Tuesday, June 17, 2008

The Sunday Switch

If anybody gets spanked around here on Sundays, it's supposed to be me.

But since A.'s arrival at the end of April, most Sundays have found me a bit too weak for a weekly schedule and spanking. Or, as was the case last Sunday, A. has had to work.

However, this Sunday my expectations regarding what I've often imagined becoming a comforting and familiar ritual were tempered both by my still-sore backside (exacerbated by the clothesbrush the day after that) as well as by the fact that, well, I wasn't feeling particularly submissive.

I can't remember now what exactly started it, but our conversation Sunday night shifted to A. feeling subby and me feeling, at the very least, not subby. Soon we began to discuss the possibility of him being my slave for the night. Both of us played with his swelling member as we considered what he might do for me and what might I do to him during his service and eventually agreed upon an enslavement of two hours.

The last few months I have been having the fantasy off and on of him naked and strapped to our wooden-planked futon frame while his pale, quivering cheeks glowed an ever deepening shade of red under my hand.


His birthday spanking in May was my first taste of this reverie in reality. And while I did give him a hearty introduction to our noble American tradition -- with the marks to prove it -- it was sans the restraints. I was still doing poorly at the time and not fully able to revel in my sadism. And forty-two strokes just didn't seem to satiate me.

His birthday, though, added another dimension to my dominant fantasies. Per his request, my present to him was a cock ring/leash. And I tell you dear reader, once he put it on, got down on his knees, and I took hold of the leash, I was positively wet.

The first twenty minutes of A.'s enslavement, however, were spent looking for the restraints. Three of the four were found, and I decided to make do with the cord that ties the curtains together as a substitute for the missing wrist restraint. Yet as A. bent over the futon frame, I realized I'd misjudged how tall he is and/or how diminutive the futon frame. My homemade restraints proved worthless as his arms and legs lay well past the bottom of the frame (unlike me, at eleven inches shorter, whose legs dangle).

No matter. I had the riding crop, right?

I surely did. After reddening his cheeks with the ping pong paddle (in which I gave him a whole new appreciation for an implement he once dismissed because it has a silly name), I laid into him with that riding crop. Watched with delight as brick red welts began to pepper his lower cheeks and thighs. Smiled with what was probably far too much pleasure as he cried out and wriggled about. And warned him that this was just the warm-up.

The first time I tried to top A. many years back, it was a complete disaster that ended with me in tears. After that my clever darling appealed to my competitiveness by setting up contests in which I had a set amount of time to get him to give in or I lost and would get thrashed. Needless to say, I generally ended up much more sore than he. Topping was hard work. It was acting. Playing a role that took a lot of research and with which at the end of the day I found little in common. Had illness not reduced me to a state of a semi-dependent child/prisoner craving control over something, I think my journey to domme-hood would have been much longer.

After a massage and a bath under the glow of candlelight, I ordered A. back over the futon for the main thrashing. A few months ago he and I talked about pushing my topping limits a bit more. While I've moved past the incessant mental apologies with each stroke, I still have a tendency to stop too soon. To see the marks beginning to accumulate and worry I'm going to break him, which is in fact what I should be doing. This time, with the soothing security of a safeword, I was going to let go of my hyper-empathy and push both of us further than we had gone before. And unlike any of the other beatings I've administered, he was going to feel this one the next day.

Several dozen strokes of the cane introduced several dozen crimson weals and welts to mingle with the earlier ones from the riding crop. Being an Anglo-American couple, I thought it appropriate to match such a British implement with a quintessential American one: a 16 inch oak paddle. I've only been on the business end of it a few times, but that is enough to know how truly sincere his howls of pain were. Especially as I kept having to tell him to move his legs apart and lay against the futon. Most understandable as many of those strokes were full force. I finished with our electric cord loopy whip, mostly because I love the violet loopy marks it makes on his pasty skin. Many of those strokes were also as near to full force as I could make them -- though not without some harm to myself. Whenever I pulled it back before slamming it down on A., the tips of the loops would snap back and hit my knuckles. Yet my bruised knuckle had nothing on his battered ass. Nothing.

Afterwards I led A. to the bed and awarded his suffering with my breasts, bulging out of my black-lace bra, as well as the ultimate prize: my soft, shaved cunt. I reclined against the pillows in awe yet again as he too seemed to handle me in a state of awe. Closed my eyes and squealed with glee as he skillfully pleasured me. Laid in his arms for a few moments afterwards before helping him climax.

A few years ago my beloved began to whisper over the phone to me about how much he wanted to worship my body. I replied with sheepish flirting even while my face became hot and my eyelids failed to hold back my tears. How could I demand -- even accept -- worship when the best I could give my fat, broken, diseased body was half-hearted forbearance?

Yet I've always been a big believer in the "fake it 'til you make it" adage, and the more I let A. caress and fondle my feet, my breasts, my belly, my ass, and my cunt, the more the idea of veneration moved from mere toleration to a service I could increasingly -- and truthfully -- insist upon from my slave even if a part of me remains amazed by it.

With the duration of his enslavement over, A. was more than ready to take his revenge. Unfortunately I haven't been quite ready to switch. Indeed my inner sadist has been enjoying watching the poor dear think up whatever silly and completely dubious pretexts he can think of to get me over his knee.

"That's it. This is going in the punishment book. This clock (pointing to the one by the bed) is not set to the same time as that one (pointing to the one on the wall)."

"I think we should play a spanking game. We haven't played Spanking Poker in a long time."

"Right. You've got five minutes to finish that post, or you're going over my knee."

And each time as I laughed and teasingly told him to fuck off, he feigned such shock and grief (even as he too was laughing). Perhaps, after responding to my concerned query yesterday about his ass that it felt fine, I'm lacking suitable sympathy.

Yet now that this tome of a meditation is coming to a close, I just might, just maybe, be ready to be his naughty little girl again...

...Or not.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

So sorry you're vanilla...

Lately I've been catching up on my "nerd porn" as A. likes to call it. No, not videos of guys with pocket protectors rambling about cosines and Star Trek (though as a nerd myself, I find a lot of nerds are quite hot), but thoughtful writing on sexuality. Mostly posts from the newer editions of the Feminist Carnival of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy, many of which I highly recommend and hope to blog about in the not too distant future.

During my make-up reading, I also happened across an old post at a favorite political blog, Alas, a blog, which linked to an absolutely brilliant post by Trinity on what causes kinkiness -- or rather, vanilla-ness.

WHAT CAUSES VANILLA?

How long have you been vanilla?

Are you sure that you're not simply too nervous to submit or dominate because past traumas make you too nervous to relate to others on a truly intimate level?

Have you ever really examined your vanilla desires?

The vast majority of sexuality depicted in the media is vanilla. Are you sure your desires now don't stem from not seeing alternate models much in the media?

How can you experience true intimacy with someone if you're afraid to share erotic pain with them? Aren't you missing something?

It's really a shame that our screwed up vanilla-normative society ruined you like that.

Not that there's anything wrong with that -- you know, being vanilla -- but I have always thought that it lacks scope for the imagination.

But then, maybe that's just because I've never had vanilla sex.

Monday, June 09, 2008

Sexy Sadist

The apartment is littered with spanking implements at the moment. Leftovers from my spanking earlier this evening.

It started innocently enough. As I was snipping herbs at the kitchen counter for the chicken we were about to roast, I stated that I was going to take a bath. A. responded that he was going to take one first.

"I'm gonna to beat you to it," he said with a smack to my backside. And then another smack. And another. "I'm going to beat ya :::smack:: beat ya."

"You call that a beating?" I sneered.

Oh boy.

"Are you challenging me?" A. asked as he grabbed me by the shoulders, marched me to the bed, and bent me over the side. Down came my flannel jammie bottoms, as well as my flowery white knickers. Out came the spanking implements. The ping pong paddles. The riding crop. The rubber paddle. "I think I'm going to have to warm you up."

Several dozen hard, hard hand spanks ensued, which were even more stingy because I had worked up a bit of a sweat in the kitchen (thanks in part to the hormone fluctuations from the morphine). Then my glistening skin was subject to the ping pong paddle. Again they were hard spanks that had me writhing in pain (needless to say, my ass is soooo out of practice these days).

You'd think my beloved would have had mercy on his sweet, dear girl kicking and wriggling about in pain. But, alas, no. The big meanie started in on me with the rubber paddle! Lemme tell ya, rubber paddles hurt. A deep, burning hurt. Thud and sting.

But it didn't stop there. Oh no.

"I'm going to give you 24 strokes with the riding crop. Count them, please."

I almost cried out in protest at this gratuitous cruelty but remembered in time that such protest would result in additional strokes. So instead I looked back at A. with a look of shock and horror (and, okay, maybe a tiny bit of defiance). But not an ounce of sympathy. I could barely keep up with counting those agonizing strokes. And I wriggled so much I got threatened with more strokes. Eeek!

Was it over yet? Nope.

"I'm going to get the cane." As A. fetched the cane in the bathroom, I laid on the bed pouting and biting my lower lip. "How many strokes do you think would be appropriate?" he asked upon his return.

I was silent. Did he really want me to answer that question?

"Seriously, I'd like you to give me a number."

"Um...two." I thought about zero, but since he actually had the cane in hand, I figured he would insist on using it. So, ya know, two seemed like a nice, round number.

"Two? Two? Is that your answer?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You really think two is a good answer?"

"Yes, Sir," I nodded.

"Well, I was going to give you sixteen strokes, but now it's going to be twenty-four for giving such a bad answer."

See what I mean, dear reader? I gave a thoughtful reply only to have it not only disregarded but told I'm getting 12 times as many strokes just because he didn't like it!

Despite what I expected, the cane didn't hurt as much as the riding crop or rubber paddle did. I was actually able to lay on the bed during my twenty-four strokes without squirming too much. However the cane did a lot more damage. Especially as it kept landing on the exact same spot where my ass, thigh and hip meet -- right in the path of my panty line.

So now you'd think it would be over. But, sigh, no. There were still some more hard, stingy smacks with the ping pong paddle. And a handful of hand spanks.

And then, then it was over.

"You sick sadist," I jeered as A. turned his attention to his swelling member.

"Getting aroused at someone else's pain -- yep, I think that makes me a sadist alright," he said with a grin.

You see, dear reader? He's not even the least bit ashamed of his heartless behavior.

Which, okay, I have to admit, is pretty damn hot, even if a bit...um...painful.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to put some ice and arnica gel on those welts from the cane with which my beloved so wickedly beat me. And put away all the spanking implements strewn about. Especially as my caregiver comes tomorrow and it could be awfully awkward trying to explain why I have a couple of ping pong paddles but no ping pong table. Or a riding crop but no horse...

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

I'm still alive and still getting spanked

I just got spanked. In the kitchen in front of the large window overlooking the street. And A. wouldn't even let me put the blinds down! Granted the counter goes up past my waist so any pervs in the apartment across the street wouldn't be able to see that he'd pull down my jammy bottoms and was reddening my bottom with many hard smacks. Instead they'd just see me wincing and moving about in an effort to move my ass out of the way of A.'s oncoming right hand.

What, you ask, merited such punishment? A. claims I was being snippy. Not that I would own up to it while I was getting spanked, but looking back I concede that maybe I was being a wee bit snippy. But just a wee bit, mind you.

Today has been the first day that I've felt halfway normal for the last month and a half so I thought I'd post and let you know I'm still alive. A. has been here for a full two weeks now and Sunday I finally got my first spanking. Though it was nothing like the spanking he got last week on his birthday. Perhaps I'll write more about that later.

On an off-topic note, yesterday was ME/CFS Awareness Day. Last year I posted a bit about it, and I thought I'd post a link to the CFIDS Association Virtual Lobby Day where you can send emails to government officials in an effort to increase money for research, earning my eternal gratitude.

Update 1:20 am: In response to my bratting for it at bedtime, A. just gave me a taste of our new rubber paddle -- ouch! My favorite line from this spanking had to be him ordering me to "shut up and be submissive for once in your life!"

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Medication blues

My apologies for the lack of posting lately.

A few weeks back I had to stop taking an immune supplement that was giving me more energy but eating away at my stomach. My energy level has since taken a nose dive.

Morphine has begun turning my nights into everything from vivid Alice-in-Wonderland surreal (and Lewis Carroll would know a thing or two about opiate-inspired dreams) to horrific Quentin Tarantino-esque nightmares that make me afraid to go to sleep.

Another drug, Reglan, has turned my days into stiff, achy, listless napfests. And when I am awake, I wander aimlessly through the television and Internet -- though my time online has recently been reduced the no more than three hours per day in an effort to conserve my limited energy.

I've discontinued the Reglan a few days ago, but don't have a lot of options when it comes to the morphine as without it, I'm in a great deal of pain. There probably are other drugs available, but I doubt my insurance would cover them, especially as it was a long, hard fight just to get them to cover the morphine. Indeed, I'm pretty sure Satan himself spawned health insurance companies from the blackest pit in the bottom most depths of Hell. And at the end of the day, then decided that even the most evil of Hell's inhabitants didn't deserve to suffer the fate of being HMOed.

But not all the dreams have been bad.

This afternoon I dreamt that A. and I were driving to the coast and "Little Surfer Girl" was playing in the background, except that it was "Little Ocean Girl" for some reason in my dream. And we stopped and I was bent over some sort of metal bar and he was whipping me with a switch. It was so vivid that when I woke up, I was quite surprised to be curled up in bed in my apartment.

Only more 18 days until it will be a little closer to reality.

Wednesday, April 02, 2008

The very first Feminist Carnival of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy

Just a quick post (a few days late, as usual) to let you all know about the first Feminist Carnival of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy that includes a staggering number of fascinating posts discussing sex-positive feminism, pornography, BDSM (including a recent post of mine), and sex work.

There's lots of good stuff amidst all the links, and I encourage you to check it out.

Sunday, March 30, 2008

The way back on top

I was reading an old post at Femdom Romance this afternoon (yes, I know I said I was feeling subby yesterday but I felt toppy when I woke up today though ended up subby and spanked by tonight when I was on the phone with A. -- it's dizzying the way I switch anymore...) about how to introduce the reticent wife or girlfriend to dominating her partner. Note the quote is originally from Ms. Rika, but the link was no longer working.

You may dislike the imagery of the words ‘dominance’ and ‘submission’, ‘Mistress’ and ‘slave’. However, you might like the idea of your partner doting on you, alert to your needs, totally turned on by you, giving you massages, pulling his weight around the house (and then some), focusing on your thoughts and ideas, in short, treating you like a Queen.

This really was the way I was able to embrace the idea of topping A. I mean, I'm five feet tall. I couldn't wear stiletto heels if my life depended on it. And leather is something I may use to whip A. with (or he may use to whip me), but I certainly don't wear it.

However the idea of being doted on, being treated like a queen (or princess as we usually construct it) was indeed very appealing. I can get a clean house and not have to hold back any criticism if it's not up to my standards. I can get a lovely foot massage. My body is worshiped (a nice antidote to always hearing what's wrong with it). Not to mention I can get a damn fine orgasm without any effort. How could anyone not like this?

It occurred to me recently that what made topping hard at first was the fear I would lose A. as a top. Would I still be able to look at him as that authoritative, stern disciplinarian I fell in love with? At its core, spanking has always been about connecting with my inner little girl. Would he still be her strict, loving daddy?

The answer was a definitive yes. I found out quickly that A. becomes more dominant than ever after being submissive. It doesn't matter how much I may have just been abasing him, the minute he gets that no-nonsense tone of voice, I'm back into sheepish little girl mode.

I suppose tonight was a good example. When he called I had just finished reading the above post and was in a domme-y disposition. As it turned out, he was in a subby mood and I took the opportunity to taunt him about his upcoming birthday spanking, as well as a domestic-sort of task I was going to make him do during his next subby session. Now the day before we had actually talked about doing some phone spanking -- on my backside, that is. But I was exhausted from acupuncture yesterday and had a throbbing headache and so we decided to put it off until tomorrow.

Something happened as we went about our conversation. Like a switch flipping (that term works on so many levels). Before I knew it, I was taunting him, but as a true brat. "You just watch your step," he told me solemnly. And I watched my step alright -- right into trouble. When the conversation shifted from Top Gear to polar bears and then to the burgeoning black bear population here in Oregon -- a problem A. believes doesn't receive nearly the attention it merits -- I couldn't keep quiet.

"You're just a 'fraidy girly bear boy,"I sneered.

"You are sorely overdue." There was that no-nonsense tone.

"Well you are!"

"But what implement to use?" A. asked himself. "The rubber paddle? The ping pong bat?"

"Bat?" I laughed heartily.

"Yes. The ping pong bat will do," he decided.

"It's not a bat, it's a ping pong paddle. You Brits use the silliest words."

"Right. You're getting five more for general defiance."

"But it's true!"

"Go ahead and keep talking..."

I stopped.

"I'm done talking now," I said softly.

"I'm going to go out for a smoke and before I call back, I want you to get the ping pong bat out and take your pants down."

"Yes, Sir."

It was a long spanking, partly because my pain threshold was at an astronomical level today. (It varies wildly. Some days you can barely tap me with a hairbrush and it's unbearable and other days you can't hit me hard enough with a riding crop.) After several rounds of eight on each cheek and one of twenty-four fast, hard strokes, he was going to have me switch to the wooden spoon. But being the very very good girl that I am, I offered (timidly) that the heavy wooden paddle is probably more severe for self-spanking (and, oddly enough, bruises less). So the wooden paddle it was. One round of eight on each cheek and a round of four on each cheek. By the end he definitely got me whimpering.

"Good. Had to get at least a wince out of you."

I smiled and suspect he was too on the other end of the line.

We lingered on the phone, aching to cuddle. Reminding ourselves that there is now less than a month until he will be here again.

"Next week we'll sit down and discuss the areas where you need some discipline," he said. Before I knew it, I was confessing that I had been neglecting my physical therapy for my finger and how I kept meaning to tell him but also kept thinking that somehow I would do better without needing his help.

We also talked about having a regular day for my discipline.

"Well, Sunday is traditional," I said.

"Yeah, Sunday..."

Before heading off to bed, he reminded me that I was to finish some restraints I've been meaning to make.

"I'm setting Friday as your deadline."

"Yes, Sir."

I lay there on the bed for a long time after we hung up. I hadn't realized how much discipline had been missing from our relationship for a good month or so. And being reminded, I realized how desperately I missed it. How much I've missed being his little girl.

And oh how much I love him.

No matter what we do and where our relationship takes us, he always finds his way back on top.

Friday, March 28, 2008

It was me!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Take it all, Bitch


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

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

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

In the process of explaining this novel-but-not-novel way to do a relationship, Wakeman tries to contextualize DD within the recent history of feminism and the much longer history of male dominance and female submission.
"If an imbalance of power, based on centuries of socialization, is bubbling just below the surface of a relationship, some couples deal with the conflict by establishing some boundaries and choosing to accept then."
This was sort of an inversion of how the writer of the blog Whatever she says describes their relationship: "Most women are the 'boss' of their marriage. The only difference is that I've admitted it and she has acknowledged it." It seems fair to say that DD is a way of acknowledging that we're not all the same. Some have different strengths and weaknesses and we've simply negotiated those differences in power in ways that work for us rather than let them fester below the surface and cause problems with the relationship -- a marked departure from the past where gender roles were fixed and there was no negotiation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first issue involves a little linguistic nitpicking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Some homework on feminism and spanking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, March 16, 2008

I'm quality


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

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

Saturday, March 15, 2008

My naughty little girl imagination

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

Send your Facebook friend a spank

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


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

Saturday, March 01, 2008

Permission not to be perfect

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

The Strictologist is in

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Story: Porn [M/F]

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

**************************************

Story: Porn [M/F]

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

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

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

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

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

Adam sighed. Shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm going to give you fifty."

She gasped but swallowed the protest filling her lungs.

"Count them, please," Adam instructed.

"Yes, Sir."

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

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

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

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

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

Finally it came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright 2007 Natty

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

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

The Lady Jane bench

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

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

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

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


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

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

Saturday, February 16, 2008

The phone calls of doom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oo0oo

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

The spanko tutor is in

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

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

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

Yes, I know. EWWWWW!!!!

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

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

"What's a dominatrix?"

Was she serious?

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

"What's S/M?"

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

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

"What's that?"

I took a deep breath. Then shook my head.

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

"Good idea."

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

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

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

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

oo0oo

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

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

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

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

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

"Interesting."

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

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

oo0oo

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

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

Just as long as my mom doesn't enroll.

Thursday, February 07, 2008

Yay!

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

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