The other night as A. and I were talking, our discussion led to a traumatic memory of abuse from my childhood. It's still something that is hard for me to verbalize and after giving him a brief, nondescript summary of the incident, he held me quietly while the memory played out in full detail in my mind. He rubbed my back as I began to cry. Caressed my bottom, an act that usually turns on my spanko cravings. Instead, it reminded me of years lived in fear. I even slightly flinched at one point when his hand came toward my head to stroke my hair.
When I first began to explore my spanking kink five years ago, I thought that perhaps my desire for a spanking was an eroticization of the abuse from my childhood.
But over the years I've realized that I'm a spanko despite the abuse.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Under the apple tree
A. and I went to visit my grandma Saturday night. She lives about an hour away on seven acres of wooded property in the middle of suburbia. Indeed, it's hard to see the gravel road leading up to her house from the street, and A. almost missed it were it not for his Dukes of Hazzard-like turn in the middle of the road (he's adapting to driving in America so well). Yet once the gravel was crunching beneath the tires as we drove along fields lined with tall Fir trees, it felt miles from the endless rows of McMansions.
My Gram welcomed us inside. Made us each a drink (Scotch for A., vodka for me). Took us out to the back porch where hummingbirds freely buzzed among the feeders and rhododendrons and Gram's chocolate brown dachshund bounced around noisily demanding that her favorite chew toy be thrown.
After chatting for a bit, my Gram announced that she needed to use the restroom, so I took the opportunity to show A. around the place. We walked out to the barn where I pointed to the old sheep stalls and the back field where they used to graze. We sauntered back to the house but detoured along a concrete path down towards the storage shed in the basement. The path was overgrown with blackberry bolts and various flowers that hadn't been cut back. A. stood in front of me holding the hand of mine that wasn't holding onto my cane as I hobbled down the small steps. When we went as far as we could, we turned to head back up.
"Just a second." A. turned to step under an old apple tree.
[...]
I followed, half smirking as I knew what he was thinking. He looked around the ground at the various sticks. "Turn around. Up against the tree," he said as he pulled me toward the trunk. I did as I was told.
He picked up a hunk of wood about an inch or so in diameter.
"No, that's too big," I told him. Though it didn't stop him from whacking me on the ass with it a few times. I rolled my eyes. It stung a little, but clearly he knew nothing about switches. I turned to my right and saw a nice green, fairly smooth switch growing out of a branch about even to my head. "Here." I picked it off and handed it to him.
"Ah, that's better."
Well, yes and no.
I mean, it definitely stung a lot more. But, well, it stung a lot more!
Before I know it, he's pulling down my trousers and panties right there in my Gram's yard.
Part of me was thinking, omg, my Gram is going to hear. She's going to tell my aunt that here I am, after not coming to visit in over six years, bringing some British guy around and getting all kinky in her yard.
The other part of me was grabbing the branch just above my head, feeling really warm and squirmy. A. felt his hand up my shirt and onto my breasts.
"Are your nipples still tender?" I nodded. PMS has been extra fun this month. He brushed along my left breast, though at that moment I totally wanted him to go ahead and squeeze. "Keep still," A. ordered as I reflexively tried to dodge the switch.
Did I mention that it stung? Thank God for the vodka earlier.
I mumbled something about my Gram hearing between oowws, though I know she can't hear well. But, what if she came looking for us? What if she was in the living room looking out the glass patio door and down at us?
Yet, wasn't holding onto to this tree branch above my head as I got whipped one of the most erotic things we've ever done?
"You so like this tree," A. teased as he gave me a few hand spanks.
"You're the one who picked it out." I giggled. "Maybe you're a...dendraphile."
"No, you're the dendraphile. Holding onto that tree like that. You so want it," he kept teasing as he pulled my pants back up. I adjusted my shirt, grabbed my cane, rubbed my backside and headed back up the steps.
"Where did you guys go? You've been gone forever." Well, at least Gram didn't hear anything.
We went out for dinner and after salty Mexican, returned to her place to look at old photos and knick knacks until the wee hours of the morning before finally heading back to downtown Portland.
I didn't sleep well that night, though not for the reason you might imagine. The sting wore off after twenty minutes or so. But, as noted above, I haven't been to visit my Gram in over six years, before the surgery that made me so sick. Physically it's hard for me to get out and about on my own much of the time.
However, as I mentioned in this post, I didn't grow up with my Gram. Or my biological father. I didn't really get to know them until I was 24 and spent part of the year living with that side of the family. My father was more ambivalent about my presence in his life, but my grandparents and aunt were happy to have me around. Happy to spend warm summer evenings, a lot like last Saturday, telling me about a part of me I never knew. About the life I might have had. Like spending summers with them on their ranch in Dallas riding my own pony instead of living with my histrionic mother in low-income housing eating Kraft macaroni and cheese.
My grandpa in particular spent hours telling me all the family history. About farming. About being a Navy cook on a ship during WWII. About hunting with his Native-American friends in Eastern Oregon. He talked about building bookshelves for me. And a little chair because I'm short and don't fit well in regular chairs.
And when he died that summer it felt like the most unfair thing that ever happened to me.
As I got up Sunday morning while A. remained asleep, that staggering loss came back in the same flood of tears it usually does. In the same ache in the middle of my chest. In the less palpable, but more unbearable pain seeping throughout my being. All those "whys?" All that terrible unfairness.
But then I remembered A. and I under the apple tree.
And smiled.
I cannot go back and erase the mistake my mother made in never telling my father about me. I cannot go back and capture the childhood I might have had if she had told him. I will never again listen to my Pop tell stories on the back porch as he sits flicking his cigarette ash into an old Alpo can next to him.
Yet, right now, there is a lot that is sweet and wonderful and beautiful.
Like memories of being kinky under an apple tree.
My Gram welcomed us inside. Made us each a drink (Scotch for A., vodka for me). Took us out to the back porch where hummingbirds freely buzzed among the feeders and rhododendrons and Gram's chocolate brown dachshund bounced around noisily demanding that her favorite chew toy be thrown.
After chatting for a bit, my Gram announced that she needed to use the restroom, so I took the opportunity to show A. around the place. We walked out to the barn where I pointed to the old sheep stalls and the back field where they used to graze. We sauntered back to the house but detoured along a concrete path down towards the storage shed in the basement. The path was overgrown with blackberry bolts and various flowers that hadn't been cut back. A. stood in front of me holding the hand of mine that wasn't holding onto my cane as I hobbled down the small steps. When we went as far as we could, we turned to head back up.
"Just a second." A. turned to step under an old apple tree.
[...]
I followed, half smirking as I knew what he was thinking. He looked around the ground at the various sticks. "Turn around. Up against the tree," he said as he pulled me toward the trunk. I did as I was told.
He picked up a hunk of wood about an inch or so in diameter.
"No, that's too big," I told him. Though it didn't stop him from whacking me on the ass with it a few times. I rolled my eyes. It stung a little, but clearly he knew nothing about switches. I turned to my right and saw a nice green, fairly smooth switch growing out of a branch about even to my head. "Here." I picked it off and handed it to him.
"Ah, that's better."
Well, yes and no.
I mean, it definitely stung a lot more. But, well, it stung a lot more!
Before I know it, he's pulling down my trousers and panties right there in my Gram's yard.
Part of me was thinking, omg, my Gram is going to hear. She's going to tell my aunt that here I am, after not coming to visit in over six years, bringing some British guy around and getting all kinky in her yard.
The other part of me was grabbing the branch just above my head, feeling really warm and squirmy. A. felt his hand up my shirt and onto my breasts.
"Are your nipples still tender?" I nodded. PMS has been extra fun this month. He brushed along my left breast, though at that moment I totally wanted him to go ahead and squeeze. "Keep still," A. ordered as I reflexively tried to dodge the switch.
Did I mention that it stung? Thank God for the vodka earlier.
I mumbled something about my Gram hearing between oowws, though I know she can't hear well. But, what if she came looking for us? What if she was in the living room looking out the glass patio door and down at us?
Yet, wasn't holding onto to this tree branch above my head as I got whipped one of the most erotic things we've ever done?
"You so like this tree," A. teased as he gave me a few hand spanks.
"You're the one who picked it out." I giggled. "Maybe you're a...dendraphile."
"No, you're the dendraphile. Holding onto that tree like that. You so want it," he kept teasing as he pulled my pants back up. I adjusted my shirt, grabbed my cane, rubbed my backside and headed back up the steps.
"Where did you guys go? You've been gone forever." Well, at least Gram didn't hear anything.
We went out for dinner and after salty Mexican, returned to her place to look at old photos and knick knacks until the wee hours of the morning before finally heading back to downtown Portland.
I didn't sleep well that night, though not for the reason you might imagine. The sting wore off after twenty minutes or so. But, as noted above, I haven't been to visit my Gram in over six years, before the surgery that made me so sick. Physically it's hard for me to get out and about on my own much of the time.
However, as I mentioned in this post, I didn't grow up with my Gram. Or my biological father. I didn't really get to know them until I was 24 and spent part of the year living with that side of the family. My father was more ambivalent about my presence in his life, but my grandparents and aunt were happy to have me around. Happy to spend warm summer evenings, a lot like last Saturday, telling me about a part of me I never knew. About the life I might have had. Like spending summers with them on their ranch in Dallas riding my own pony instead of living with my histrionic mother in low-income housing eating Kraft macaroni and cheese.
My grandpa in particular spent hours telling me all the family history. About farming. About being a Navy cook on a ship during WWII. About hunting with his Native-American friends in Eastern Oregon. He talked about building bookshelves for me. And a little chair because I'm short and don't fit well in regular chairs.
And when he died that summer it felt like the most unfair thing that ever happened to me.
As I got up Sunday morning while A. remained asleep, that staggering loss came back in the same flood of tears it usually does. In the same ache in the middle of my chest. In the less palpable, but more unbearable pain seeping throughout my being. All those "whys?" All that terrible unfairness.
But then I remembered A. and I under the apple tree.
And smiled.
I cannot go back and erase the mistake my mother made in never telling my father about me. I cannot go back and capture the childhood I might have had if she had told him. I will never again listen to my Pop tell stories on the back porch as he sits flicking his cigarette ash into an old Alpo can next to him.
Yet, right now, there is a lot that is sweet and wonderful and beautiful.
Like memories of being kinky under an apple tree.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Technical difficulties
After a heads up from Poeisia, I discovered that my blog is not showing up properly in Internet Explorer. I usually use Mozilla Firefox, and my blog is showing up just fine there so I wasn't aware there was a problem. I have alerted Blogger of the problem and hopefully they'll have it fixed soon. Especially as I got a wicked spanking under an apple tree yesterday that I want to tell you all about. ;)
Thanks for your patience.
Thanks for your patience.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
In case you were wondering...
Lest you wrongly assume that I always think saintly, good Catholic girl thoughts (well, alright, you guys know I don't, but those who read my non-kink blog where I originally posted this don't always know that) consider the conversation my boyfriend and I had the other morning about fetishes.
"I wonder what the most obscure sexual fetish is?" A. pondered.
"I remember coming across balloon fetishes once online," I said. "I think that one has to be the most boring."
After thinking a bit about zoophilia, which we always joke about after he saw a BBC documentary about zoophiles, I wondered aloud about the following.
"So, since there are zoophiles, can you have the vegatarian equivilent? Say, an herbiphile?"
"Now, Prince Charles - he'd be a right herbiphile," A stated.
Before you know it, we were on the Internet looking up herbiphilia. Which is apparently phytophilia. And those who have sex with trees are dendraphiles.
So, now ya know.
"I wonder what the most obscure sexual fetish is?" A. pondered.
"I remember coming across balloon fetishes once online," I said. "I think that one has to be the most boring."
After thinking a bit about zoophilia, which we always joke about after he saw a BBC documentary about zoophiles, I wondered aloud about the following.
"So, since there are zoophiles, can you have the vegatarian equivilent? Say, an herbiphile?"
"Now, Prince Charles - he'd be a right herbiphile," A stated.
Before you know it, we were on the Internet looking up herbiphilia. Which is apparently phytophilia. And those who have sex with trees are dendraphiles.
So, now ya know.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
More neighbor action
The warm weather has us all opening our windows and reminded me that there was more spanko action in some apartment somewhere above me.
I was taking a bath and could hear it. My boyfriend was in the other room, and I wasn't sure if he had heard it until after I got out of the bathtub.
"Did you hear the spanking action going on?" he asked.
So, it isn't just my imagination. I've got another set of ears to verify the presence of other spankos in this building.
They might have even been the couple behind me at Safeway a week or so ago. They were college-age and the young woman was saying something about she shouldn't be punished. I didn't hear the rest of the conversation as it was my turn at the pharmacy counter.
No spanking action in this apartment lately. I've felt pretty shitty this week. Wait, I think there was some a bit earlier in the week before I took a nap. But that was with my pajama bottoms on. Yeah, it's been one of those weeks when all I wear is my pajamas.
Sigh. Yeah, bad pain. That icky, flu-like feeling so much apart of having CFIDS/ME.
Makes me think I'm insane for having a spanking kink when I live in so much pain as it is.
I was taking a bath and could hear it. My boyfriend was in the other room, and I wasn't sure if he had heard it until after I got out of the bathtub.
"Did you hear the spanking action going on?" he asked.
So, it isn't just my imagination. I've got another set of ears to verify the presence of other spankos in this building.
They might have even been the couple behind me at Safeway a week or so ago. They were college-age and the young woman was saying something about she shouldn't be punished. I didn't hear the rest of the conversation as it was my turn at the pharmacy counter.
No spanking action in this apartment lately. I've felt pretty shitty this week. Wait, I think there was some a bit earlier in the week before I took a nap. But that was with my pajama bottoms on. Yeah, it's been one of those weeks when all I wear is my pajamas.
Sigh. Yeah, bad pain. That icky, flu-like feeling so much apart of having CFIDS/ME.
Makes me think I'm insane for having a spanking kink when I live in so much pain as it is.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Catching up
Okay, we finally got the Internet connection fixed, so it's time to catch you up on the spankings I've had in the last two weeks.
As my last post mentioned, I was a bit cranky last week and this time a bit more vocal about it. Though, my boyfriend, A., says that my cranky is really "cranky-lite," the "diet-Coke of cranky" with pinky finger hooked to the corner of his mouth. (Think "The Spy Who Shagged Me.") At any rate, I woke up that day really achy and tired because I hadn't slept well due to the fact that my hip is STILL bothering me after almost a year now and has flared up even more the last few weeks. I had been annoyed with all kinds of things all day and when I got pouty, A. just responded with silly faces to make me laugh. Which did make me laugh, making me all the more annoyed.
"Stop it," I'd whine.
"But it's the best remedy for crankiness," he'd say.
"Nuh uh."
"That's alright, I'll sort you out later." He couldn't then because my dad was with us. So later that night after I'd taken my dad home, I figured he'd be sorting me out. When he just got ready for bed instead, I got really bratty. He emerged from the bathroom to find me sitting on the corner of the bed, my arms folded over my chest.
"About fucking time you got out of the bathroom."
He gave me that mock-shocked look as I went into the bathroom. While I, um, did my business in there, I could hear him rummaging around underneath the bed.
Damnit! Why oh why can't he just use his frickin' hand? Why does he need implements?
To be honest, as it was over a week ago, I don't remember the details of that spanking well. I believe there was a strap and a brush involved. And a half-assed lecture about swearing. I do, however, remember him saying afterwards when we cuddled that it was hard for him to be very stern when I'm cranky because it's so cute.
Sigh...what can I say? Maybe I should change my nickname to the Cranky Cutie. ;)
The second spanking took place last week while we were on holiday at the Coast. We stayed in the cottage of the Sandlake Country Inn, a delightful Bed and Breakfast in Pacific City where our privacy was priority for the innkeepers. Indeed, each morning they brought breakfast in a basket, placed it on the doorstep, rang the doorbell and left. The only time we saw them was when we arrived and when we left. Which was a good thing because we packed with kinky play in mind. However, we didn't end up doing much kinky play as those bastards at Thrifty Car Rental failed to tell us over the phone about a variety rules, including those about additional drivers, despite being specifically asked, so I ended up having to drive, causing my hip pain to flare up to ungodly levels. After a night of very little sleep, we decided to have A. drive and hope we didn't get into an accident or anything as I was utterly incapapble of driving by that point.
And we needed to drive up to Cannon Beach to meet a spanko friend from online. The innkeeper said that it would only take an hour or so to drive to Cannon Beach. We were meeting our friend at 5:30, so leaving at 4:30 seemed reasonable, right? Wrong. It actually takes about an hour and 15 minutes. And of course, I was running about 10 minutes late. Why? I have no idea. I'm always late and still can't quite figure out what exactly causes me to be late. Then there was road work. Though that didn't throw us off too much. But we ended up in Cannon Beach at 6:05 pm.
"I'm so blaming you," A. said as we got out of the car. As always (it's a play thing). Though this was rather merited as we did leave late because of me. We ended up missing our friend. And while I enjoyed the poshest dinner I've ever had later that night at the Stephanie Inn, it was with a twinge of dread as I knew a spanking awaited me at the end of the night. Tardiness usually carries a six strokes with the brush per minute late penalty. And A. had most assuredly packed the brush. Thankfully he was in a merciful mood when we got back to the cottage, especially as our being late wasn't entirely my fault. I only got the strap and his hand. Which made for a nice, cozy glow to sleep on. If only he would do all bedtime spankings like that...
The last spanking was Friday. We finally got our Internet connection up, and the new cane arrived from Adam and Gillian's. I was trying to catch up a bit on blog reading and managed to make it over to the Punishment Book where Mija was showing off some antique brushes she's put on sale at Ebay. I didn't even get a chance to finish reading the post as A. decided my reading a spanking blog was a sure sign I was hankering for a spanking, despite my protestations to the contrary. It was over a pile of pillows on the bed for me.
My first taste of a rattan cane was almost a year ago. At that time I remember thinking that rattan stings much more than bamboo. And Friday I was reminded of just how much they sting. I got six of the best several times over as A. played around with intensity and position. Then he decided to compare it with the riding crop to see which one hurt more. OW! Definitely still have to go with the riding crop as the more painful implement. There was a final nine strokes that were fairly severe. Then the strap. Then his hand. Then lots of cuddling during which I fell asleep.
Spankings do seem to have that affect on me.
So, my gentle readers, you are all caught up. And no, we still have not had the "discussion" yet, but I suspect that will be the next post.
As my last post mentioned, I was a bit cranky last week and this time a bit more vocal about it. Though, my boyfriend, A., says that my cranky is really "cranky-lite," the "diet-Coke of cranky" with pinky finger hooked to the corner of his mouth. (Think "The Spy Who Shagged Me.") At any rate, I woke up that day really achy and tired because I hadn't slept well due to the fact that my hip is STILL bothering me after almost a year now and has flared up even more the last few weeks. I had been annoyed with all kinds of things all day and when I got pouty, A. just responded with silly faces to make me laugh. Which did make me laugh, making me all the more annoyed.
"Stop it," I'd whine.
"But it's the best remedy for crankiness," he'd say.
"Nuh uh."
"That's alright, I'll sort you out later." He couldn't then because my dad was with us. So later that night after I'd taken my dad home, I figured he'd be sorting me out. When he just got ready for bed instead, I got really bratty. He emerged from the bathroom to find me sitting on the corner of the bed, my arms folded over my chest.
"About fucking time you got out of the bathroom."
He gave me that mock-shocked look as I went into the bathroom. While I, um, did my business in there, I could hear him rummaging around underneath the bed.
Damnit! Why oh why can't he just use his frickin' hand? Why does he need implements?
To be honest, as it was over a week ago, I don't remember the details of that spanking well. I believe there was a strap and a brush involved. And a half-assed lecture about swearing. I do, however, remember him saying afterwards when we cuddled that it was hard for him to be very stern when I'm cranky because it's so cute.
Sigh...what can I say? Maybe I should change my nickname to the Cranky Cutie. ;)
The second spanking took place last week while we were on holiday at the Coast. We stayed in the cottage of the Sandlake Country Inn, a delightful Bed and Breakfast in Pacific City where our privacy was priority for the innkeepers. Indeed, each morning they brought breakfast in a basket, placed it on the doorstep, rang the doorbell and left. The only time we saw them was when we arrived and when we left. Which was a good thing because we packed with kinky play in mind. However, we didn't end up doing much kinky play as those bastards at Thrifty Car Rental failed to tell us over the phone about a variety rules, including those about additional drivers, despite being specifically asked, so I ended up having to drive, causing my hip pain to flare up to ungodly levels. After a night of very little sleep, we decided to have A. drive and hope we didn't get into an accident or anything as I was utterly incapapble of driving by that point.
And we needed to drive up to Cannon Beach to meet a spanko friend from online. The innkeeper said that it would only take an hour or so to drive to Cannon Beach. We were meeting our friend at 5:30, so leaving at 4:30 seemed reasonable, right? Wrong. It actually takes about an hour and 15 minutes. And of course, I was running about 10 minutes late. Why? I have no idea. I'm always late and still can't quite figure out what exactly causes me to be late. Then there was road work. Though that didn't throw us off too much. But we ended up in Cannon Beach at 6:05 pm.
"I'm so blaming you," A. said as we got out of the car. As always (it's a play thing). Though this was rather merited as we did leave late because of me. We ended up missing our friend. And while I enjoyed the poshest dinner I've ever had later that night at the Stephanie Inn, it was with a twinge of dread as I knew a spanking awaited me at the end of the night. Tardiness usually carries a six strokes with the brush per minute late penalty. And A. had most assuredly packed the brush. Thankfully he was in a merciful mood when we got back to the cottage, especially as our being late wasn't entirely my fault. I only got the strap and his hand. Which made for a nice, cozy glow to sleep on. If only he would do all bedtime spankings like that...
The last spanking was Friday. We finally got our Internet connection up, and the new cane arrived from Adam and Gillian's. I was trying to catch up a bit on blog reading and managed to make it over to the Punishment Book where Mija was showing off some antique brushes she's put on sale at Ebay. I didn't even get a chance to finish reading the post as A. decided my reading a spanking blog was a sure sign I was hankering for a spanking, despite my protestations to the contrary. It was over a pile of pillows on the bed for me.
My first taste of a rattan cane was almost a year ago. At that time I remember thinking that rattan stings much more than bamboo. And Friday I was reminded of just how much they sting. I got six of the best several times over as A. played around with intensity and position. Then he decided to compare it with the riding crop to see which one hurt more. OW! Definitely still have to go with the riding crop as the more painful implement. There was a final nine strokes that were fairly severe. Then the strap. Then his hand. Then lots of cuddling during which I fell asleep.
Spankings do seem to have that affect on me.
So, my gentle readers, you are all caught up. And no, we still have not had the "discussion" yet, but I suspect that will be the next post.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
There's nothing like a good spanking...
...to put you in a better mood. :-)
[Note: I started writing this post a week ago but between the holiday and no internet connection, haven't been able to finish it until now. I'm using a tenuous wireless hotspot here in my apartment for the moment. Hopefully they'll figure out what's wrong this week.]
I'm not normally a cranky sort of person. On those few days when I am, I tend to suppress it as I don't like to make others suffer from my bad mood. And that was true for the first few days after my boyfriend arrived. I felt really cranky, but didn't really say much. I mean, it wasn't his fault. I was tired and feeling shitty. My neuropathic pain was back. And I had no libido. At all. It was really annoying.
I kept telling myself to be patient. I was actually able to drive to the airport to pick him up, and I haven't been able to drive for almost two months. Hell, I've spent most of the last two months in bed. So, I mean, there is progress here.
But I still felt annoyed.
And I wanted a spanking. Well...sorta. My body still felt squeamish about it.
As we were leaving Trader Joe's Friday afternoon, we talked about whether or not we had enough time to get the Flexcar washed before we had to have it back. As I looked at my watch, I thought it would be cutting it too close.
"And you don't want to be late," he said with a pseudo-stern grin. "Or rush to get back."
"Nope. I learned my lesson that day." And, you know, I have too. I tend to leave a lot more time for things now, which means I rush less. Funny how that works.
"Actually, you've been very good since I've been here," he said as we pulled out of the parking lot.
Sigh. Yeah. I have been. I've felt too shitty to be otherwise.
When we got home, he unloaded the groceries while I sat in the car waiting to take it back to its appointed parking spot. After taking the first load in, he came back out for the second.
"Did you honk at me?" With a stern-ish edge to it.
"No." I shook my head a bit puzzled as I hadn't heard any honking. Then felt that devilish feeling come up and honked the horn. "But now I did." And grinned my mischievous grin.
Yay! My bratting instincts are back.
He gave me a mock shocked look. Took the rest of the groceries inside.
A little while later we were sorta just sitting lazily and talking. At one point the conversation shifted to a discussion of his new glasses and how stylish they are. He pulled them down his nose as I giggled about how stern they made him look. That's when he mentioned that he hadn't really spanked me since he arrived.
"Nope, ya haven't," I said.
"Right. It's six now. At 6:30 I want you on the bed in your knickers."
"Okay." There was a pause for a few minutes. Then I giggled. "About time you fucking spanked me."
Yep. Those bratting instincts are soooo back.
"My my, you do need a spanking," he said after another mock shocked gasp.
"Ummm...yeah," I grinned.
I was ready now. Both mind and body.
So, at 6:25 I was on the bed laying on a pile of pillows in nothing but my pink flowery knickers. Watching from the corner of my eye as he pulled out various implements: the new leather strap, the paddle, the mean ol' brush. Feeling that excited dread coursing through my veins.
It was basically a "getting reacquainted" spanking. Testing out where my pain threshold was utilizing the 1-10 scale. The strap was about a 7. The brush an 8 1/2 and the paddle a 9/10. Yeah, that paddle freekin' hurts. He also played a bit with the diminutive, broken cane while we await the new one from Adam and Gillian. At 12-inches it definitely gives a bit of a sting and leaves some marks, leaving me to imagine what the full 33 inches will be like.
Then he got out the wooden spoon.
"Do you know why I'm going to use this?"
"Um...no."
"It's because this is the implement most associated with past spankings about your writing." As he spanked me, he told me to be thinking about all the writing I do -- novel, blogging, school, emails -- and how much time I spend on each and how much time I want to be spending before our forthcoming discussion.
Which, trust me, I've been thinking about a great deal after that damn wooden spoon.
A funny thing happened once the spanking finished. I was no longer cranky. And I was even a little, er...libidinous.
"I'm in a much better mood now," I said with a happy sigh as we cuddled before falling asleep that night. "I've been feeling cranky all day."
"I didn't even know you were in a bad mood."
"Well, I don't know, I usually don't really say anything."
"You'll have to tell me next time when you're cranky."
Well, yesterday I told him. Boy oh boy, did he get to see me in a cranky mood.
But that will have to wait for another post.
[Note: I started writing this post a week ago but between the holiday and no internet connection, haven't been able to finish it until now. I'm using a tenuous wireless hotspot here in my apartment for the moment. Hopefully they'll figure out what's wrong this week.]
I'm not normally a cranky sort of person. On those few days when I am, I tend to suppress it as I don't like to make others suffer from my bad mood. And that was true for the first few days after my boyfriend arrived. I felt really cranky, but didn't really say much. I mean, it wasn't his fault. I was tired and feeling shitty. My neuropathic pain was back. And I had no libido. At all. It was really annoying.
I kept telling myself to be patient. I was actually able to drive to the airport to pick him up, and I haven't been able to drive for almost two months. Hell, I've spent most of the last two months in bed. So, I mean, there is progress here.
But I still felt annoyed.
And I wanted a spanking. Well...sorta. My body still felt squeamish about it.
As we were leaving Trader Joe's Friday afternoon, we talked about whether or not we had enough time to get the Flexcar washed before we had to have it back. As I looked at my watch, I thought it would be cutting it too close.
"And you don't want to be late," he said with a pseudo-stern grin. "Or rush to get back."
"Nope. I learned my lesson that day." And, you know, I have too. I tend to leave a lot more time for things now, which means I rush less. Funny how that works.
"Actually, you've been very good since I've been here," he said as we pulled out of the parking lot.
Sigh. Yeah. I have been. I've felt too shitty to be otherwise.
When we got home, he unloaded the groceries while I sat in the car waiting to take it back to its appointed parking spot. After taking the first load in, he came back out for the second.
"Did you honk at me?" With a stern-ish edge to it.
"No." I shook my head a bit puzzled as I hadn't heard any honking. Then felt that devilish feeling come up and honked the horn. "But now I did." And grinned my mischievous grin.
Yay! My bratting instincts are back.
He gave me a mock shocked look. Took the rest of the groceries inside.
A little while later we were sorta just sitting lazily and talking. At one point the conversation shifted to a discussion of his new glasses and how stylish they are. He pulled them down his nose as I giggled about how stern they made him look. That's when he mentioned that he hadn't really spanked me since he arrived.
"Nope, ya haven't," I said.
"Right. It's six now. At 6:30 I want you on the bed in your knickers."
"Okay." There was a pause for a few minutes. Then I giggled. "About time you fucking spanked me."
Yep. Those bratting instincts are soooo back.
"My my, you do need a spanking," he said after another mock shocked gasp.
"Ummm...yeah," I grinned.
I was ready now. Both mind and body.
So, at 6:25 I was on the bed laying on a pile of pillows in nothing but my pink flowery knickers. Watching from the corner of my eye as he pulled out various implements: the new leather strap, the paddle, the mean ol' brush. Feeling that excited dread coursing through my veins.
It was basically a "getting reacquainted" spanking. Testing out where my pain threshold was utilizing the 1-10 scale. The strap was about a 7. The brush an 8 1/2 and the paddle a 9/10. Yeah, that paddle freekin' hurts. He also played a bit with the diminutive, broken cane while we await the new one from Adam and Gillian. At 12-inches it definitely gives a bit of a sting and leaves some marks, leaving me to imagine what the full 33 inches will be like.
Then he got out the wooden spoon.
"Do you know why I'm going to use this?"
"Um...no."
"It's because this is the implement most associated with past spankings about your writing." As he spanked me, he told me to be thinking about all the writing I do -- novel, blogging, school, emails -- and how much time I spend on each and how much time I want to be spending before our forthcoming discussion.
Which, trust me, I've been thinking about a great deal after that damn wooden spoon.
A funny thing happened once the spanking finished. I was no longer cranky. And I was even a little, er...libidinous.
"I'm in a much better mood now," I said with a happy sigh as we cuddled before falling asleep that night. "I've been feeling cranky all day."
"I didn't even know you were in a bad mood."
"Well, I don't know, I usually don't really say anything."
"You'll have to tell me next time when you're cranky."
Well, yesterday I told him. Boy oh boy, did he get to see me in a cranky mood.
But that will have to wait for another post.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Internet service down
Just a quick note here from my school's computer lab (my haven't I gotten brave) to let you know that my Internet service is down and may not be working again until Monday (ugh!). I hope to return to writing about the salacious details of my spanking life as soon as possible.
In the meantime, go get some sun and quit blog surfing. ;)
P.S. No, we haven't had that "discussion" yet, though we did have a different one. I've started writing about that but was only able to get about half way through the post before I got too tired and had to save it to finish later. And then, of course, I wasn't able to access the Internet to finish it so, it's still in draft status for now.
In the meantime, go get some sun and quit blog surfing. ;)
P.S. No, we haven't had that "discussion" yet, though we did have a different one. I've started writing about that but was only able to get about half way through the post before I got too tired and had to save it to finish later. And then, of course, I wasn't able to access the Internet to finish it so, it's still in draft status for now.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
The annual SSC at SSS
Every summer at the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup there is a short story contest to give all us perverts plenty of summer reading. Should you be creatively inclined, you might try your hand at writing a story for the fame and accolades this venerable contest provides. Er...well, sorta. Okay, maybe not much fame, but perhaps a few accolades.
Here is one of my stories from last year, "Spanked by Mr. Schneider." I'm working on a few stories for this summer, but I'd love to see what you write. :)
Here is one of my stories from last year, "Spanked by Mr. Schneider." I'm working on a few stories for this summer, but I'd love to see what you write. :)
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Hey-la, day-la, my boyfriend's back
Now I'm going to get a beatin'. ;)
Actually, last night I got a little spanking, more to test out his new toys: a scrap strap from Adam and Gillian's (I like it) and a paddle from Woodrage (ouch!!). We tested them out with me bent over in front of the dresser, then a bit more bent over the bed, then finally over his lap. It felt so nice to be over his lap again that I almost cried. Though, cuddling was even nicer.
We're supposed to have a "talk" soon about the novel I've been taking a break from writing. Or rather, we were going to have it this evening but my dad stopped by unexpectedly (one of the few times his timing was impeccable!) and we didn't get around to it (oh, what a shame...). The break was a legitimate break that we both agreed upon. However, it's getting to be time to start writing again and spanking does help to focus my mind a bit.
Sigh...but it's going to hurt. :(
Actually, last night I got a little spanking, more to test out his new toys: a scrap strap from Adam and Gillian's (I like it) and a paddle from Woodrage (ouch!!). We tested them out with me bent over in front of the dresser, then a bit more bent over the bed, then finally over his lap. It felt so nice to be over his lap again that I almost cried. Though, cuddling was even nicer.
We're supposed to have a "talk" soon about the novel I've been taking a break from writing. Or rather, we were going to have it this evening but my dad stopped by unexpectedly (one of the few times his timing was impeccable!) and we didn't get around to it (oh, what a shame...). The break was a legitimate break that we both agreed upon. However, it's getting to be time to start writing again and spanking does help to focus my mind a bit.
Sigh...but it's going to hurt. :(
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Story: Dealing with My Disability [M/F]
This is an old story to tide y'all over while I'm sick. And as illness has been the topic of many of my posts lately, I thought I'd post this particular story which originally appeared at the soc.sexuality.spanking Usenet newgroup in March of 2002. At that time I had recently been diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome (also called Myalgic Encephalomylitis outside the U.S) and was suffering a relapse severe enough to convince me that I had to take a leave of absence from school. As I'm in the midst of a similiar relapse, this seemed like a particularly apt story to post. It's not one of my better stories -- there are parts of it that make me wince a bit. And I kind of giggle to myself as the character of Walter is sort of an amalgamation of three people, all of whom I can recognize in certain lines. But, at any rate, here it is. Enjoy.
*********************************************
Story: Dealing with My Disability [M/F]
"I think we need to meet..." Walter's voice lingered in my mind as the
clock ticked closer to 5:30. When he said those words, I knew I was in
trouble. And with only fifteen minutes left until he arrived, I couldn't
decide if I wanted the minutes to hurry up and pass already, or to stay
off, away in a future that wouldn't come. At any rate, I still had
fifteen minutes -- no fourteen minutes - to rehearse my arguments. To
practice my spin...
"Well, I see you haven't touched your meds for today..." He glanced down at the plastic rectangle with boxes for each day containing pills and
capsules of various size and color on the countertop of my kitchenette
as he came into my studio apartment. D'oh!
"Oh, yeah...I forgot," I said without thinking.
"Well, I'll have to make sure I help you remember."
"Well, I mean, I didn't really forget...I just haven't gotten to them yet.
And, well, my throat has been kinda sore so they're not as easy to
swallow..." Yeah, there was always a health ailment to get me out of
trouble...Or so I thought...
"Yes, but that's all the more reason to make sure you take them if
you're not feeling well."
"True...I'm just taking them after I eat dinner...and some of them are for
bedtime anyway." Lame attempt, I know.
"Of course." He looked at me with a wry smile and a raised eyebrow.
"Now, how about if I take a look at your journal." My
symptom/food/activity journal. It was something to help the doctors keep
track of my illness, as well as help me think about what I was doing. To
learn to listen to my body when I'd as soon ignore the headaches and
fatigue telling me I needed to rest before I get REALLY sick.
"S.s..sure..." Right to business, as usual. I handed him my spiral bound
notebook. This was the part I worried about. There in my pencil
scratchings, or lack of them, was the grim truth that I had not been as
diligent in keeping tack of my symptoms. And when I had written down my
food, it was stuff I shouldn't be eating. And when I tallied my
activities and the points of energy they cost me, I had clearly racked
up far too many.
"Hmmm..." Walter flipped through the pages as his eyebrow reached further
towards his hairline and his lips pursed together.
"See, I've been feeling better and I've been wanting to kinda see how
much more I can do...I mean, I think the herbal decoction from the
acupuncturist is really working - tastes like shi - I mean crap - but,
um, you know, I think I should push a little bit, try 'n get my body to
come back to the real world. And besides, I haven't had a relapse for
well over a month...I think I'm really starting to get better..."
"A month is hardly enough time to consider yourself 'cured,' my dear..."
His eyebrows crinkled towards the center as he looked away from the
notebook and down at me. He was only 5'10 or so, but as I'm exactly 5'
and ½ inch, he still towered over me. "And pushing yourself is why
you've gotten so sick in the first place." I rolled my eyes, sighed and
looked away. I hate when he insists on "logic" and "reality."
As my primary argument was no longer valid, I spent the next few minutes
as he flipped through the rule-lined pages trying to think of ways to
soften the edges of my transgressions. I used to try and think of
counter-arguments. Well, I still did. But I was no match for Walter. He
was a lawyer and had years more practice at it.
"You spent four hours at the mall on Saturday?? What were you thinking?
You're one major daily activity is only suppose one or two hours and not
that physically exerting...certainly not a four hour hike through the mall!"
"Well, I was hanging out with my sister...she was home and ---"
"And then you went out to a movie...and then out to a coffeehouse afterwards?"
"We would have gone to a bar but she's still underage." I grinned with
that mischievous twinkle. He glared.
"Are you trying to kill yourself?"
"I won't die..." I mumbled.
"You never know..."
"Yeah, I do. CFIDS isn't fatal...it's just.... debilitating..." The last word
scraped through my mouth. I really despised it. Or any of the words used
in brochures, medical journal articles, books, websites, or newsgroups
to describe my illness. A dark scowl washed over me. I guess I still
hadn't finished going through the Five Stages of Grief...
"That's right. It is debilitating and will get even more so if you don't
take care of yourself. And clearly you have not been doing that." His
voice had that mixture of sternness and impatience.
"It's just..." I didn't mean to start crying. Really. I had never cried in
front of Walter. But my scowl turned into tears and then into sobs.
"It's just that I never get to have any kind of normal life. I'm just so
tired of watching life go by and never having the chance to grab hold of
it, you know? I'm tired of feeling like some old woman..." I folded my
arms as my eyes became red and puffy and my nose started to run. Walter
stood frozen at first, then grabbed a Kleenex and handed it to me. "I'm
sorry..." I said. "I'm not crying on purpose to manipulate you or
anything. I mean, I know your right...it's just..."
"No, I understand...it's okay." He put his arms around me as I cried into
his chest. After a few minutes I calmed down, took a deep breath, and
blew my nose one more time. Walter gazed at me while I tossed the tissue
into the trash. "You know, sometimes I really have a hard time spanking
you because I know you're in so much pain as it is and I hate adding to
it." I gave him a faint attempt at a smile. "But, if the few minutes of
pain I give you keep you from weeks of pain later, I will do it." He
walked over to my desk and wheeled the chair out away from the
furniture. Sat down and sighed. Patted his khaki-clad thighs. "Well, I
think it's time for you to come lay over my lap." I nodded and laid my
plump little body down so that my bottom was the first thing underneath
his right arm.
The full skirt of my pink summer jumper came up towards my neck and my
white cotton panties scooted down to my knees. My bare feet dangled off
the floor. That feeling of utter exposure. And I certainly didn't feel
like an old woman anymore...Walter tapped his thin, slender wooden paddle
against my skin a few times as I braced for the coming stingy blows.
And they came. One on top of the other. Over and over. I curled my toes
in pain. Squeezed my eyes shut. Pressed my lips together. Every now a
then tried to swallow a whimper.
"So once again we find ourselves in this very embarrassing position..." he
began lecturing. Why did he say "we?" I was the one with the naked butt
up for God and everybody to see. But I was focusing too much on how much
my naked butt hurt to mouth off. "And why are we here?"
"Cause...I...ow...wasn't...taking care of...oweee...myself."
"That's right. And how were you not taking care of yourself?" His voice
was calm and focused. Why did he ask me questions while he spanked me?
Did he not realize that it takes a great deal of concentration to get
through a spanking? These queries were extremely distracting. Eventually
he stopped the questions and just whacked away at my cheeks and thighs.
I was whimpering steadily when he stopped. He rubbed the middle of my
back as I gazed at the carpet pile. The sides of his thighs pressed into
my stomach. I relaxed. Wrangled with my fingers and picked at lint on
the floor.
"I know I don't need to tell you why you need to limit your activities
or not eat certain foods, or take your medication. You're a smart girl.
So, just do what you're supposed to do to get better. You've got to
focus everything on getting well. Okay?" That last word he said without
the sternness. More friendly. I nodded. He tugged the part of my hair in
a barrette. "Hey, you. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Alright then." I could see underneath the chair, down by my feet that
he was picking up the paddle again. Crap! I was getting more? A hot
splat on my backside answered. Apparently so. Another ten whacks seared
my already raw skin. The he stopped. Rubbed my back some more. Dropped
the paddle at his side to the floor. "Okay, we're done now." He held my
left arm as I pushed my right hand on his thigh to get up. As soon as I
was upright, I pulled up my panties and smoothed my skirt back down.
I stood in front of him as he still sat in the chair. Held my hands
behind my back. Bit my lower lip. Shifted my feet. Gulped and breathed
in staggered breaths. Walter smiled.
"Gosh, sometimes you really are such a little girl..." He shook his head.
I did a half roll of my eyes, smiled and bit my bottom lip again. "You
want me to help you put some ice on your bottom?" I nodded.
"Just lemme put some aloe vera on first." I went into the bathroom and
slipped off my panties. Cut off a half-inch portion of a leaf from my
aloe vera plant. Slit the side, peeled back the skin and rubbed the
cooling, gooey gel all over my backside. I came out and lay down on my
stomach on my bed. Walter placed the ice pack on top of my skirt
covering my bottom. As I bruise at the slightest touch, though not as
badly since I added Grapefruit extract and a synergistic Vitamin C to my
daily meds, the ice pack would keep the bruising to a minimum. Walter
patted me on the head.
"Now, I want you to rest and take care of yourself, okay?" I nodded.
"Then once you're better I can start beatin' on you to write those great
research papers for me to read." He grinned as I rolled my eyes and
scowled. "And you'll go back to being a great scholar and graduate
student -- why we started meeting in the first place..."
But at that moment I wasn't a graduate student or aspiring scholar, a
Person With CFIDS (PWC), or the old person I often felt with it. I was a
little girl who just needed someone to take care of me. Small.
Mischievous. Spirited. Rebellious. And little enough that my feet still
dangle when I'm over a knee getting spanked...
*********************************************
Story: Dealing with My Disability [M/F]
"I think we need to meet..." Walter's voice lingered in my mind as the
clock ticked closer to 5:30. When he said those words, I knew I was in
trouble. And with only fifteen minutes left until he arrived, I couldn't
decide if I wanted the minutes to hurry up and pass already, or to stay
off, away in a future that wouldn't come. At any rate, I still had
fifteen minutes -- no fourteen minutes - to rehearse my arguments. To
practice my spin...
"Well, I see you haven't touched your meds for today..." He glanced down at the plastic rectangle with boxes for each day containing pills and
capsules of various size and color on the countertop of my kitchenette
as he came into my studio apartment. D'oh!
"Oh, yeah...I forgot," I said without thinking.
"Well, I'll have to make sure I help you remember."
"Well, I mean, I didn't really forget...I just haven't gotten to them yet.
And, well, my throat has been kinda sore so they're not as easy to
swallow..." Yeah, there was always a health ailment to get me out of
trouble...Or so I thought...
"Yes, but that's all the more reason to make sure you take them if
you're not feeling well."
"True...I'm just taking them after I eat dinner...and some of them are for
bedtime anyway." Lame attempt, I know.
"Of course." He looked at me with a wry smile and a raised eyebrow.
"Now, how about if I take a look at your journal." My
symptom/food/activity journal. It was something to help the doctors keep
track of my illness, as well as help me think about what I was doing. To
learn to listen to my body when I'd as soon ignore the headaches and
fatigue telling me I needed to rest before I get REALLY sick.
"S.s..sure..." Right to business, as usual. I handed him my spiral bound
notebook. This was the part I worried about. There in my pencil
scratchings, or lack of them, was the grim truth that I had not been as
diligent in keeping tack of my symptoms. And when I had written down my
food, it was stuff I shouldn't be eating. And when I tallied my
activities and the points of energy they cost me, I had clearly racked
up far too many.
"Hmmm..." Walter flipped through the pages as his eyebrow reached further
towards his hairline and his lips pursed together.
"See, I've been feeling better and I've been wanting to kinda see how
much more I can do...I mean, I think the herbal decoction from the
acupuncturist is really working - tastes like shi - I mean crap - but,
um, you know, I think I should push a little bit, try 'n get my body to
come back to the real world. And besides, I haven't had a relapse for
well over a month...I think I'm really starting to get better..."
"A month is hardly enough time to consider yourself 'cured,' my dear..."
His eyebrows crinkled towards the center as he looked away from the
notebook and down at me. He was only 5'10 or so, but as I'm exactly 5'
and ½ inch, he still towered over me. "And pushing yourself is why
you've gotten so sick in the first place." I rolled my eyes, sighed and
looked away. I hate when he insists on "logic" and "reality."
As my primary argument was no longer valid, I spent the next few minutes
as he flipped through the rule-lined pages trying to think of ways to
soften the edges of my transgressions. I used to try and think of
counter-arguments. Well, I still did. But I was no match for Walter. He
was a lawyer and had years more practice at it.
"You spent four hours at the mall on Saturday?? What were you thinking?
You're one major daily activity is only suppose one or two hours and not
that physically exerting...certainly not a four hour hike through the mall!"
"Well, I was hanging out with my sister...she was home and ---"
"And then you went out to a movie...and then out to a coffeehouse afterwards?"
"We would have gone to a bar but she's still underage." I grinned with
that mischievous twinkle. He glared.
"Are you trying to kill yourself?"
"I won't die..." I mumbled.
"You never know..."
"Yeah, I do. CFIDS isn't fatal...it's just.... debilitating..." The last word
scraped through my mouth. I really despised it. Or any of the words used
in brochures, medical journal articles, books, websites, or newsgroups
to describe my illness. A dark scowl washed over me. I guess I still
hadn't finished going through the Five Stages of Grief...
"That's right. It is debilitating and will get even more so if you don't
take care of yourself. And clearly you have not been doing that." His
voice had that mixture of sternness and impatience.
"It's just..." I didn't mean to start crying. Really. I had never cried in
front of Walter. But my scowl turned into tears and then into sobs.
"It's just that I never get to have any kind of normal life. I'm just so
tired of watching life go by and never having the chance to grab hold of
it, you know? I'm tired of feeling like some old woman..." I folded my
arms as my eyes became red and puffy and my nose started to run. Walter
stood frozen at first, then grabbed a Kleenex and handed it to me. "I'm
sorry..." I said. "I'm not crying on purpose to manipulate you or
anything. I mean, I know your right...it's just..."
"No, I understand...it's okay." He put his arms around me as I cried into
his chest. After a few minutes I calmed down, took a deep breath, and
blew my nose one more time. Walter gazed at me while I tossed the tissue
into the trash. "You know, sometimes I really have a hard time spanking
you because I know you're in so much pain as it is and I hate adding to
it." I gave him a faint attempt at a smile. "But, if the few minutes of
pain I give you keep you from weeks of pain later, I will do it." He
walked over to my desk and wheeled the chair out away from the
furniture. Sat down and sighed. Patted his khaki-clad thighs. "Well, I
think it's time for you to come lay over my lap." I nodded and laid my
plump little body down so that my bottom was the first thing underneath
his right arm.
The full skirt of my pink summer jumper came up towards my neck and my
white cotton panties scooted down to my knees. My bare feet dangled off
the floor. That feeling of utter exposure. And I certainly didn't feel
like an old woman anymore...Walter tapped his thin, slender wooden paddle
against my skin a few times as I braced for the coming stingy blows.
And they came. One on top of the other. Over and over. I curled my toes
in pain. Squeezed my eyes shut. Pressed my lips together. Every now a
then tried to swallow a whimper.
"So once again we find ourselves in this very embarrassing position..." he
began lecturing. Why did he say "we?" I was the one with the naked butt
up for God and everybody to see. But I was focusing too much on how much
my naked butt hurt to mouth off. "And why are we here?"
"Cause...I...ow...wasn't...taking care of...oweee...myself."
"That's right. And how were you not taking care of yourself?" His voice
was calm and focused. Why did he ask me questions while he spanked me?
Did he not realize that it takes a great deal of concentration to get
through a spanking? These queries were extremely distracting. Eventually
he stopped the questions and just whacked away at my cheeks and thighs.
I was whimpering steadily when he stopped. He rubbed the middle of my
back as I gazed at the carpet pile. The sides of his thighs pressed into
my stomach. I relaxed. Wrangled with my fingers and picked at lint on
the floor.
"I know I don't need to tell you why you need to limit your activities
or not eat certain foods, or take your medication. You're a smart girl.
So, just do what you're supposed to do to get better. You've got to
focus everything on getting well. Okay?" That last word he said without
the sternness. More friendly. I nodded. He tugged the part of my hair in
a barrette. "Hey, you. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Alright then." I could see underneath the chair, down by my feet that
he was picking up the paddle again. Crap! I was getting more? A hot
splat on my backside answered. Apparently so. Another ten whacks seared
my already raw skin. The he stopped. Rubbed my back some more. Dropped
the paddle at his side to the floor. "Okay, we're done now." He held my
left arm as I pushed my right hand on his thigh to get up. As soon as I
was upright, I pulled up my panties and smoothed my skirt back down.
I stood in front of him as he still sat in the chair. Held my hands
behind my back. Bit my lower lip. Shifted my feet. Gulped and breathed
in staggered breaths. Walter smiled.
"Gosh, sometimes you really are such a little girl..." He shook his head.
I did a half roll of my eyes, smiled and bit my bottom lip again. "You
want me to help you put some ice on your bottom?" I nodded.
"Just lemme put some aloe vera on first." I went into the bathroom and
slipped off my panties. Cut off a half-inch portion of a leaf from my
aloe vera plant. Slit the side, peeled back the skin and rubbed the
cooling, gooey gel all over my backside. I came out and lay down on my
stomach on my bed. Walter placed the ice pack on top of my skirt
covering my bottom. As I bruise at the slightest touch, though not as
badly since I added Grapefruit extract and a synergistic Vitamin C to my
daily meds, the ice pack would keep the bruising to a minimum. Walter
patted me on the head.
"Now, I want you to rest and take care of yourself, okay?" I nodded.
"Then once you're better I can start beatin' on you to write those great
research papers for me to read." He grinned as I rolled my eyes and
scowled. "And you'll go back to being a great scholar and graduate
student -- why we started meeting in the first place..."
But at that moment I wasn't a graduate student or aspiring scholar, a
Person With CFIDS (PWC), or the old person I often felt with it. I was a
little girl who just needed someone to take care of me. Small.
Mischievous. Spirited. Rebellious. And little enough that my feet still
dangle when I'm over a knee getting spanked...
The week before
I'm sorry my postings have been so sparse lately. I've been battling some virus for the last week or so and every time I'm on the computer for very long I end up feverish, which exacerbates my neuropathic pain.
So, just 6 more days before my boyfriend gets here. It's funny. The week before we get together, he always gets deliciously stern. Notes any and every transgression, no matter how trivial. In the intervening months I could burn down a police station without a worry in the world about the consequences (well, at least from him, though he might remember that one long enough to spank me for it once we were together) but that week before, woe to me if I'm not on my best behavior! ;)
Okay, honestly though, I'm still ambivilent in my anticipation about getting spanked. My mind wants one but my body is still reticent. If this damn fever would go away, I might be less ambivilent. But, at least I'll have him here to cuddle with while I feel shitty. :)
So, just 6 more days before my boyfriend gets here. It's funny. The week before we get together, he always gets deliciously stern. Notes any and every transgression, no matter how trivial. In the intervening months I could burn down a police station without a worry in the world about the consequences (well, at least from him, though he might remember that one long enough to spank me for it once we were together) but that week before, woe to me if I'm not on my best behavior! ;)
Okay, honestly though, I'm still ambivilent in my anticipation about getting spanked. My mind wants one but my body is still reticent. If this damn fever would go away, I might be less ambivilent. But, at least I'll have him here to cuddle with while I feel shitty. :)
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Thoughts while watching Law and Order
Yesterday was a "don't even think of getting out of bed" day so I watched a lot of television between naps, including back to back episodes of "Law and Order."
One, Sam Waterston is like my quintessential paternal spanko figure. He always manages to come up with facial expressions that encompass everything I'd want in a daddy: moral principal, scolding, consternation, with a tad bit of gentleness thrown in. He's been in my spanking fantasies since I first saw him in "I'll Fly Away,"(an absolutely brilliant television show from 1991 that made me go "wow, I never thought television could get this good!"). Those fantasies became even more acute after he played a father who whips his daughter with a belt in the movie, "Man in the Moon." He looks similar to a high school history teacher I had, about whom I had only the vaguest of spanking fantasies, but who was someone I respected a great deal and remained in touch with after high school.
So, every time I watch him on "Law and Order" I end up thinking about him as the father/DA on "I Fly Away" and wishing he could be my dad, except maybe a bit stricter. ;)
Two, detective Fontana gave the rich girl caught in the crossfire at a drug party a firm but fair tongue lashing in the second episode last night. It was quite yummy.
One, Sam Waterston is like my quintessential paternal spanko figure. He always manages to come up with facial expressions that encompass everything I'd want in a daddy: moral principal, scolding, consternation, with a tad bit of gentleness thrown in. He's been in my spanking fantasies since I first saw him in "I'll Fly Away,"(an absolutely brilliant television show from 1991 that made me go "wow, I never thought television could get this good!"). Those fantasies became even more acute after he played a father who whips his daughter with a belt in the movie, "Man in the Moon." He looks similar to a high school history teacher I had, about whom I had only the vaguest of spanking fantasies, but who was someone I respected a great deal and remained in touch with after high school.
So, every time I watch him on "Law and Order" I end up thinking about him as the father/DA on "I Fly Away" and wishing he could be my dad, except maybe a bit stricter. ;)
Two, detective Fontana gave the rich girl caught in the crossfire at a drug party a firm but fair tongue lashing in the second episode last night. It was quite yummy.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
A couple of funnies
One, you'll notice I figured out how to create expandable post summaries so you can browse down through the front page without quite so much writing to plough through. What's funny for me is that the code you type into your html page is "span class="fullpost." If any of you ever read my into at the Punishment Book, you'll know I have a hard time typing the letters "s-p-a" without following it with "n-k." It's kinetically ingrained in my fingers and brain.
Two, I just ordered a cane from Adam and Gillian's last week and when I went to pick it up at the campus housing office today (which is almost a miracle in and of itself as I have been mostly housebound for the last month), a former student of mine was working there and she asked what the package was. "A new cane," I said sorta tipping my head towards the cane I walk with. "I'm accessorizing." He he...how's that for a good cover? ;)
Except, sad to say, when I got the box home and opened it up, the cane was broken! {pout} They were really nice on the phone when I called to order it, so I'll call them in the morning (or afternoon when I usually wake up) and see what we can work out.
Update: Adam and Gillian's is sending me a new cane and sending a claim into UPS. Frankly, I think whoever it was I talked to on the phone was ready to cane UPS! ;)
Two, I just ordered a cane from Adam and Gillian's last week and when I went to pick it up at the campus housing office today (which is almost a miracle in and of itself as I have been mostly housebound for the last month), a former student of mine was working there and she asked what the package was. "A new cane," I said sorta tipping my head towards the cane I walk with. "I'm accessorizing." He he...how's that for a good cover? ;)
Except, sad to say, when I got the box home and opened it up, the cane was broken! {pout} They were really nice on the phone when I called to order it, so I'll call them in the morning (or afternoon when I usually wake up) and see what we can work out.
Update: Adam and Gillian's is sending me a new cane and sending a claim into UPS. Frankly, I think whoever it was I talked to on the phone was ready to cane UPS! ;)
On his way
Yup. The bureaucratic hassles are over and he's booked the flight. :D
Two weeks from tomorrow tonight I will have a happy but sore ass.
Two weeks from tomorrow tonight I will have a happy but sore ass.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Confessions of a structure junkie
Well, my academic career is over. At least for the foreseeable future. Two years ago when I started taking classes after a leave of absence for illness, I managed a good productive six months or so catching up on incompletes. Then last year it was one health crisis after another and aside from a bit of reading and publishing a couple of book reviews and a review essay, there wasn'’t much progress.
[...]
Though by this winter I was feeling better and thought maybe it was time to dive back into the thick of things. So, I registered for some classes thinking that the interaction and structure of the classroom would help me back onto the path of academic accomplishment from which illness had led me astray.
Yet, as I recounted in the "“school girl pt.2" post, I was pretty damn tired by the end of the first week. After dropping a class and just focusing on the one, I struggled along for a month. However, by May I was bedridden and began to finally face the painful truth: it's over. Over after six and a half years of stubbornly insisting that I was going to get better and get back onto the academic fast track I spent my undergraduate years and first year and a half of my MA program doggedly pursuing before surgery and blood clots in my lungs and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome reared their hideous heads. I cannot push my body anymore. And frankly, I can'’t push my brain anymore either. At the end of the day, my illness takes all the intellectual energy I have that would otherwise be spent on examining how a series of Christian historical fiction novels about the founding of the State of Israel in 1948 reflect and shape a collective memory among American Evangelicals.
Aside from the gaping hole in my personal identity with academia taken out of the equation, the big issue for me in finally giving up school was that I would have no structure. I found myself becoming depressed each morning when I woke up. What would I do today? Not that I've had much structure for the last year and a half. But that was supposed to be temporary. I always had something hanging over my head waiting to be done. Now it was gone. What on earth was I going to do from now on? What was there to wake up to?
School has always defined my goals. It was what provided structure growing up when there was none at home. I hated summers. Summers were this excruciating ordeal of housekeeping and television. There was some reading and writing. But, without a teacher and an assignment and a deadline, there wasn'’t anything to make sure I really accomplished anything. By the beginning of August I was always jittery with school withdrawls. Need...structure...{leg bouncing while reading old textbook} must...have...assignments... (Funny episode of the Simpsons where the teachers strike, and Lisa gets out her emergency school kit--that was so me.).
Sure, I did read my share of books. But, I wanted so much more. I wanted to learn more. To be pushed more. Obviously my spanking fantasies converged with this and still do. When I read Mija'’s and Haron's punishments a few months back for not working on their respective dissertations, I was rather envious. And when I read Claire'’s description of enacting a "sixteenth-century boarding school"” regime to get some of her work done, all I could think was, omg, I soooo want that.
Have always wanted that.
Of course, all the punishment in the world wasn'’t going to change the fact that I wasn'’t getting much done. But I wanted it to be something a good spanking could cure.
School in real life was not nearly that draconian, even if I wished it was. And the threat of getting anything less than a perfect grade was far more motivation than spanking would have been. Though there were moments. There were teachers who would give me "A" minuses for work they would give other students "A"”s. My undergraduate French professor (who I think was a spanko and at the very least was a nun sans habit) was the most egregious in this respect. She often pushed me much harder than the other students in class. At first I thought she just didn'’t like me, and I certainly wasn'’t too keen on her. Indeed, she almost made me cry in class once. It wasn't until that summer I learned the truth when a friend of mine pointed out that this prof only pushed me because she liked me. And you can even say there was even a bit of corporal punishment when, at a wine and cheese event we both attended, I made a comment to her that my Arabic was taking over my French and she smacked me on the arm--only half playfully. By that point I took it as the highest form of affection she could have shown. :)
But, even if school life was hardly that of Tom Brown, there was structure. Goals to accomplish. Degrees to pursue. Schools to get into. Courses to take throughout the summer. I liked doing homework outside in the sun.
And now that I can't handle assignments and deadlines, life feels like one very long August.
Okay then, if I am to be the patient, I will find structure in that. Create structure for that. And I have a boyfriend who likes enforcing structure, so surely something will be accomplished.
So, I tried to set up a daily regime. Ride my exercise bike. Do some yoga or qi gong, as well as forty-five minutes of meditation. Eat a low sodium diet. Write in my journal every day. Take all medicine and supplements every day. Do the moxa and massage every day. And physical therapy exercises every day. And...and...
But there were also medical appointments to attend. Transportation to coordinate. Case workers to meet with. Housing options to figure out and applications to fill out. Insurance denials to appeal.
And, of course, get some rest. Something my body was as determined for me to get as I was about creating structure in my academy-less life.
When I announced to my boyfriend that I was going to start sending him a schedule again with my new illness-related to-do list, his response felt tepid. When I then promptly forgot to send it to him and he didn't say anything, I figured he wasn't too keen on the idea. Granted, I think he just hasn't been in the mood to be much of an "enforcer"” but as I was exhausted with anemia by that point, I decided to forget about it. Not because I wanted to but because I was just too damn listless to discipline myself to do much of anything.
But I could be doing so much more as a patient. I should be...
A few nights back my godfather and I were talking. He is only a year older than me but was my sponsor when I became Catholic five years ago and in the Byzantine rite that makes him my godfather. He feels closer to me than just a friend and has a paternalistic streak about him that makes him feel very godfatherly sometimes. At one point as I told him about all the bureaucratic shit I'’ve been having to deal with in addition to being sick and all that I was doing to deal with being a good patient, he stopped me. "Do you remember right after I came out and I kept calling myself a ‘faggot’ because I was angry at myself for being gay?"” Of course I did. He was a good Arab Catholic boy who was supposed to marry a good (hopefully) Arab Catholic girl and have lots of good Arab Catholic babies, except that he finally realized he was attracted to boys. I knew the rejection of his Church and culture were agonizing for him and it was agonizing for me to watch him reject himself. "“And remember how you said to me, '‘have mercy on yourself?'’ Well, now it's my turn. Michelle, have mercy on yourself. You'’re dealing with so much right now. Please be kind to yourself. All the other stuff will come in its own time."
Yes...yes, it will.
So, in addition to letting go of my academic career, I'’m also trying to let go of my incessant need for structure. It'’s funny because the stereotype of the top/bottom relationship is of a control freak and passive submissive. In reality, I'm the one who is the control freak and has tried to use spanking as a way to control my world (again, see "school girl pt 2"). But I think for right now, I'’m going to just rest. Quit trying to impose structure on myself and just be. And let the structure rise up on its own, however long it takes and in whatever form it takes.
[...]
Though by this winter I was feeling better and thought maybe it was time to dive back into the thick of things. So, I registered for some classes thinking that the interaction and structure of the classroom would help me back onto the path of academic accomplishment from which illness had led me astray.
Yet, as I recounted in the "“school girl pt.2" post, I was pretty damn tired by the end of the first week. After dropping a class and just focusing on the one, I struggled along for a month. However, by May I was bedridden and began to finally face the painful truth: it's over. Over after six and a half years of stubbornly insisting that I was going to get better and get back onto the academic fast track I spent my undergraduate years and first year and a half of my MA program doggedly pursuing before surgery and blood clots in my lungs and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome reared their hideous heads. I cannot push my body anymore. And frankly, I can'’t push my brain anymore either. At the end of the day, my illness takes all the intellectual energy I have that would otherwise be spent on examining how a series of Christian historical fiction novels about the founding of the State of Israel in 1948 reflect and shape a collective memory among American Evangelicals.
Aside from the gaping hole in my personal identity with academia taken out of the equation, the big issue for me in finally giving up school was that I would have no structure. I found myself becoming depressed each morning when I woke up. What would I do today? Not that I've had much structure for the last year and a half. But that was supposed to be temporary. I always had something hanging over my head waiting to be done. Now it was gone. What on earth was I going to do from now on? What was there to wake up to?
School has always defined my goals. It was what provided structure growing up when there was none at home. I hated summers. Summers were this excruciating ordeal of housekeeping and television. There was some reading and writing. But, without a teacher and an assignment and a deadline, there wasn'’t anything to make sure I really accomplished anything. By the beginning of August I was always jittery with school withdrawls. Need...structure...{leg bouncing while reading old textbook} must...have...assignments... (Funny episode of the Simpsons where the teachers strike, and Lisa gets out her emergency school kit--that was so me.).
Sure, I did read my share of books. But, I wanted so much more. I wanted to learn more. To be pushed more. Obviously my spanking fantasies converged with this and still do. When I read Mija'’s and Haron's punishments a few months back for not working on their respective dissertations, I was rather envious. And when I read Claire'’s description of enacting a "sixteenth-century boarding school"” regime to get some of her work done, all I could think was, omg, I soooo want that.
Have always wanted that.
Of course, all the punishment in the world wasn'’t going to change the fact that I wasn'’t getting much done. But I wanted it to be something a good spanking could cure.
School in real life was not nearly that draconian, even if I wished it was. And the threat of getting anything less than a perfect grade was far more motivation than spanking would have been. Though there were moments. There were teachers who would give me "A" minuses for work they would give other students "A"”s. My undergraduate French professor (who I think was a spanko and at the very least was a nun sans habit) was the most egregious in this respect. She often pushed me much harder than the other students in class. At first I thought she just didn'’t like me, and I certainly wasn'’t too keen on her. Indeed, she almost made me cry in class once. It wasn't until that summer I learned the truth when a friend of mine pointed out that this prof only pushed me because she liked me. And you can even say there was even a bit of corporal punishment when, at a wine and cheese event we both attended, I made a comment to her that my Arabic was taking over my French and she smacked me on the arm--only half playfully. By that point I took it as the highest form of affection she could have shown. :)
But, even if school life was hardly that of Tom Brown, there was structure. Goals to accomplish. Degrees to pursue. Schools to get into. Courses to take throughout the summer. I liked doing homework outside in the sun.
And now that I can't handle assignments and deadlines, life feels like one very long August.
Okay then, if I am to be the patient, I will find structure in that. Create structure for that. And I have a boyfriend who likes enforcing structure, so surely something will be accomplished.
So, I tried to set up a daily regime. Ride my exercise bike. Do some yoga or qi gong, as well as forty-five minutes of meditation. Eat a low sodium diet. Write in my journal every day. Take all medicine and supplements every day. Do the moxa and massage every day. And physical therapy exercises every day. And...and...
But there were also medical appointments to attend. Transportation to coordinate. Case workers to meet with. Housing options to figure out and applications to fill out. Insurance denials to appeal.
And, of course, get some rest. Something my body was as determined for me to get as I was about creating structure in my academy-less life.
When I announced to my boyfriend that I was going to start sending him a schedule again with my new illness-related to-do list, his response felt tepid. When I then promptly forgot to send it to him and he didn't say anything, I figured he wasn't too keen on the idea. Granted, I think he just hasn't been in the mood to be much of an "enforcer"” but as I was exhausted with anemia by that point, I decided to forget about it. Not because I wanted to but because I was just too damn listless to discipline myself to do much of anything.
But I could be doing so much more as a patient. I should be...
A few nights back my godfather and I were talking. He is only a year older than me but was my sponsor when I became Catholic five years ago and in the Byzantine rite that makes him my godfather. He feels closer to me than just a friend and has a paternalistic streak about him that makes him feel very godfatherly sometimes. At one point as I told him about all the bureaucratic shit I'’ve been having to deal with in addition to being sick and all that I was doing to deal with being a good patient, he stopped me. "Do you remember right after I came out and I kept calling myself a ‘faggot’ because I was angry at myself for being gay?"” Of course I did. He was a good Arab Catholic boy who was supposed to marry a good (hopefully) Arab Catholic girl and have lots of good Arab Catholic babies, except that he finally realized he was attracted to boys. I knew the rejection of his Church and culture were agonizing for him and it was agonizing for me to watch him reject himself. "“And remember how you said to me, '‘have mercy on yourself?'’ Well, now it's my turn. Michelle, have mercy on yourself. You'’re dealing with so much right now. Please be kind to yourself. All the other stuff will come in its own time."
Yes...yes, it will.
So, in addition to letting go of my academic career, I'’m also trying to let go of my incessant need for structure. It'’s funny because the stereotype of the top/bottom relationship is of a control freak and passive submissive. In reality, I'm the one who is the control freak and has tried to use spanking as a way to control my world (again, see "school girl pt 2"). But I think for right now, I'’m going to just rest. Quit trying to impose structure on myself and just be. And let the structure rise up on its own, however long it takes and in whatever form it takes.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Quote of the night
My boyfriend's response to Anne Robinson's face lift:
"I better not hear of you getting a face lift, young lady, or it will be a butt lift for you!"
{giggle}
"I better not hear of you getting a face lift, young lady, or it will be a butt lift for you!"
{giggle}
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Brain chemistry
I'm not used to posting about news items on this blog, but the New York Times (reg. required) had a fascinating article about how neuroscientists have pinpointed the part of the brain associated with passionate love.
It made me wonder if that's what is also happening when it comes to spanking. Spanking can be arousing for me, but normally it's not. But it is something I will crave like Ben and Jerry's or water, even though while I'm getting spanked it hurts like hell and I'll think why the hell did I want this? I always just thought it was the endorphine rush. But another little snippet from this article made me think there might be more to it.
And maybe it's that dopamine circulates actively when I desire or anticipate a punishment. That some wire is crossed, or is too sensitive so that dopamine circulates for both states -- reward and punishment.
I dunno. Just something that got me thinking.
In an analysis of the images appearing today in The Journal of Neurophysiology, researchers in New York and New Jersey argue that romantic love is a biological urge distinct from sexual arousal. It is closer in its neural profile to drives like hunger, thirst or drug craving, the researchers assert, than to emotional states like excitement or affection.
It made me wonder if that's what is also happening when it comes to spanking. Spanking can be arousing for me, but normally it's not. But it is something I will crave like Ben and Jerry's or water, even though while I'm getting spanked it hurts like hell and I'll think why the hell did I want this? I always just thought it was the endorphine rush. But another little snippet from this article made me think there might be more to it.
In the study, a computer-generated map of particularly active areas showed hot spots deep in the brain, below conscious awareness, in areas called the caudate nucleus and the ventral tegmental area, which communicate with each other as part of a circuit.
These areas are dense with cells that produce or receive a brain chemical called dopamine, which circulates actively when people desire or anticipate a reward. In studies of gamblers, cocaine users and even people playing computer games for small amounts of money, these dopamine sites become extremely active as people score or win, neuroscientists say.
And maybe it's that dopamine circulates actively when I desire or anticipate a punishment. That some wire is crossed, or is too sensitive so that dopamine circulates for both states -- reward and punishment.
I dunno. Just something that got me thinking.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Long time no post
Yeah, I'm sure some of you are thinking, when the hell is that girl going to post something already?
Actually, my boyfriend was chiding me about it just the other night. And you can imagine what he thought the remedy for my dereliction of duty should be... ;)
And I really have been meaning to post a few things.
One, I think I have spanko neighbors. The other night, when it was warm and everyone had their windows open, I heard this rapid smacking sound and a sort of high pitched squeal-like cry. Then it stopped. Then awhile later the same thing. It went on like that for a good hour or so. Sounded like just a hand, no implements. But damn has it made me curious. And it's hard to figure out who it is when your apartment building is three stories.
Two, spent yesterday reading stories over at Nathan Rysher's site after reading a nice piece he posted to the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup. I've always really liked schoolboy stories. Well, at least the ones where the teachers aren't viciously cruel. I think it's the idea of corporal punishment being sort of a fact of life and used to push pupils to do better that makes me like them. And Nathan's stories encompass all of that. Makes me almost wish I was a boy. :)
I'll try and post a bit more throughout the week. There's a lot of spanking-related thought going on in my head. Just haven't had much energy to post lately. Hopefully some newly purchased iron supplements will change that soon. :)
Actually, my boyfriend was chiding me about it just the other night. And you can imagine what he thought the remedy for my dereliction of duty should be... ;)
And I really have been meaning to post a few things.
One, I think I have spanko neighbors. The other night, when it was warm and everyone had their windows open, I heard this rapid smacking sound and a sort of high pitched squeal-like cry. Then it stopped. Then awhile later the same thing. It went on like that for a good hour or so. Sounded like just a hand, no implements. But damn has it made me curious. And it's hard to figure out who it is when your apartment building is three stories.
Two, spent yesterday reading stories over at Nathan Rysher's site after reading a nice piece he posted to the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup. I've always really liked schoolboy stories. Well, at least the ones where the teachers aren't viciously cruel. I think it's the idea of corporal punishment being sort of a fact of life and used to push pupils to do better that makes me like them. And Nathan's stories encompass all of that. Makes me almost wish I was a boy. :)
I'll try and post a bit more throughout the week. There's a lot of spanking-related thought going on in my head. Just haven't had much energy to post lately. Hopefully some newly purchased iron supplements will change that soon. :)
Friday, May 20, 2005
Spanking dreams
Have any of you ever had a dream where you get spanked (or are spanking) in a dream?
I have before but the one I had this afternoon during a nap was the first one where I woke up rather aroused.
I don't remember it all that clearly, just that I was talking on the Internet and then my boyfriend was suddenly around. First he spanked me with his hand otk. Then there was some sort of audience in what looked a lot like the balcony in my old church but with a swimming pool below. My boyfriend was at the front and people were sitting there and I had to walk down to him and then sort of kneel down or something and then he whipped me with a riding crop.
[...]
That's when I woke up.
Yeah, I miss my boyfriend a lot. And getting spanked. :)
Though, my fantasies of late have been far more tame. More the little girl otk thing. Real life has been tough these last few weeks. My foray back into the classroom has been a disaster health-wise. I'm now being added to the elite group that, along with those 65 and older, gets to participate in Meals on Wheels (though I should say that I'm so relieved as I've been struggling to cook myself healthy meals on a regular basis). There are times when I start to think my therapist's suggestion about using a walker may not be such a bad one. And my mom made a comment the other day that by the time I am a senior citizen, I'll have the whole thing down pat.
That made me feel oh so much better.
Needless to say, ageplay has a lot of appeal at the moment.
Think I'll head to bed now and drift off to sleep to memories of past times when my boyfriend and I have dabbled with ageplay and I sat in his arms on the couch as he read me Amelia Bedelia...
I have before but the one I had this afternoon during a nap was the first one where I woke up rather aroused.
I don't remember it all that clearly, just that I was talking on the Internet and then my boyfriend was suddenly around. First he spanked me with his hand otk. Then there was some sort of audience in what looked a lot like the balcony in my old church but with a swimming pool below. My boyfriend was at the front and people were sitting there and I had to walk down to him and then sort of kneel down or something and then he whipped me with a riding crop.
[...]
That's when I woke up.
Yeah, I miss my boyfriend a lot. And getting spanked. :)
Though, my fantasies of late have been far more tame. More the little girl otk thing. Real life has been tough these last few weeks. My foray back into the classroom has been a disaster health-wise. I'm now being added to the elite group that, along with those 65 and older, gets to participate in Meals on Wheels (though I should say that I'm so relieved as I've been struggling to cook myself healthy meals on a regular basis). There are times when I start to think my therapist's suggestion about using a walker may not be such a bad one. And my mom made a comment the other day that by the time I am a senior citizen, I'll have the whole thing down pat.
That made me feel oh so much better.
Needless to say, ageplay has a lot of appeal at the moment.
Think I'll head to bed now and drift off to sleep to memories of past times when my boyfriend and I have dabbled with ageplay and I sat in his arms on the couch as he read me Amelia Bedelia...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
