A.'s hand -- A. grinned and called it an "all natural spanking" containing no implements or knickers. Just hand on bare ass, like nature intended. Or something like that.
And while there weren't any implements, it still felt like he scalded my poor cheeks. I was laying over his lap, yelping and kicking, knowing that he wasn't really spanking me all that hard. And I must say, it's rather disappointing on a couple of levels. Disappointing because I feel like I should be less of a wuss and take a lot more. Disappointing because the sting wears off about the time my endorphines kick in, meaning by that point I actually sorta wish I was getting more.
A., however, doesn't mind at all. "It's just less work for me."
After my spanking last night for staying up past my bedtime a few nights in a row (PB post forthcoming) -- a spanking which only involved A.'s hand -- A. grinned and called it an "all natural spanking" containing no implements or knickers. Just hand on bare ass, like nature intended. Or something like that.
And while there weren't any implements, it still felt like he scalded my poor cheeks. I was laying over his lap, yelping and kicking, knowing that he wasn't really spanking me all that hard. And I must say, it's rather disappointing on a couple of levels. Disappointing because I feel like I should be less of a wuss and take a lot more. Disappointing because the sting wears off about the time my endorphines kick in, meaning by that point I actually sorta wish I was getting more.
A., however, doesn't mind at all. "It's just less work for me."
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
The Sunday Switch
If anybody gets spanked around here on Sundays, it's supposed to be me.
But since A.'s arrival at the end of April, most Sundays have found me a bit too weak for a weekly schedule and spanking. Or, as was the case last Sunday, A. has had to work.
However, this Sunday my expectations regarding what I've often imagined becoming a comforting and familiar ritual were tempered both by my still-sore backside (exacerbated by the clothesbrush the day after that) as well as by the fact that, well, I wasn't feeling particularly submissive.
I can't remember now what exactly started it, but our conversation Sunday night shifted to A. feeling subby and me feeling, at the very least, not subby. Soon we began to discuss the possibility of him being my slave for the night. Both of us played with his swelling member as we considered what he might do for me and what might I do to him during his service and eventually agreed upon an enslavement of two hours.
The last few months I have been having the fantasy off and on of him naked and strapped to our wooden-planked futon frame while his pale, quivering cheeks glowed an ever deepening shade of red under my hand.
His birthday spanking in May was my first taste of this reverie in reality. And while I did give him a hearty introduction to our noble American tradition -- with the marks to prove it -- it was sans the restraints. I was still doing poorly at the time and not fully able to revel in my sadism. And forty-two strokes just didn't seem to satiate me.
His birthday, though, added another dimension to my dominant fantasies. Per his request, my present to him was a cock ring/leash. And I tell you dear reader, once he put it on, got down on his knees, and I took hold of the leash, I was positively wet.
The first twenty minutes of A.'s enslavement, however, were spent looking for the restraints. Three of the four were found, and I decided to make do with the cord that ties the curtains together as a substitute for the missing wrist restraint. Yet as A. bent over the futon frame, I realized I'd misjudged how tall he is and/or how diminutive the futon frame. My homemade restraints proved worthless as his arms and legs lay well past the bottom of the frame (unlike me, at eleven inches shorter, whose legs dangle).
No matter. I had the riding crop, right?
I surely did. After reddening his cheeks with the ping pong paddle (in which I gave him a whole new appreciation for an implement he once dismissed because it has a silly name), I laid into him with that riding crop. Watched with delight as brick red welts began to pepper his lower cheeks and thighs. Smiled with what was probably far too much pleasure as he cried out and wriggled about. And warned him that this was just the warm-up.
The first time I tried to top A. many years back, it was a complete disaster that ended with me in tears. After that my clever darling appealed to my competitiveness by setting up contests in which I had a set amount of time to get him to give in or I lost and would get thrashed. Needless to say, I generally ended up much more sore than he. Topping was hard work. It was acting. Playing a role that took a lot of research and with which at the end of the day I found little in common. Had illness not reduced me to a state of a semi-dependent child/prisoner craving control over something, I think my journey to domme-hood would have been much longer.
After a massage and a bath under the glow of candlelight, I ordered A. back over the futon for the main thrashing. A few months ago he and I talked about pushing my topping limits a bit more. While I've moved past the incessant mental apologies with each stroke, I still have a tendency to stop too soon. To see the marks beginning to accumulate and worry I'm going to break him, which is in fact what I should be doing. This time, with the soothing security of a safeword, I was going to let go of my hyper-empathy and push both of us further than we had gone before. And unlike any of the other beatings I've administered, he was going to feel this one the next day.
Several dozen strokes of the cane introduced several dozen crimson weals and welts to mingle with the earlier ones from the riding crop. Being an Anglo-American couple, I thought it appropriate to match such a British implement with a quintessential American one: a 16 inch oak paddle. I've only been on the business end of it a few times, but that is enough to know how truly sincere his howls of pain were. Especially as I kept having to tell him to move his legs apart and lay against the futon. Most understandable as many of those strokes were full force. I finished with our electric cord loopy whip, mostly because I love the violet loopy marks it makes on his pasty skin. Many of those strokes were also as near to full force as I could make them -- though not without some harm to myself. Whenever I pulled it back before slamming it down on A., the tips of the loops would snap back and hit my knuckles. Yet my bruised knuckle had nothing on his battered ass. Nothing.
Afterwards I led A. to the bed and awarded his suffering with my breasts, bulging out of my black-lace bra, as well as the ultimate prize: my soft, shaved cunt. I reclined against the pillows in awe yet again as he too seemed to handle me in a state of awe. Closed my eyes and squealed with glee as he skillfully pleasured me. Laid in his arms for a few moments afterwards before helping him climax.
A few years ago my beloved began to whisper over the phone to me about how much he wanted to worship my body. I replied with sheepish flirting even while my face became hot and my eyelids failed to hold back my tears. How could I demand -- even accept -- worship when the best I could give my fat, broken, diseased body was half-hearted forbearance?
Yet I've always been a big believer in the "fake it 'til you make it" adage, and the more I let A. caress and fondle my feet, my breasts, my belly, my ass, and my cunt, the more the idea of veneration moved from mere toleration to a service I could increasingly -- and truthfully -- insist upon from my slave even if a part of me remains amazed by it.
With the duration of his enslavement over, A. was more than ready to take his revenge. Unfortunately I haven't been quite ready to switch. Indeed my inner sadist has been enjoying watching the poor dear think up whatever silly and completely dubious pretexts he can think of to get me over his knee.
"That's it. This is going in the punishment book. This clock (pointing to the one by the bed) is not set to the same time as that one (pointing to the one on the wall)."
"I think we should play a spanking game. We haven't played Spanking Poker in a long time."
"Right. You've got five minutes to finish that post, or you're going over my knee."
And each time as I laughed and teasingly told him to fuck off, he feigned such shock and grief (even as he too was laughing). Perhaps, after responding to my concerned query yesterday about his ass that it felt fine, I'm lacking suitable sympathy.
Yet now that this tome of a meditation is coming to a close, I just might, just maybe, be ready to be his naughty little girl again...
...Or not.
But since A.'s arrival at the end of April, most Sundays have found me a bit too weak for a weekly schedule and spanking. Or, as was the case last Sunday, A. has had to work.
However, this Sunday my expectations regarding what I've often imagined becoming a comforting and familiar ritual were tempered both by my still-sore backside (exacerbated by the clothesbrush the day after that) as well as by the fact that, well, I wasn't feeling particularly submissive.
I can't remember now what exactly started it, but our conversation Sunday night shifted to A. feeling subby and me feeling, at the very least, not subby. Soon we began to discuss the possibility of him being my slave for the night. Both of us played with his swelling member as we considered what he might do for me and what might I do to him during his service and eventually agreed upon an enslavement of two hours.
The last few months I have been having the fantasy off and on of him naked and strapped to our wooden-planked futon frame while his pale, quivering cheeks glowed an ever deepening shade of red under my hand.
His birthday spanking in May was my first taste of this reverie in reality. And while I did give him a hearty introduction to our noble American tradition -- with the marks to prove it -- it was sans the restraints. I was still doing poorly at the time and not fully able to revel in my sadism. And forty-two strokes just didn't seem to satiate me.
His birthday, though, added another dimension to my dominant fantasies. Per his request, my present to him was a cock ring/leash. And I tell you dear reader, once he put it on, got down on his knees, and I took hold of the leash, I was positively wet.
The first twenty minutes of A.'s enslavement, however, were spent looking for the restraints. Three of the four were found, and I decided to make do with the cord that ties the curtains together as a substitute for the missing wrist restraint. Yet as A. bent over the futon frame, I realized I'd misjudged how tall he is and/or how diminutive the futon frame. My homemade restraints proved worthless as his arms and legs lay well past the bottom of the frame (unlike me, at eleven inches shorter, whose legs dangle).
No matter. I had the riding crop, right?
I surely did. After reddening his cheeks with the ping pong paddle (in which I gave him a whole new appreciation for an implement he once dismissed because it has a silly name), I laid into him with that riding crop. Watched with delight as brick red welts began to pepper his lower cheeks and thighs. Smiled with what was probably far too much pleasure as he cried out and wriggled about. And warned him that this was just the warm-up.
The first time I tried to top A. many years back, it was a complete disaster that ended with me in tears. After that my clever darling appealed to my competitiveness by setting up contests in which I had a set amount of time to get him to give in or I lost and would get thrashed. Needless to say, I generally ended up much more sore than he. Topping was hard work. It was acting. Playing a role that took a lot of research and with which at the end of the day I found little in common. Had illness not reduced me to a state of a semi-dependent child/prisoner craving control over something, I think my journey to domme-hood would have been much longer.
After a massage and a bath under the glow of candlelight, I ordered A. back over the futon for the main thrashing. A few months ago he and I talked about pushing my topping limits a bit more. While I've moved past the incessant mental apologies with each stroke, I still have a tendency to stop too soon. To see the marks beginning to accumulate and worry I'm going to break him, which is in fact what I should be doing. This time, with the soothing security of a safeword, I was going to let go of my hyper-empathy and push both of us further than we had gone before. And unlike any of the other beatings I've administered, he was going to feel this one the next day.
Several dozen strokes of the cane introduced several dozen crimson weals and welts to mingle with the earlier ones from the riding crop. Being an Anglo-American couple, I thought it appropriate to match such a British implement with a quintessential American one: a 16 inch oak paddle. I've only been on the business end of it a few times, but that is enough to know how truly sincere his howls of pain were. Especially as I kept having to tell him to move his legs apart and lay against the futon. Most understandable as many of those strokes were full force. I finished with our electric cord loopy whip, mostly because I love the violet loopy marks it makes on his pasty skin. Many of those strokes were also as near to full force as I could make them -- though not without some harm to myself. Whenever I pulled it back before slamming it down on A., the tips of the loops would snap back and hit my knuckles. Yet my bruised knuckle had nothing on his battered ass. Nothing.
Afterwards I led A. to the bed and awarded his suffering with my breasts, bulging out of my black-lace bra, as well as the ultimate prize: my soft, shaved cunt. I reclined against the pillows in awe yet again as he too seemed to handle me in a state of awe. Closed my eyes and squealed with glee as he skillfully pleasured me. Laid in his arms for a few moments afterwards before helping him climax.
A few years ago my beloved began to whisper over the phone to me about how much he wanted to worship my body. I replied with sheepish flirting even while my face became hot and my eyelids failed to hold back my tears. How could I demand -- even accept -- worship when the best I could give my fat, broken, diseased body was half-hearted forbearance?
Yet I've always been a big believer in the "fake it 'til you make it" adage, and the more I let A. caress and fondle my feet, my breasts, my belly, my ass, and my cunt, the more the idea of veneration moved from mere toleration to a service I could increasingly -- and truthfully -- insist upon from my slave even if a part of me remains amazed by it.
With the duration of his enslavement over, A. was more than ready to take his revenge. Unfortunately I haven't been quite ready to switch. Indeed my inner sadist has been enjoying watching the poor dear think up whatever silly and completely dubious pretexts he can think of to get me over his knee.
"That's it. This is going in the punishment book. This clock (pointing to the one by the bed) is not set to the same time as that one (pointing to the one on the wall)."
"I think we should play a spanking game. We haven't played Spanking Poker in a long time."
"Right. You've got five minutes to finish that post, or you're going over my knee."
And each time as I laughed and teasingly told him to fuck off, he feigned such shock and grief (even as he too was laughing). Perhaps, after responding to my concerned query yesterday about his ass that it felt fine, I'm lacking suitable sympathy.
Yet now that this tome of a meditation is coming to a close, I just might, just maybe, be ready to be his naughty little girl again...
...Or not.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
So sorry you're vanilla...
Lately I've been catching up on my "nerd porn" as A. likes to call it. No, not videos of guys with pocket protectors rambling about cosines and Star Trek (though as a nerd myself, I find a lot of nerds are quite hot), but thoughtful writing on sexuality. Mostly posts from the newer editions of the Feminist Carnival of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy, many of which I highly recommend and hope to blog about in the not too distant future.
During my make-up reading, I also happened across an old post at a favorite political blog, Alas, a blog, which linked to an absolutely brilliant post by Trinity on what causes kinkiness -- or rather, vanilla-ness.
Not that there's anything wrong with that -- you know, being vanilla -- but I have always thought that it lacks scope for the imagination.
But then, maybe that's just because I've never had vanilla sex.
During my make-up reading, I also happened across an old post at a favorite political blog, Alas, a blog, which linked to an absolutely brilliant post by Trinity on what causes kinkiness -- or rather, vanilla-ness.
WHAT CAUSES VANILLA?
How long have you been vanilla?
Are you sure that you're not simply too nervous to submit or dominate because past traumas make you too nervous to relate to others on a truly intimate level?
Have you ever really examined your vanilla desires?
The vast majority of sexuality depicted in the media is vanilla. Are you sure your desires now don't stem from not seeing alternate models much in the media?
How can you experience true intimacy with someone if you're afraid to share erotic pain with them? Aren't you missing something?
It's really a shame that our screwed up vanilla-normative society ruined you like that.
Not that there's anything wrong with that -- you know, being vanilla -- but I have always thought that it lacks scope for the imagination.
But then, maybe that's just because I've never had vanilla sex.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Sexy Sadist
The apartment is littered with spanking implements at the moment. Leftovers from my spanking earlier this evening.
It started innocently enough. As I was snipping herbs at the kitchen counter for the chicken we were about to roast, I stated that I was going to take a bath. A. responded that he was going to take one first.
"I'm gonna to beat you to it," he said with a smack to my backside. And then another smack. And another. "I'm going to beat ya :::smack:: beat ya."
"You call that a beating?" I sneered.
Oh boy.
"Are you challenging me?" A. asked as he grabbed me by the shoulders, marched me to the bed, and bent me over the side. Down came my flannel jammie bottoms, as well as my flowery white knickers. Out came the spanking implements. The ping pong paddles. The riding crop. The rubber paddle. "I think I'm going to have to warm you up."
Several dozen hard, hard hand spanks ensued, which were even more stingy because I had worked up a bit of a sweat in the kitchen (thanks in part to the hormone fluctuations from the morphine). Then my glistening skin was subject to the ping pong paddle. Again they were hard spanks that had me writhing in pain (needless to say, my ass is soooo out of practice these days).
You'd think my beloved would have had mercy on his sweet, dear girl kicking and wriggling about in pain. But, alas, no. The big meanie started in on me with the rubber paddle! Lemme tell ya, rubber paddles hurt. A deep, burning hurt. Thud and sting.
But it didn't stop there. Oh no.
"I'm going to give you 24 strokes with the riding crop. Count them, please."
I almost cried out in protest at this gratuitous cruelty but remembered in time that such protest would result in additional strokes. So instead I looked back at A. with a look of shock and horror (and, okay, maybe a tiny bit of defiance). But not an ounce of sympathy. I could barely keep up with counting those agonizing strokes. And I wriggled so much I got threatened with more strokes. Eeek!
Was it over yet? Nope.
"I'm going to get the cane." As A. fetched the cane in the bathroom, I laid on the bed pouting and biting my lower lip. "How many strokes do you think would be appropriate?" he asked upon his return.
I was silent. Did he really want me to answer that question?
"Seriously, I'd like you to give me a number."
"Um...two." I thought about zero, but since he actually had the cane in hand, I figured he would insist on using it. So, ya know, two seemed like a nice, round number.
"Two? Two? Is that your answer?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You really think two is a good answer?"
"Yes, Sir," I nodded.
"Well, I was going to give you sixteen strokes, but now it's going to be twenty-four for giving such a bad answer."
See what I mean, dear reader? I gave a thoughtful reply only to have it not only disregarded but told I'm getting 12 times as many strokes just because he didn't like it!
Despite what I expected, the cane didn't hurt as much as the riding crop or rubber paddle did. I was actually able to lay on the bed during my twenty-four strokes without squirming too much. However the cane did a lot more damage. Especially as it kept landing on the exact same spot where my ass, thigh and hip meet -- right in the path of my panty line.
So now you'd think it would be over. But, sigh, no. There were still some more hard, stingy smacks with the ping pong paddle. And a handful of hand spanks.
And then, then it was over.
"You sick sadist," I jeered as A. turned his attention to his swelling member.
"Getting aroused at someone else's pain -- yep, I think that makes me a sadist alright," he said with a grin.
You see, dear reader? He's not even the least bit ashamed of his heartless behavior.
Which, okay, I have to admit, is pretty damn hot, even if a bit...um...painful.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to put some ice and arnica gel on those welts from the cane with which my beloved so wickedly beat me. And put away all the spanking implements strewn about. Especially as my caregiver comes tomorrow and it could be awfully awkward trying to explain why I have a couple of ping pong paddles but no ping pong table. Or a riding crop but no horse...
It started innocently enough. As I was snipping herbs at the kitchen counter for the chicken we were about to roast, I stated that I was going to take a bath. A. responded that he was going to take one first.
"I'm gonna to beat you to it," he said with a smack to my backside. And then another smack. And another. "I'm going to beat ya :::smack:: beat ya."
"You call that a beating?" I sneered.
Oh boy.
"Are you challenging me?" A. asked as he grabbed me by the shoulders, marched me to the bed, and bent me over the side. Down came my flannel jammie bottoms, as well as my flowery white knickers. Out came the spanking implements. The ping pong paddles. The riding crop. The rubber paddle. "I think I'm going to have to warm you up."
Several dozen hard, hard hand spanks ensued, which were even more stingy because I had worked up a bit of a sweat in the kitchen (thanks in part to the hormone fluctuations from the morphine). Then my glistening skin was subject to the ping pong paddle. Again they were hard spanks that had me writhing in pain (needless to say, my ass is soooo out of practice these days).
You'd think my beloved would have had mercy on his sweet, dear girl kicking and wriggling about in pain. But, alas, no. The big meanie started in on me with the rubber paddle! Lemme tell ya, rubber paddles hurt. A deep, burning hurt. Thud and sting.
But it didn't stop there. Oh no.
"I'm going to give you 24 strokes with the riding crop. Count them, please."
I almost cried out in protest at this gratuitous cruelty but remembered in time that such protest would result in additional strokes. So instead I looked back at A. with a look of shock and horror (and, okay, maybe a tiny bit of defiance). But not an ounce of sympathy. I could barely keep up with counting those agonizing strokes. And I wriggled so much I got threatened with more strokes. Eeek!
Was it over yet? Nope.
"I'm going to get the cane." As A. fetched the cane in the bathroom, I laid on the bed pouting and biting my lower lip. "How many strokes do you think would be appropriate?" he asked upon his return.
I was silent. Did he really want me to answer that question?
"Seriously, I'd like you to give me a number."
"Um...two." I thought about zero, but since he actually had the cane in hand, I figured he would insist on using it. So, ya know, two seemed like a nice, round number.
"Two? Two? Is that your answer?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You really think two is a good answer?"
"Yes, Sir," I nodded.
"Well, I was going to give you sixteen strokes, but now it's going to be twenty-four for giving such a bad answer."
See what I mean, dear reader? I gave a thoughtful reply only to have it not only disregarded but told I'm getting 12 times as many strokes just because he didn't like it!
Despite what I expected, the cane didn't hurt as much as the riding crop or rubber paddle did. I was actually able to lay on the bed during my twenty-four strokes without squirming too much. However the cane did a lot more damage. Especially as it kept landing on the exact same spot where my ass, thigh and hip meet -- right in the path of my panty line.
So now you'd think it would be over. But, sigh, no. There were still some more hard, stingy smacks with the ping pong paddle. And a handful of hand spanks.
And then, then it was over.
"You sick sadist," I jeered as A. turned his attention to his swelling member.
"Getting aroused at someone else's pain -- yep, I think that makes me a sadist alright," he said with a grin.
You see, dear reader? He's not even the least bit ashamed of his heartless behavior.
Which, okay, I have to admit, is pretty damn hot, even if a bit...um...painful.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to put some ice and arnica gel on those welts from the cane with which my beloved so wickedly beat me. And put away all the spanking implements strewn about. Especially as my caregiver comes tomorrow and it could be awfully awkward trying to explain why I have a couple of ping pong paddles but no ping pong table. Or a riding crop but no horse...
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
I'm still alive and still getting spanked
I just got spanked. In the kitchen in front of the large window overlooking the street. And A. wouldn't even let me put the blinds down! Granted the counter goes up past my waist so any pervs in the apartment across the street wouldn't be able to see that he'd pull down my jammy bottoms and was reddening my bottom with many hard smacks. Instead they'd just see me wincing and moving about in an effort to move my ass out of the way of A.'s oncoming right hand.
What, you ask, merited such punishment? A. claims I was being snippy. Not that I would own up to it while I was getting spanked, but looking back I concede that maybe I was being a wee bit snippy. But just a wee bit, mind you.
Today has been the first day that I've felt halfway normal for the last month and a half so I thought I'd post and let you know I'm still alive. A. has been here for a full two weeks now and Sunday I finally got my first spanking. Though it was nothing like the spanking he got last week on his birthday. Perhaps I'll write more about that later.
On an off-topic note, yesterday was ME/CFS Awareness Day. Last year I posted a bit about it, and I thought I'd post a link to the CFIDS Association Virtual Lobby Day where you can send emails to government officials in an effort to increase money for research, earning my eternal gratitude.
Update 1:20 am: In response to my bratting for it at bedtime, A. just gave me a taste of our new rubber paddle -- ouch! My favorite line from this spanking had to be him ordering me to "shut up and be submissive for once in your life!"
What, you ask, merited such punishment? A. claims I was being snippy. Not that I would own up to it while I was getting spanked, but looking back I concede that maybe I was being a wee bit snippy. But just a wee bit, mind you.
Today has been the first day that I've felt halfway normal for the last month and a half so I thought I'd post and let you know I'm still alive. A. has been here for a full two weeks now and Sunday I finally got my first spanking. Though it was nothing like the spanking he got last week on his birthday. Perhaps I'll write more about that later.
On an off-topic note, yesterday was ME/CFS Awareness Day. Last year I posted a bit about it, and I thought I'd post a link to the CFIDS Association Virtual Lobby Day where you can send emails to government officials in an effort to increase money for research, earning my eternal gratitude.
Update 1:20 am: In response to my bratting for it at bedtime, A. just gave me a taste of our new rubber paddle -- ouch! My favorite line from this spanking had to be him ordering me to "shut up and be submissive for once in your life!"
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Medication blues
My apologies for the lack of posting lately.
A few weeks back I had to stop taking an immune supplement that was giving me more energy but eating away at my stomach. My energy level has since taken a nose dive.
Morphine has begun turning my nights into everything from vivid Alice-in-Wonderland surreal (and Lewis Carroll would know a thing or two about opiate-inspired dreams) to horrific Quentin Tarantino-esque nightmares that make me afraid to go to sleep.
Another drug, Reglan, has turned my days into stiff, achy, listless napfests. And when I am awake, I wander aimlessly through the television and Internet -- though my time online has recently been reduced the no more than three hours per day in an effort to conserve my limited energy.
I've discontinued the Reglan a few days ago, but don't have a lot of options when it comes to the morphine as without it, I'm in a great deal of pain. There probably are other drugs available, but I doubt my insurance would cover them, especially as it was a long, hard fight just to get them to cover the morphine. Indeed, I'm pretty sure Satan himself spawned health insurance companies from the blackest pit in the bottom most depths of Hell. And at the end of the day, then decided that even the most evil of Hell's inhabitants didn't deserve to suffer the fate of being HMOed.
But not all the dreams have been bad.
This afternoon I dreamt that A. and I were driving to the coast and "Little Surfer Girl" was playing in the background, except that it was "Little Ocean Girl" for some reason in my dream. And we stopped and I was bent over some sort of metal bar and he was whipping me with a switch. It was so vivid that when I woke up, I was quite surprised to be curled up in bed in my apartment.
Only more 18 days until it will be a little closer to reality.
A few weeks back I had to stop taking an immune supplement that was giving me more energy but eating away at my stomach. My energy level has since taken a nose dive.
Morphine has begun turning my nights into everything from vivid Alice-in-Wonderland surreal (and Lewis Carroll would know a thing or two about opiate-inspired dreams) to horrific Quentin Tarantino-esque nightmares that make me afraid to go to sleep.
Another drug, Reglan, has turned my days into stiff, achy, listless napfests. And when I am awake, I wander aimlessly through the television and Internet -- though my time online has recently been reduced the no more than three hours per day in an effort to conserve my limited energy.
I've discontinued the Reglan a few days ago, but don't have a lot of options when it comes to the morphine as without it, I'm in a great deal of pain. There probably are other drugs available, but I doubt my insurance would cover them, especially as it was a long, hard fight just to get them to cover the morphine. Indeed, I'm pretty sure Satan himself spawned health insurance companies from the blackest pit in the bottom most depths of Hell. And at the end of the day, then decided that even the most evil of Hell's inhabitants didn't deserve to suffer the fate of being HMOed.
But not all the dreams have been bad.
This afternoon I dreamt that A. and I were driving to the coast and "Little Surfer Girl" was playing in the background, except that it was "Little Ocean Girl" for some reason in my dream. And we stopped and I was bent over some sort of metal bar and he was whipping me with a switch. It was so vivid that when I woke up, I was quite surprised to be curled up in bed in my apartment.
Only more 18 days until it will be a little closer to reality.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
The very first Feminist Carnival of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy
Just a quick post (a few days late, as usual) to let you all know about the first Feminist Carnival of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy that includes a staggering number of fascinating posts discussing sex-positive feminism, pornography, BDSM (including a recent post of mine), and sex work.
There's lots of good stuff amidst all the links, and I encourage you to check it out.
There's lots of good stuff amidst all the links, and I encourage you to check it out.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
The way back on top
I was reading an old post at Femdom Romance this afternoon (yes, I know I said I was feeling subby yesterday but I felt toppy when I woke up today though ended up subby and spanked by tonight when I was on the phone with A. -- it's dizzying the way I switch anymore...) about how to introduce the reticent wife or girlfriend to dominating her partner. Note the quote is originally from Ms. Rika, but the link was no longer working.
This really was the way I was able to embrace the idea of topping A. I mean, I'm five feet tall. I couldn't wear stiletto heels if my life depended on it. And leather is something I may use to whip A. with (or he may use to whip me), but I certainly don't wear it.
However the idea of being doted on, being treated like a queen (or princess as we usually construct it) was indeed very appealing. I can get a clean house and not have to hold back any criticism if it's not up to my standards. I can get a lovely foot massage. My body is worshiped (a nice antidote to always hearing what's wrong with it). Not to mention I can get a damn fine orgasm without any effort. How could anyone not like this?
It occurred to me recently that what made topping hard at first was the fear I would lose A. as a top. Would I still be able to look at him as that authoritative, stern disciplinarian I fell in love with? At its core, spanking has always been about connecting with my inner little girl. Would he still be her strict, loving daddy?
The answer was a definitive yes. I found out quickly that A. becomes more dominant than ever after being submissive. It doesn't matter how much I may have just been abasing him, the minute he gets that no-nonsense tone of voice, I'm back into sheepish little girl mode.
I suppose tonight was a good example. When he called I had just finished reading the above post and was in a domme-y disposition. As it turned out, he was in a subby mood and I took the opportunity to taunt him about his upcoming birthday spanking, as well as a domestic-sort of task I was going to make him do during his next subby session. Now the day before we had actually talked about doing some phone spanking -- on my backside, that is. But I was exhausted from acupuncture yesterday and had a throbbing headache and so we decided to put it off until tomorrow.
Something happened as we went about our conversation. Like a switch flipping (that term works on so many levels). Before I knew it, I was taunting him, but as a true brat. "You just watch your step," he told me solemnly. And I watched my step alright -- right into trouble. When the conversation shifted from Top Gear to polar bears and then to the burgeoning black bear population here in Oregon -- a problem A. believes doesn't receive nearly the attention it merits -- I couldn't keep quiet.
"You're just a 'fraidy girly bear boy,"I sneered.
"You are sorely overdue." There was that no-nonsense tone.
"Well you are!"
"But what implement to use?" A. asked himself. "The rubber paddle? The ping pong bat?"
"Bat?" I laughed heartily.
"Yes. The ping pong bat will do," he decided.
"It's not a bat, it's a ping pong paddle. You Brits use the silliest words."
"Right. You're getting five more for general defiance."
"But it's true!"
"Go ahead and keep talking..."
I stopped.
"I'm done talking now," I said softly.
"I'm going to go out for a smoke and before I call back, I want you to get the ping pong bat out and take your pants down."
"Yes, Sir."
It was a long spanking, partly because my pain threshold was at an astronomical level today. (It varies wildly. Some days you can barely tap me with a hairbrush and it's unbearable and other days you can't hit me hard enough with a riding crop.) After several rounds of eight on each cheek and one of twenty-four fast, hard strokes, he was going to have me switch to the wooden spoon. But being the very very good girl that I am, I offered (timidly) that the heavy wooden paddle is probably more severe for self-spanking (and, oddly enough, bruises less). So the wooden paddle it was. One round of eight on each cheek and a round of four on each cheek. By the end he definitely got me whimpering.
"Good. Had to get at least a wince out of you."
I smiled and suspect he was too on the other end of the line.
We lingered on the phone, aching to cuddle. Reminding ourselves that there is now less than a month until he will be here again.
"Next week we'll sit down and discuss the areas where you need some discipline," he said. Before I knew it, I was confessing that I had been neglecting my physical therapy for my finger and how I kept meaning to tell him but also kept thinking that somehow I would do better without needing his help.
We also talked about having a regular day for my discipline.
"Well, Sunday is traditional," I said.
"Yeah, Sunday..."
Before heading off to bed, he reminded me that I was to finish some restraints I've been meaning to make.
"I'm setting Friday as your deadline."
"Yes, Sir."
I lay there on the bed for a long time after we hung up. I hadn't realized how much discipline had been missing from our relationship for a good month or so. And being reminded, I realized how desperately I missed it. How much I've missed being his little girl.
And oh how much I love him.
No matter what we do and where our relationship takes us, he always finds his way back on top.
You may dislike the imagery of the words ‘dominance’ and ‘submission’, ‘Mistress’ and ‘slave’. However, you might like the idea of your partner doting on you, alert to your needs, totally turned on by you, giving you massages, pulling his weight around the house (and then some), focusing on your thoughts and ideas, in short, treating you like a Queen.
This really was the way I was able to embrace the idea of topping A. I mean, I'm five feet tall. I couldn't wear stiletto heels if my life depended on it. And leather is something I may use to whip A. with (or he may use to whip me), but I certainly don't wear it.
However the idea of being doted on, being treated like a queen (or princess as we usually construct it) was indeed very appealing. I can get a clean house and not have to hold back any criticism if it's not up to my standards. I can get a lovely foot massage. My body is worshiped (a nice antidote to always hearing what's wrong with it). Not to mention I can get a damn fine orgasm without any effort. How could anyone not like this?
It occurred to me recently that what made topping hard at first was the fear I would lose A. as a top. Would I still be able to look at him as that authoritative, stern disciplinarian I fell in love with? At its core, spanking has always been about connecting with my inner little girl. Would he still be her strict, loving daddy?
The answer was a definitive yes. I found out quickly that A. becomes more dominant than ever after being submissive. It doesn't matter how much I may have just been abasing him, the minute he gets that no-nonsense tone of voice, I'm back into sheepish little girl mode.
I suppose tonight was a good example. When he called I had just finished reading the above post and was in a domme-y disposition. As it turned out, he was in a subby mood and I took the opportunity to taunt him about his upcoming birthday spanking, as well as a domestic-sort of task I was going to make him do during his next subby session. Now the day before we had actually talked about doing some phone spanking -- on my backside, that is. But I was exhausted from acupuncture yesterday and had a throbbing headache and so we decided to put it off until tomorrow.
Something happened as we went about our conversation. Like a switch flipping (that term works on so many levels). Before I knew it, I was taunting him, but as a true brat. "You just watch your step," he told me solemnly. And I watched my step alright -- right into trouble. When the conversation shifted from Top Gear to polar bears and then to the burgeoning black bear population here in Oregon -- a problem A. believes doesn't receive nearly the attention it merits -- I couldn't keep quiet.
"You're just a 'fraidy girly bear boy,"I sneered.
"You are sorely overdue." There was that no-nonsense tone.
"Well you are!"
"But what implement to use?" A. asked himself. "The rubber paddle? The ping pong bat?"
"Bat?" I laughed heartily.
"Yes. The ping pong bat will do," he decided.
"It's not a bat, it's a ping pong paddle. You Brits use the silliest words."
"Right. You're getting five more for general defiance."
"But it's true!"
"Go ahead and keep talking..."
I stopped.
"I'm done talking now," I said softly.
"I'm going to go out for a smoke and before I call back, I want you to get the ping pong bat out and take your pants down."
"Yes, Sir."
It was a long spanking, partly because my pain threshold was at an astronomical level today. (It varies wildly. Some days you can barely tap me with a hairbrush and it's unbearable and other days you can't hit me hard enough with a riding crop.) After several rounds of eight on each cheek and one of twenty-four fast, hard strokes, he was going to have me switch to the wooden spoon. But being the very very good girl that I am, I offered (timidly) that the heavy wooden paddle is probably more severe for self-spanking (and, oddly enough, bruises less). So the wooden paddle it was. One round of eight on each cheek and a round of four on each cheek. By the end he definitely got me whimpering.
"Good. Had to get at least a wince out of you."
I smiled and suspect he was too on the other end of the line.
We lingered on the phone, aching to cuddle. Reminding ourselves that there is now less than a month until he will be here again.
"Next week we'll sit down and discuss the areas where you need some discipline," he said. Before I knew it, I was confessing that I had been neglecting my physical therapy for my finger and how I kept meaning to tell him but also kept thinking that somehow I would do better without needing his help.
We also talked about having a regular day for my discipline.
"Well, Sunday is traditional," I said.
"Yeah, Sunday..."
Before heading off to bed, he reminded me that I was to finish some restraints I've been meaning to make.
"I'm setting Friday as your deadline."
"Yes, Sir."
I lay there on the bed for a long time after we hung up. I hadn't realized how much discipline had been missing from our relationship for a good month or so. And being reminded, I realized how desperately I missed it. How much I've missed being his little girl.
And oh how much I love him.
No matter what we do and where our relationship takes us, he always finds his way back on top.
Friday, March 28, 2008
It was me!
Whew! That last post kicked the crap out of me. And then the stomach flu kicked a whole lot more crap outta me. Literally. But I'm back to solid foods now. And I think I'm just about caught up on comments, though I still owe lots of email to both kinky and non-kinky alike. So much email...
At any rate, I thought I'd share a quicky with you about my appointment with Nurse K. on Tuesday. Awhile back A. asked regarding my relationship with Nurse K. "who will be the first one to use the S word?" Well, it turned out to be me. At one point, I was mentioning how I had been trying to get an appointment with her the week of the 17th.
"If I saw you that day I could have pinched you -- if you weren't wearing green, that is," she said with a grin.
"Apparently that's an American thing as A. had never heard of that custom until I mentioned it," I said, being the cultural anthropologist-wannabe nerd that I am. Then without really thinking too much and with a bit of a grin myself I followed up with, "And apparently they don't have birthday spankings in England either." Suddenly I realized I'd said the "S" word and quickly mumbled something about perhaps it shows that Americans are more violent.
Nurse K. smiled and then turned back to the computer to type in my Coumadin dose as she verbally went over it with me.
Needless to say, it was not one of my more articulate moments.
Speaking of birthday spankings, A.'s birthday will occur a little over a week after he gets here (a month from tomorrow!). It will be the first time we will have ever been together on his birthday and at that time I plan to painfully introduce him to the venerable American tradition of the birthday spanking.
I'm hoping his ass will be more sore than my arm.
At any rate, I thought I'd share a quicky with you about my appointment with Nurse K. on Tuesday. Awhile back A. asked regarding my relationship with Nurse K. "who will be the first one to use the S word?" Well, it turned out to be me. At one point, I was mentioning how I had been trying to get an appointment with her the week of the 17th.
"If I saw you that day I could have pinched you -- if you weren't wearing green, that is," she said with a grin.
"Apparently that's an American thing as A. had never heard of that custom until I mentioned it," I said, being the cultural anthropologist-wannabe nerd that I am. Then without really thinking too much and with a bit of a grin myself I followed up with, "And apparently they don't have birthday spankings in England either." Suddenly I realized I'd said the "S" word and quickly mumbled something about perhaps it shows that Americans are more violent.
Nurse K. smiled and then turned back to the computer to type in my Coumadin dose as she verbally went over it with me.
Needless to say, it was not one of my more articulate moments.
Speaking of birthday spankings, A.'s birthday will occur a little over a week after he gets here (a month from tomorrow!). It will be the first time we will have ever been together on his birthday and at that time I plan to painfully introduce him to the venerable American tradition of the birthday spanking.
I'm hoping his ass will be more sore than my arm.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Take it all, Bitch
As you might imagine, What It Is We Do can be a bewildering concept for both kinky and vanilla feminists alike. Hell, it's a bewildering concept for us feminists who engage in it, as the epic thread that followed my post from a little over a year ago at the Punishment Book can attest. In her article, "Slap Happy," in this month's issue of Bitch Magazine (Spring, No. 39) author Jessica Wakeman doesn't necessarily provide any answers to make it less bewildering, but she does give the reader plenty to think about.
I think it's important to remember that she walks several fine lines among word limit and the need to contextualize, describing who we are and what we do -- and what we think about what we do, and how the whole thing relates to the issues of female choice and empowerment to an audience of women who may or may not be sex-positive and know absolutely nothing about domestic discipline. In dealing with all this, she makes points and asks questions that were very thoughtful, if somewhat provocative at times. And, yes, despite walking all these fine lines, there are elements she gets wrong too.
Wakeman's thesis is that domestic discipline is a method that some couples use to make their relationships work. A lifestyle that can provide a certain yin and yang that is missing in the contemporary male-female relationship. She quotes at length family historian Stephanie Coontz, who talks about how marriage has changed more in the last 35 years than in the last several thousand and how couples are finding new ways of "doing" a relationship. And couples have more choice about how to do that relationship than ever before, including consciously utilizing domestic discipline.
In the process of explaining this novel-but-not-novel way to do a relationship, Wakeman tries to contextualize DD within the recent history of feminism and the much longer history of male dominance and female submission.
"If an imbalance of power, based on centuries of socialization, is bubbling just below the surface of a relationship, some couples deal with the conflict by establishing some boundaries and choosing to accept then."This was sort of an inversion of how the writer of the blog Whatever she says describes their relationship: "Most women are the 'boss' of their marriage. The only difference is that I've admitted it and she has acknowledged it." It seems fair to say that DD is a way of acknowledging that we're not all the same. Some have different strengths and weaknesses and we've simply negotiated those differences in power in ways that work for us rather than let them fester below the surface and cause problems with the relationship -- a marked departure from the past where gender roles were fixed and there was no negotiation.
In looking at the rhetoric of blogs like Loving Domestic Discipline, Wakeman rightly acknowledges that "taken at face value, domestic discipline reeks of feminist backlash." Female dominance -- even equality -- is a scary prospect for a lot of men (and women) and there are indeed those who utilize DD in an effort to get women back into a traditional, feminine submissive role. Let's face it, to newcomers looking at the endless blogs and Yahoo groups on domestic discipline, most seem to revolve around women who are bitchy, get into fights with their husbands, get super-bitchy, get spanked by their husbands, then everything is better without ever looking at why she's bitchy or that she may well have some damn good reasons to be bitchy. Not to mention all those spanking stories where the woman is strong-willed, irrational, stubborn, and irresponsible. They reinforce the notion that the emotions of women require the management of stable, reasonable men.
On the other hand, while second wave feminism made great strides in demonizing domestic abuse, "the resulting taboo," says Wakeman, "pushes couples in DD relationships into the closet." Along with a brilliant quote from Mija about how "there's nothing feminist about sublimating your desires because society says you shouldn't have them," Wakeman subtly reproves her audience for creating an environment that is hostile to the choices some women make about what to do with their bodies.
While trying to address the question that many non-kinksters have regarding the relationship between childhood abuse and spanking, Wakeman makes it clear that "for DD women, there's no readily apparent thread connecting actual childhood discipline with their current lifestyle." And she does a good job of placing DD squarely within the spanking fetish by noting that, while not all spankos practice DD, all those who practice domestic discipline are confirmed spankos.. "...[T]he line between spanking intended for a boudoir thrill and spanking as an outside-the-bedroom consequence can be blurry..." Indeed, as I have argued in the past, punishment and DD are really just sub-fetishes within the larger fetish of erotic spanking.
Wakeman's most interesting and challenging question in this article was asking how much of our yearning for discipline is about a strong societal norm for female perfection.
"Their fallibility frustrates and overwhelms them...Many American women strongly feel the drive to be perfect: to be educated, to be a breadwinner, to be a good mother, to be a good wife, and to be beautiful to boot. Is it possible some women -- whether kinkily inclined, formerly abused, neither, or both -- turn to domestic discipline the same way others find solace in punishing behaviors like eating disorders, cutting, or obsessively working out?"
Ouch. I can't answer "no" right away. I found the timing eerie, reading this a week after writing my own post on my obsession with perfection (though I failed to include a gender element in my discussion). And it's certainly been a topic of mine at the Punishment Book. Indeed, when I first started acknowledging I had this preoccupation with spanking and punishment, I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps it was a variation on cutting. While most of me says it's not -- as I say in the article, my sexuality expresses itself as a child who gets off on shame and punishment -- if I'm being brutally honest, there's a part of me that can't say definitively no, it's not at all about my inability to deal with my own fallibility. I have a hard time accepting the fact that I'm finite, and I have most certainly been guilty of using spanking as a means of trying to attain that ever impossible perfection.
Now, like many of you, my first reaction to this article was heavily influenced by my disagreements with it, as well as being rather chagrined that I was introduced in the article as the one who self-spanks over the phone with her boyfriend. It's embarrassing enough having to admit that to fellow spankos, but to be introduced to the feminist world like that was a bit...er, uncomfortable.
The first issue involves a little linguistic nitpicking.
"Mija and Natty control the nature of their DD relationships with a power referred to in the BDSM community as 'topping from the bottom'. In such situations it's the submissive partner who's actually in control; the 'top' is required to have permission from the bottom before inflicting any BDSM action."
I would not consider what I do as topping from the bottom. That is really a form of manipulating the top to do what you want her/him to do -- not that I haven't had my moments. Oh, I hope you don't spank me with the belt! That, my friends, is topping from the bottom, though it's brazen enough that A. generally knows I'm trying to get him to do something very specific. However, because he's the top, he controls whether or not he's going to go on to spank me with the belt. Thus, I maintain my status as bottom and he as top.
Negotiating the framework of our disciplinary relationship, with me having a say in how it will proceed doesn't strike me as topping from the bottom; it's simply negotiation. Once we have negotiated what we want to do, A. then decides how to execute the framework we've both decided upon and I submit to those decisions, save for a safeword or phrase that might stop everything until we can decide what's wrong and where to proceed from there. Basically, the same as in any sort of BDSM safe-sane-consensual scene.
But, of course, the main point of disagreement was on the issue of gender and DD. About half way into the article, in parentheses, Wakeman states:
"Theoretically, a man can be the submissive in a heterosexual domestic discipline relationship, and a DD relationship can be same-sex, but based on both Internet presence and the couples that I interviewed, it's far more common to find heterosexual, female-submissive practitioners."
In the year since I was interviewed for this article, A. and I have started switching more regularly. It is true that we don't switch in terms of discipline but it has little to do with gender; I'm the one who gets off on it and finds it more effective (my musings as to why are here). However, as I've started topping more, I've started seeking out more F/M blogs and am realizing there are a lot more than I realized when I was primarily a bottom.
As A. and I talked about this article, we both agreed this was the one point where we thought Wakeman got it wrong. He suggested that there are a lot more men in DD relationships than are reflected online because men are less inclined to blog about their activities (as, apparently are female tops). It's true too that F/M couples don't use Yahoo groups to quite the extent that M/F do, though to be sure, there are quite a number of disciplinary F/M Yahoo groups. It does have me wondering what is different about F/M domestic discipline that it doesn't express itself online in the same way that M/F does (pictures -- it's more visually oriented is my first thought). Men do not seem to be articulating submissiveness, nor are women articulating dominance in the same ways and in the same amounts as submissive women. Is there still a strong societal standard against men expressing submissiveness and women domestic dominance?
A. also believes that a lot of men are simply going to dominatrices when they can't get what they want from their partners. A frequent commenter here, Indiana, asked in an email, "Is it true that societal forces make it more likely that a woman will consent to spanking than a man?" I would argue that I think the societal force is more along the lines of making woman feel less comfortable dominating (or rather, our form of domination has traditionally been in manipulation rather than in blunt force) so that it is very difficult for submissive men to find a partner willing to provide the strong female hand they need and desire. It's a lot easier to slip back into traditional roles than chip away at new, less comfortable ones.
While, yes, it's true there isn't as much of a same-sex presence online (though it is there), that reflects the fact that heterosexuality is the norm. Out of any given population group, same-sex couples are always going to be in the minority (well, you know, except maybe the Castro district in San Francisco) but it was unfortunate that same-sex couples were excluded, as Jigsaw Analogy noted in the comments for the previous post, as it would have demonstrated the problem genderizing this lifestyle entails.
So, yes, I cringed when Ms. Wakeman stated that "The crux of domestic discipline is that women's behavior is inherently rife with transgressions, and the discipline provided by their intimate partner will be a leveling force." The context of this comment is unclear to me. I'm not sure if this was meant to represent the views of Mr. Loving DD and his ilk rather than my or Mija's view. And if it was, I wished that there was more contrast between what Mija and I do, and what MrLovingDD does (that is, if he does it at all or just writes very good "wank material" as one friend has called it). He genders behavior, we do not and I don't think that point is very clear.
If it was meant to truly describe the essence of domestic discipline as practiced by the majority, then I think she (or her editor) missed a very important point. F/M domestic discipline is not a fringe group within DD and making it so within this article marginalizes their sexuality (though there is the point that it is "feminizing" men, which is still a form of female submission in its own way). By insisting on maintaining a gendered perspective on dominance and submission, it keeps women boxed into rigid definitions that ultimately dis-empower women.
However, again I think it's important to keep in mind the audience for whom this article was written: feminist women who may know a little something about erotic spanking but know absolutely nothing about domestic discipline. And it's damn hard to explain it to an outsider. It is impossible for the target audience to look at this completely outside the construct of gender, as much as I think they should. I mean, the relationship that A. and I have -- that all nine of us at the Punishment Book have with our partners -- is not necessarily the norm when you take into consideration DD blogs and groups in their entirety. Would I have liked an article that looked at how some women are practicing DD without the stereotypes? Sure, but first people have to actually know what the hell it is.
I should also note that Ms. Wakeman was under a great deal of pressure to sensationalize this story, (i.e. make this a story that poked fun at us freaks) or simply couldn't sell the story because it was too edgy (and the magazines she pitched it to were hardly the Ladies Home Journal). While we're used to What It Is We Do, most people are not, and I think the compromise she found at Bitch in describing this as a way that women are seeking to "do" a relationship is a reasonable one even if I disagree with the gendered approach.
On Monday when my county-appointed housekeeper arrived to do my laundry, she told me the harrowing tale of how her daughter was beaten by her husband the weekend before. He started to choke her when she refused to give him the car keys because he was drunk, all the while shoving his knee into her three month pregnant belly. For hours after the cops came and dragged him off to jail, they could not get a heartbeat on the fetus. Eventually a heartbeat was heard, though they will not know the extent of any damage until birth. It was a poignant reminder to me that while we have come to a point where I can exercise my right to play with dominance and submission, we have not reached a point where the raw, non-consensual execution of it has ceased. And for a lot of people, it is impossible to divorce one from the other, even if I can.
But it's hard when you're a woman who has done all the things you're supposed to do to be a good feminist to hear someone suggest that you're doing something that puts the whole thing back to the days when the police wouldn't be showing up to take a wife-beater to jail. That you're embracing a construct with thousands of years of misogyny backing it up. I think that's why places like the Punishment Book, This Thing We Do, as well as the increasing number of feminist voices -- female and male -- among the domestic discipline community are so valuable. And why consciously grasping the choice we have to practice What It Is We Do in a non-gendered, mindful way is a profoundly feminist act.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Some homework on feminism and spanking
Alrighty, dear readers, my brain fog is still palpably thick. Or as A. might say, "it's a right pea-souper." So I'm going to assign you some homework as I slowly chip away at my post whilst groping around in the haze (it also means I'm going to be a bit slow in getting to email -- I'm so sorry!).
The new spring issue of Bitch magazine is now online and gracing discriminating newstands everywhere. Why, you ask, am I suggesting you read Bitch on a blog about spanking? Well aside from the fact that it's a great magazine about pop culture and feminism, and, as the great bell hooks said, feminism is for everyone (including -- maybe even especially -- spankos), I also recommend you go out and find yourself a copy because this issue contains an article featuring yours truly (as well as others) and domestic discipline (it is, alas, not one of the articles available online -- yet).
I found a great deal in the article that was thoughtful and valuable. And, of course, there are a few areas where I very respectfully disagree. But I figure it might be nice to have a discussion about it if at least some of you have read the article. (Lordy it's been awhile since I said that -- albeit in a college classroom). Or, more importantly, I'm totally stalling while I wait for the fog to lift.
In the meantime, while I go back to watching television and trying not to drool on myself when I doze off, I leave you with a quote from a beautifully written post that was included in a recent feminist carnival. Go on. Go, read the entire post. You'll be glad you did. (My, aren't I in a toppy mood tonight?)
The new spring issue of Bitch magazine is now online and gracing discriminating newstands everywhere. Why, you ask, am I suggesting you read Bitch on a blog about spanking? Well aside from the fact that it's a great magazine about pop culture and feminism, and, as the great bell hooks said, feminism is for everyone (including -- maybe even especially -- spankos), I also recommend you go out and find yourself a copy because this issue contains an article featuring yours truly (as well as others) and domestic discipline (it is, alas, not one of the articles available online -- yet).
I found a great deal in the article that was thoughtful and valuable. And, of course, there are a few areas where I very respectfully disagree. But I figure it might be nice to have a discussion about it if at least some of you have read the article. (Lordy it's been awhile since I said that -- albeit in a college classroom). Or, more importantly, I'm totally stalling while I wait for the fog to lift.
In the meantime, while I go back to watching television and trying not to drool on myself when I doze off, I leave you with a quote from a beautifully written post that was included in a recent feminist carnival. Go on. Go, read the entire post. You'll be glad you did. (My, aren't I in a toppy mood tonight?)
So, we took school seriously, we dated boys who were enlightened and honoured our stellar futures, we went on to postsecondary education, we delayed marriage, we started our careers and bought our houses before beginning our families, we nurtured our careers, earned our promotions, followed the social issues, donated to the progressive charities, hired the childcare, earned as much as or more than our husbands, pushed against the glass ceiling, talked the talk, walked the walk. We had everything, did everything, exhausted ourselves fighting the good fight, achieving the good life. One thing we / they forgot though … we somehow missed out on some of the original intention — choice.
I followed the rules, lockstep. I didn’t follow the only possible path — I get that. There were variations I could have chosen...Basically, though, I followed the rules. That’s how it felt — what we were really good at was the same thing our mothers were good at — following rules. This particular set of rules was about emancipation not subservience, but they were set expectations, nevertheless. It took me a long time to figure that out. Don’t get me wrong; I was grateful for the opportunities provided by those expectations and by the women who trailblazed to create them — I still am. But here I am, 42, and living in a box that is roomier and has better views than the one that contained my mother… but a box even so.
So… one night this week, I will meet Him. For four or five hours, I will accept a new set of rules, where I call him Sir, and he calls me pet, and I kneel, and he ties me up, and I shiver, and he spanks. The difference is that they will be rules that he and I negotiated together...
Sunday, March 16, 2008
I'm quality
While I'm pretty sure I would have been voted least likely to be a sex blogger in high school, I think now that I've been reviewed by Jane's Guide, I'm officially a sex blogger. So, you know, that'll be something to spice things up at the 20th reunion (a mere and unbelievable three years away).
Wolfe gave me a very kind review that you can read here.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
My naughty little girl imagination
Sorry to be so quiet this last week and a half. I'm going through a phase of sleeping a lot. It's a recuperative-sort of sleeping rather than a depressive-sort of sleeping, and frankly I find myself impatient with the whole thing. But at the end of this sleeping phase I know I'll feel better, so I've learned to just go with it. Unfortunately yesterday I had to make a trip to Walmart after massage therapy/acupuncture, and that's knocked me back for what will probably be a few days. I'm working on a post that requires my brain to be a little less foggy than it has been lately, and hopefully I'll get that posted in a few days.
In the meantime, as I wrote on my non-kink blog, I've been trying to practice being in the present more and finding it difficult when stuck in bed a lot of the time. Not only that, but I end up having to deal with my current feelings about past events (see this post or this one). After wrestling with the demons of unanswerable whys the other night, I've found myself in a very little girl sort of mood.
I keep imagining A. taking me over his lap and scrunching my cotton panties down to my knees. As he begins to spank my fat, creamy white cheeks with his large, hard hands, he will tell me that this spanking is to remind me that I'm a little girl. His little girl. No amount of pouting and whimpering will keep him from spanking me until my cheeks are scarlet and I'm kicking and crying like a small child. And I'll feel particularly small when he stands me up and orders me to the corner, where I'll waddle to with my panties down around my ankles. After a few minutes of feeling very small indeed, he'll bring me to himself and cuddle his special girl. He'll stroke my hair and tell me what a good girl I am. A little girl who is wanted. Always wanted. And those horrible demon whys will go away.
As you can see, my imagination has a penchant for intruding on my being present.
Right. Back to bed. Hopefully I'll have dreams about the paragraph above instead of the emotionally draining sort I had earlier this week...
In the meantime, as I wrote on my non-kink blog, I've been trying to practice being in the present more and finding it difficult when stuck in bed a lot of the time. Not only that, but I end up having to deal with my current feelings about past events (see this post or this one). After wrestling with the demons of unanswerable whys the other night, I've found myself in a very little girl sort of mood.
I keep imagining A. taking me over his lap and scrunching my cotton panties down to my knees. As he begins to spank my fat, creamy white cheeks with his large, hard hands, he will tell me that this spanking is to remind me that I'm a little girl. His little girl. No amount of pouting and whimpering will keep him from spanking me until my cheeks are scarlet and I'm kicking and crying like a small child. And I'll feel particularly small when he stands me up and orders me to the corner, where I'll waddle to with my panties down around my ankles. After a few minutes of feeling very small indeed, he'll bring me to himself and cuddle his special girl. He'll stroke my hair and tell me what a good girl I am. A little girl who is wanted. Always wanted. And those horrible demon whys will go away.
As you can see, my imagination has a penchant for intruding on my being present.
Right. Back to bed. Hopefully I'll have dreams about the paragraph above instead of the emotionally draining sort I had earlier this week...
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Send your Facebook friend a spank
Somebody else may have already blogged about this. And lord knows I'm probably the last person on earth to get a page on Facebook (not linked here but I suppose if you dug around enough on my non-kink blog you might find the link). But, on Facebook there is this one application called "SuperPoke" in which you can send a certain action to your Facebook friends and among all the choices of actions you can send him or her is a spank.
But, alas, there is no little emoticon/icon/whatever the hell you call it for the spank! I mean, how hard would it be to have a little bottom next to "spank" that's a bit rosy? Plus, it's also listed under the "mean" Superpokes, but not the "nice" Superpokes. What's up with that?
But, alas, there is no little emoticon/icon/whatever the hell you call it for the spank! I mean, how hard would it be to have a little bottom next to "spank" that's a bit rosy? Plus, it's also listed under the "mean" Superpokes, but not the "nice" Superpokes. What's up with that?
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Permission not to be perfect
Last night while roaming around the spanking blogosphere, I happened upon the new Eric's Spanking Blagh, where Eric has introduced himself to readers with a lengthy story about a naughty coed whose drinking and inattention to her studies gets her a bad grade on a test and a sore bottom. It reminded me of the spanking fantasies I had when I was in college about having my own strict daddy or uncle. Indeed on the Southern California Evangelical campus I wandered, there was a grad student who looked to be in his forties who stood out amongst all the teens and earlier twenty year olds. I never actually talked to him, but I imagined on several occasions him giving me a few over the knee chats in his apartment in the graduate housing next to my dorm.
By the end of my freshman year of college, having both a strict daddy and mommy was a dominant fantasy. I knew I wanted to study Arabic, and I imagined being adopted by a childless Arab couple who would use, er, traditional methods in teaching me their native tongue. If I tried to speak in English at all, I'd be spanked. You know, sorta like the Language Pledge at Middlebury College. And they would certainly see to it that I did my homework every night (no doing it in the middle of class like I sometimes did). They would probably even have very traditional views about boys and dating (i.e. mamnoo'a -- forbidden).
That fantasy remained with me throughout college and into graduate school, though I think I had a few fantasies about being spanked by my Arabic instructor in grad school, especially as he actually did rule our class with an iron fist. If the university would have let him get away with it, I don't doubt he probably would have included corporeal punishment along with the dictations he used to punish us with when he thought we weren't studying hard enough.
The thing is, though, that when I look back at what I was like in college, I had no real need for a strong disciplinarian, as much as I may have dreamed of having one. I never drank. To be sure, it wasn't readily available my freshman year at that Evangelical university where alcohol was prohibited. But then, so was pre-marital sex, yet that didn't stop a lot of my classmates from giving it up in their boyfriends' backseats. When I transferred to a state school where I could study Arabic, alcohol was readily available from my friends who at times pleaded with me to have a drink with them. But I didn't drink because I was a Baptist. And the family I lived with from my church maintained a most assuredly dry home.
Not only did I not party, but I also kept my nose in the books. Sure, I procrastinated at times, slacked off here and there. But I had to have some sort of a social life, even if I insisted on being home by 9pm so I could get to bed by 9:30-10 at the latest. Yes. You read that right. I went to bed most nights well before 10pm throughout college. It boggles my mind now. Even I want to tease my undergraduate self for acting like such an old maid, as my friends often did. The only thing that saved me from being the class goody-goody (at least in Arabic, in my Honors class I had the good girl position totally locked up) was a guy I'll call Clark, who transferred into our Arabic class after spending a year in Egypt. He did nothing but study Arabic when he wasn't in class. Well, that and go to church. By my senior year, he'd overtaken me in grammar as well as in being the teacher's pet. I hated him, even though he was a very nice guy -- a fact that made me hate him even more. Next to Clark I felt like the naughty girl, which a small part of me enjoyed a great deal.
Obviously at some point I moved into the real world. I mean, now I not only drink but fornicate -- and celebrate my deviant sexual behavior in a blog! It was a gradual change that started the second year of grad school when I finally had my first beer. But I didn't actually start exploring sex until after the surgery that triggered my ME/CFS and after converting to Catholicism. Perhaps my willingness to forsake the faith of my youth gave me the courage to forsake its mores as well. And as my body moved beyond my ability to rigidly control because of illness, I desperately needed an escape. As I explained in my earliest post, I needed to play. Badly. So I retreated into that world that before I had only allowed myself to escape to at night while drifting off to sleep.
It makes me smile a bit to look back and think of my longings for a disciplinarian as a college student. I still had a healthy sexual fantasy life despite how repressed I was. And even if the fantasies themselves were rather unconventional -- so much so that I didn't even connect them to sex at the time.
That hunger for more discipline is also perhaps a bit disturbing. I clearly had no need of a disciplinarian. But all I could see then was the failings one would have kept me from making, even as everyone around me was constantly in awe of how good I was. I wanted to be perfect and surely a disciplinarian would have taken me to the Promised Land.
Or maybe I did need one, but only as a way of telling me it was okay to be bad. You can't live the fantasy of being naughty and getting spanked unless, well, unless you're actually naughty, or at least pretend to be so. If I was still the good girl who went to bed at 9:30 every night and whose only fault was that she procrastinated a bit, there wouldn't be much fun.
Yes, in many ways I think there is a lot about this kink that, for me at least, is about having the permission to be naughty, even if -- or perhaps, so that -- I get spanked for it. I think in many ways what I longed for in college was the freedom to be a naughty coed without the world falling apart. I had worked too hard to get there, and had too many great plans (even if illness quickly whisked them away) to risk pregnancy or the zillion other things that could have gone wrong. The only way I could make sure (or so I thought) that everything went as they were supposed to was to be perfect.
I'm really glad I'm not perfect anymore. So very glad.
By the end of my freshman year of college, having both a strict daddy and mommy was a dominant fantasy. I knew I wanted to study Arabic, and I imagined being adopted by a childless Arab couple who would use, er, traditional methods in teaching me their native tongue. If I tried to speak in English at all, I'd be spanked. You know, sorta like the Language Pledge at Middlebury College. And they would certainly see to it that I did my homework every night (no doing it in the middle of class like I sometimes did). They would probably even have very traditional views about boys and dating (i.e. mamnoo'a -- forbidden).
That fantasy remained with me throughout college and into graduate school, though I think I had a few fantasies about being spanked by my Arabic instructor in grad school, especially as he actually did rule our class with an iron fist. If the university would have let him get away with it, I don't doubt he probably would have included corporeal punishment along with the dictations he used to punish us with when he thought we weren't studying hard enough.
The thing is, though, that when I look back at what I was like in college, I had no real need for a strong disciplinarian, as much as I may have dreamed of having one. I never drank. To be sure, it wasn't readily available my freshman year at that Evangelical university where alcohol was prohibited. But then, so was pre-marital sex, yet that didn't stop a lot of my classmates from giving it up in their boyfriends' backseats. When I transferred to a state school where I could study Arabic, alcohol was readily available from my friends who at times pleaded with me to have a drink with them. But I didn't drink because I was a Baptist. And the family I lived with from my church maintained a most assuredly dry home.
Not only did I not party, but I also kept my nose in the books. Sure, I procrastinated at times, slacked off here and there. But I had to have some sort of a social life, even if I insisted on being home by 9pm so I could get to bed by 9:30-10 at the latest. Yes. You read that right. I went to bed most nights well before 10pm throughout college. It boggles my mind now. Even I want to tease my undergraduate self for acting like such an old maid, as my friends often did. The only thing that saved me from being the class goody-goody (at least in Arabic, in my Honors class I had the good girl position totally locked up) was a guy I'll call Clark, who transferred into our Arabic class after spending a year in Egypt. He did nothing but study Arabic when he wasn't in class. Well, that and go to church. By my senior year, he'd overtaken me in grammar as well as in being the teacher's pet. I hated him, even though he was a very nice guy -- a fact that made me hate him even more. Next to Clark I felt like the naughty girl, which a small part of me enjoyed a great deal.
Obviously at some point I moved into the real world. I mean, now I not only drink but fornicate -- and celebrate my deviant sexual behavior in a blog! It was a gradual change that started the second year of grad school when I finally had my first beer. But I didn't actually start exploring sex until after the surgery that triggered my ME/CFS and after converting to Catholicism. Perhaps my willingness to forsake the faith of my youth gave me the courage to forsake its mores as well. And as my body moved beyond my ability to rigidly control because of illness, I desperately needed an escape. As I explained in my earliest post, I needed to play. Badly. So I retreated into that world that before I had only allowed myself to escape to at night while drifting off to sleep.
It makes me smile a bit to look back and think of my longings for a disciplinarian as a college student. I still had a healthy sexual fantasy life despite how repressed I was. And even if the fantasies themselves were rather unconventional -- so much so that I didn't even connect them to sex at the time.
That hunger for more discipline is also perhaps a bit disturbing. I clearly had no need of a disciplinarian. But all I could see then was the failings one would have kept me from making, even as everyone around me was constantly in awe of how good I was. I wanted to be perfect and surely a disciplinarian would have taken me to the Promised Land.
Or maybe I did need one, but only as a way of telling me it was okay to be bad. You can't live the fantasy of being naughty and getting spanked unless, well, unless you're actually naughty, or at least pretend to be so. If I was still the good girl who went to bed at 9:30 every night and whose only fault was that she procrastinated a bit, there wouldn't be much fun.
Yes, in many ways I think there is a lot about this kink that, for me at least, is about having the permission to be naughty, even if -- or perhaps, so that -- I get spanked for it. I think in many ways what I longed for in college was the freedom to be a naughty coed without the world falling apart. I had worked too hard to get there, and had too many great plans (even if illness quickly whisked them away) to risk pregnancy or the zillion other things that could have gone wrong. The only way I could make sure (or so I thought) that everything went as they were supposed to was to be perfect.
I'm really glad I'm not perfect anymore. So very glad.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
The Strictologist is in
A. has decided he is going to be a strictologist.
It started a few weeks back when he rearranged a chair in his sister's living room. While I wasn't there to witness it, it was apparently one of the single greatest acts in the history of interior design.
"I have a gift," he told me afterwards. No matter that he can't tell the difference between periwinkle and plum if his life depended on it. I'm no longer allowed to make decorating decisions about the apartment without his approval. And I'm most certainly not allowed to shop at Ikea. Ever. "You will not confuse Ikea with good taste," is his new mantra, which he's threatened to make me write 1000 times.
And you thought that last story was just fiction...
Then there was the other day when the owners of a particular website asked his opinion about their site. "Well, since they asked..." A. proceeded to list several major problems he found.
"Maybe you should be a website design consultant," I said. "Yeah and you could be like those management consultants and make lots of money."
"I would be a great consultant. Especially if I could use a cane." A. then laid out his scenario as yet another bossy Brit, in this case one who goes in and critiques both interior design and web design, with his trusty cane in tow, of course. "You've been very naughty with your drop down menus...And these chairs are disgraceful!"
"I suppose it's sorta like a pro-dom, in a way," I suggested. And according to a story I was reading this afternoon about the self-help industry, there is the common theme of those seeking out these bossy books and TV shows having "a penchant for punishment."
"Yes," said A. "A pro-dom, interior designer, web design consultant...a strictologist."
It does seem like a nice, catch-all title, no?
And how would one become a strictologist, I wondered. Well, hell, there are degrees in sexology, so why not strictology?
I can imagine it now. Training in scolding (perhaps even a minor -- with further coursework in an upper class British accent). Proper caning techniques. Implement care. Psychology of brats and subs.
Perhaps there might be a TV show in the making here, like, say, "Super Strictologist".
Yikes! Imagine a caning from somebody with that title...
It started a few weeks back when he rearranged a chair in his sister's living room. While I wasn't there to witness it, it was apparently one of the single greatest acts in the history of interior design.
"I have a gift," he told me afterwards. No matter that he can't tell the difference between periwinkle and plum if his life depended on it. I'm no longer allowed to make decorating decisions about the apartment without his approval. And I'm most certainly not allowed to shop at Ikea. Ever. "You will not confuse Ikea with good taste," is his new mantra, which he's threatened to make me write 1000 times.
And you thought that last story was just fiction...
Then there was the other day when the owners of a particular website asked his opinion about their site. "Well, since they asked..." A. proceeded to list several major problems he found.
"Maybe you should be a website design consultant," I said. "Yeah and you could be like those management consultants and make lots of money."
"I would be a great consultant. Especially if I could use a cane." A. then laid out his scenario as yet another bossy Brit, in this case one who goes in and critiques both interior design and web design, with his trusty cane in tow, of course. "You've been very naughty with your drop down menus...And these chairs are disgraceful!"
"I suppose it's sorta like a pro-dom, in a way," I suggested. And according to a story I was reading this afternoon about the self-help industry, there is the common theme of those seeking out these bossy books and TV shows having "a penchant for punishment."
"Yes," said A. "A pro-dom, interior designer, web design consultant...a strictologist."
It does seem like a nice, catch-all title, no?
And how would one become a strictologist, I wondered. Well, hell, there are degrees in sexology, so why not strictology?
I can imagine it now. Training in scolding (perhaps even a minor -- with further coursework in an upper class British accent). Proper caning techniques. Implement care. Psychology of brats and subs.
Perhaps there might be a TV show in the making here, like, say, "Super Strictologist".
Yikes! Imagine a caning from somebody with that title...
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