A top ten most unconventional spanking implements list

Watching Rachel Kramer Bussel's video trailer for her new anthology, Spanked, inspired me to make a list of the top ten most unusual implements with which I've been spanked. For the comprehensive list of what I've been spanked with, see this post.

1. Leek. This one definitely gets the first prize. I mean, how many spanking stories have you read with a bratty girl or boy on the business end of a leek? It was so unusual it even inspired poetry.
   
2. The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Vol. 2: Histories. The power of words took on a whole new meaning when a spanko friend years back looked up to my book shelf, saw this and decided to use it on my backside. Very thuddy, as you might imagine.
   
3. Frying pan. For awhile there, my post about A. spanking me with a frying pan was routinely ranked among the top ten sites on Google about Domestic Discipline. Go figure.
   
4. Dog lead/leash. Ah, when young (or not so young) spanko lovers first meet, they have a tendency to start viewing just about anything as a possible implement. Like A. and I during our very first time together in England. While walking his brother's dogs one day at the park, A. got bored with throwing the ball to the dogs and decided to see what their rope leashes would be like on my bottom. You know, out in public. Shameless, I tell ya.
   
5. Sjambok. You can buy them at Adam and Gillian's so they are actual bona fide spanking implements. But even they list them under "unusual."
   
6. Fly swatter. The business end of a fly swatter makes some spanking sense, but many years ago a friend also decided to try the wire handle. Ouch! It left me with some nice black and blue welts. More recently, A. also tried out a completely plastic one I bought at the grocery store on my ass. Pieces broke off the top of it with the very first swat.
   
7. Wire hanger. Joan Crawford made them a famous, albeit unorthodox spanking implement and my bottom has not been spared their use. The first spanko guy I dated gave me a dose of wire when I started laughing after he fell out of his chair. Alas, it didn't stop the giggles in me.
8. Remote Control. I've heard of other spankos experimenting with remote controls also. I mean, you're on the couch with your naughty boy or girl. The remote is on the table in front of you. It's sorta flat... Though having been spanked with one, I can't say they're all that impressive as implements go.
9. Sandal. The British have a long tradition of hitting kids with slippers or gym shoes (A. would know). So why not a sandal? They're flat and whippy...
10. Cutting board. What can I say? It was paddle-shaped. A. had to spank me with it. Unfortunately it wasn't exactly made to strike nice big bottoms and broke after a swat or two. It comes in at number ten because it's probably been the first spanking implement bought at Wal-Mart by many a spanko, just behind electrical cords -- which I've also been spanked with.
    

I imagine you, dear reader, might have a few unconventional spanking implements to add to the list. And you know how much I love comments...

Sugasm #143

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #143? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Interludes - part 3

“He winds the rope around his hands, smoothing the kinks, and I stand there, breathing a little faster, conscious of all those eyes upon me.”

Hurts So Good

“I want you to wear the badges of sweet distress for days.”

Shower fantasy

“You don’t want to admit it, but you want me.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice

Why I haven’t blogged about the Mosley case

More Sugasm

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Fat girls are kinky too

Not quite two weeks ago while I was shaving, I smiled to myself as I thought about a post from Mija several weeks back where she talked about how she scheduled brazil waxes around pelvic exams "in case the lack of hair caused questions." I smiled because I normally do the same thing too (though not necessarily for the same reasons). But as I finished shaving my labia, I suddenly remembered that in a couple of days I was going to have a colonoscopy. Shit! It wasn't a pelvic exam, but it was down there. Would they notice?

I continued thinking about it as I got out of the tub. So why does it matter? Given the current fashion for bare twat, I couldn't possibly be the only patient they will ever see with a hairless snatch. So what was bothering me? What was I really worried about?

I'm fat (something I talked about on my non-kink blog yesterday). And fat girls aren't supposed to be kinky. They're not even supposed to be sexual. We're thick, sweaty, lazy, lonely, depressed blobs who do nothing but eat and watch television. Fat girls who try to be sexual -- think of fat Monica on Friends -- are silly at best, repulsive at worse.

Would the doctors be grossed out by my smooth but pudgy pussy? Would I be the one they talked about later on in the break room? You should have seen this three hundred pound girl we worked on today. She actually had a bare beaver. I mean, I've seen them on the hot girls...but her? Ewww...

Of course, why the hell should I care if they are or not? At least that's what I told myself. And keep telling myself.

And I'll keep telling myself that until I no longer give a second thought about when my next pelvic exam is while I'm shaving my flabby but sexy, worshiped, busy cunt.

In the meantime, I think I'm going to buck up my courage after that awful experience three and a half years ago, and show that picture of my ass at the Grand Canyon off a bit more. See the left sidebar -- if you haven't already.

Flower rewards and chocolate thoughtfulness

Being better means I get to finally catch up (sorta) on some blog reading (at last!). I was just reading Constance's post at My Dabble in the Middle End about getting flowers today from her top for "being good." It makes sense to me. A. and I have talked about how, if I'm going to have a punishment book listing all the naughty things I've done, I should have a reward book listing all the good things I do. And I think flowers are as good a reward as any.

In a follow up to my rather melancholy post from Monday, I should note that when I put my Meals on Wheels into the fridge this afternoon to eat later, it bumped up against something when I tried to slide it onto the bottom shelf. I pulled it out and found a box of chocolate truffles my dear had gotten for me on his last trip to Trader Joe's the day before he left that I had forgotten all about.

Chocolate truffles are as nice a reminder of my beloved's thoughtfulness as any.

Sugasm #141 or my first

Note: I've been reluctant to join Sugasm as I wasn't really healthy enough for the commitment. So consider my enrollment a sign of optimism regarding my energy level and forthcoming enhanced posting schedule. And hopefully I'm not jinxing the whole thing!

Sugasm #141

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #142? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Comedy vs. Tragedy
“Are you on your period? What? Did he just say…”

Ian, or, Sometimes Sex is Hilarious
“In short, it isn’t sex blogger sex.”

A Wish
“I wish that you could know the indescribable pleasure of being enfolded in your warm, gentle wetness.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
Road Rage


More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

The night before

So, he's leaving tomorrow.

I've been mentally preparing myself for it during the last couple of weeks but it still doesn't seem easier than last time. My mind is heavy with the knowledge of how quiet it will be. The dearth of cuddling that will ensue. The forthcoming woefully inadequate phone spankings. The return to me and I instead of we and us.

I despise nationalism. With its border fetish. Its obsession with visas. Its fixation on citizenship requirements that even lawyers find dizzying. And don't even get me started on the bureaucracy that surrounds being ill. Policy and purse have long conspired to keep our relationship revolving around these quarterly sojourns, even as I know that someday -- really, truly -- the sojourns will turn into permanent togetherness. I've kept the faith this long, I can continue on.

We spent the day looking at furniture porn (me) or the implements of porn (him) but soon settled down to sorting out our less than meager finances utilizing one card with a bit of money to pay one bill, and a penny jar and another card with a bit less to pay for groceries. While my mind was still fretting over how to make that stretch until August 1st, A. was putting away the wallet.

"It's time to attend to your ass," he said with a grin.

I bit my lower lip. Half-smiled with a quick dash of demure. But my brow remained furrowed.

"I'm going into the bathroom to finish washing my sweater," he began, "and while I'm in there I want you to clear away these catalogues, please. Get out the ping pong paddle, both brushes, and...the rubber paddle. Oh and the riding crop....And the strap. I haven't decided what I'm going to use yet."

I closed up my laptop and began picking up the catalogues, trying to put myself into a kinky frame of mind.

"Is there a particular sort of dress you want for me?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said with gleaming eyes.

Upon his return, attending to my ass began with me draped naked over his lap. His hand preparing with gusto my fat cheeks for the as yet undecided upon implements to come. When he grabbed the ping pong paddle, he began to question me about the schedule I had agreed to the week before, the memory of which was rather hazy at that moment. I had successfully done the reading I agreed to. Done the exercises and yoga when I felt well enough. Bedtime was a mixed bag because we'd been fooling around a lot more at night due to his impending departure. But meditation, which I'm normally very good at doing daily, was a complete miss as A.'s and my bedtime and waking schedules had totally switched, leaving me floundering as to when to do it since I usually do it in the morning while he's still asleep (it's a small studio apartment).

"You could have simply asked me to leave you alone for a bit to do it," he so helpfully pointed out.

True. But I didn't think of that. I'd get distracted when I woke up and then, since I had not done it at the usual time, I didn't think about it. Except one night before bed. But meditation is hard to do when you're sleepy.

I felt like I had, if not a good excuse, then at least extenuating circumstances. A. was less convinced. And the thing was, even if I disagreed with him about the severity of the crime, there have been a zillion other times before where life for both of us would have been a lot easier had I just opened my mouth and talked to him. So I figured that on the larger point, he, um, well, had a point. I just didn't want to admit that while he had the ping pong paddle in his hand.

My lack of external contrition (or perhaps, because of) did not stop him from using that ping pong paddle over just about every square inch of my ass, as well as repeatedly on certain square inches. With my mind still not quite in a kinky or punishment frame of mind, and still somewhat indifferent about my meditation misdeed, and still grief-stricken about being alone for (hopefully only) the next three months, I thought I just might cry. I could feel that familiar lump coming to rest near the spot my tonsils once were.

Before I could cry, the punishment part was over and the kinky/for-your -own-good-while-I'm-away spanking began. There was the clothesbrush. And the rubber paddle, which, mixed with my mental state brought me once more to the brink of crying. After a lot of kicking and squirming, he switched to the cane. It's really a deceitful implement, that cane. To avoid bruising me too deeply, A. will often use it lighter than it would be otherwise. And that will seem, at first, not that painful. But it's the cumulative effect that gets me clenching and jerking about, to the point that he had to hold my legs down. He then ended this beating with a half dozen strokes of the riding crop.

It was after the spanking that I started to cry. When I was laying on my stomach against his chest, and the wind was caressing the marks on my naked ass.

I just want to stay here. Naked. On my belly. In the temperate summer afternoon with the wind cooling the sting on my left cheek. With A. here in his blue striped shirt that still smells faintly of the sweat he worked up walking to Trader Joe's.

But forever ended a half an hour later when a friend of my mom's arrived to cut our hair. As I stood watching while she snipped A.'s hair ever so delicately, I realized that even if my mind had been grasping for its kinky frame, my body had been in full blown kink mode.

"I'm wet," I said sheepishly to A. after my mom's friend left.

"I bet you are after that spray bottle."

"No, I'm wet," I stated again.

"Oh, that wet."

At first I thought of switching and having him service my cunt. But he was still all top. In the end, we played a pseudo rape scene.

"Let's sleep together tonight," he said as we both lay back in that yummy, lethargic post-fucking way. After a few years of awkward nights together in my double bed, we finally broke down and got a separate futon last year and have slept separately every since.

"Yeah," I said dreamily after making certain he'd want to risk a poor night's sleep before such a long flight.

I'm going to love every minute of those gawky five hours before he has to go.

My inner pain slut makes an appearance

I have a new hypothesis about what has been causing my pathetic spanking pain thresholds of late: Coumadin.

As those of you who read this blog regularly may know, I take this anticoagulant (or "blood thinner") after inexplicably developing blood clots in my lungs two years ago. However last Sunday night I had to stop taking it for a few days in preparation for a colonoscopy to see why I keep getting the "stomach flu." The colonoscopy didn't really solve that puzzle, but the lack of Coumadin means I clot a bit faster than I have been and bruise less. Even though I resumed Coumadin on Tuesday after the colonoscopy, my INR (a measure of how quickly or slowly my blood is clotting) is still quite low. When my nurse checked it today, it was 1.2 whereas it's supposed to be -- and normally is -- between 2 and 3.

Prior to leaving for my appointment this afternoon, A. decided to take me over his knee. After a few smacks, he asked how I did on my schedule of goals for last week. Alas, I had missed a few bedtimes and forgotten about some reading I had planned to do. And we all know the remedy for missed bedtimes and forgotten tasks is a good spanking. So he started in on my poor bottom with his hand. I tensed up expecting the scalding pain of the last few spankings. Except it didn't really scald. Hurt? Sure. But I wasn't squirming and whimpering like I have been.

My lack of noise and movement prompted A. to fish out the ping pong paddle in the box beneath the bed. Then, my dear friends, there was scalding. Especially when he kept hitting my right thigh with the damn thing. When he finally finished, I made the mistake of noting this with what was probably just a tad bit of annoyance.

"You don't look very contrite," A. said to me as he brushed back my hair.

"Oh I'm contrite," I offered up enthusiastically. "Very contrite. I'm penitent. Repentant." Though it was true that I wasn't very broken. While there had indeed been scalding, it wasn't necessarily unbearable scalding.

"No, you have a defiant look in your eye."

"Nooo, not defiant. I'm penitent," I pleaded. But to no avail. A. reached back down into the toy box and took out the black rubber paddle.

If I wasn't feeling contrite before, I was certainly feeling so when I saw that black rubber evil. I tensed up once more expecting intolerable pain.

Yet again it hurt. I whimpered more. And squirmed more. But it was like I finally had endorphines where before I had none. However after a few minutes A. decided to stop because I was really starting to mark, even though I still had a tiny hankering for the cane.

I should note, though, now that the endorphines are gone, I'm blogging on a very sore bottom.

It makes me wonder if having a lower INR so that I bruise less easily makes spanking a lot more bearable. Then again, my INR has been at its normal therapeutic level when my inner pain slut has made appearances in the past, so maybe it's just a fluke.

Oh and speaking of bruising and colonoscopies, I was very worried earlier this week when my ass was deeply bruised while I had an impending medical procedure in which my ass was going to be most prominent. However after a lot of arnica gel, ice, and then heat 48 hours after my spanking on Friday, I managed to make most of the bruising disappear by Tuesday morning. Just thought I'd share that with you, dear friends, in case you ever find yourself in a similar position.

Nothing more British

The current Max Mosley case in Britain has brought with it a lot of attention to the BDSM community, including this interesting piece in the BBC Magazine. I thought it did a decent job of explaining BDSM to those not familiar with how it works, or are only familiar with lurid cases when it doesn't (or funny cases, as it may be -- hat tip to Tom). I think my only real criticism of the piece is that I have no idea how they managed to leave out of a discussion regarding how much spanking is part of British culture without mentioning that the French actually called it "le vice Anglais" -- the English vice.

For whatever other derelictions the piece had, the comments more than made up for. My favorite is from a James Rigby of Wickford, Essex who states, "There's nothing more British than a right royal spanking followed by a nice cup of tea. It helped build the Empire."

Quite.

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Update: Pandora has a thoughtful post about the Mosley case, as well as the disturbing legislation targeting kinky sex in the UK. Nikki also talks about the case and how Northern Spanking got -- wrongly -- implicated with disastrous results for the owners of NS. You can help them out by becoming a member of Northern Spanking, giving you a warm fuzzy feeling both in your heart and down south.

Spanking and the spiritual imagination

Last week (when I started this post) I had a couple of comments from individuals of a spiritual nature. It's made me think about how much I've talked about my own faith over the years here. Indeed, when I did a search for the word "church" on this blog, I was surprised at how many posts came up. And how many of them were some of the most personal posts I've written.

My spiritual life began early. I grew up Conservative Baptist. Accepted Jesus into my heart when I was four years old. Later I participated in AWANA, where I wowed adults and kids alike with my Bible memorization prowess (I still own my gray uniform with all the patches and trinkets on it that, if it only still fit, would make a perfect outfit in which to be spanked). In junior high I was crowned Miss CBA -- a title I won based on my biblical knowledge and public speaking skills rather than my looks -- and my duties in that role included going to girls' retreats where I shared what Jesus had done for me. At 14 years old I certainly didn't have a testimony about a life steeped in sin and debauchery, but I was quite honest when I talked about how the Jesus in my heart and my mind was with me through my mother's divorce, dating, and remarriage, as well as life with my new, abusive stepfather.

Spanking, of course, was also in my heart and head. Being among Baptists meant my imagination was frequently fed with tales about daddys' belts and paddles with Bible verses on them from friends, youth leaders, and pastors. And even though I was about as good a girl as it gets (to the point that every now and then -- to my great chagrin -- parents would ask my friends why they couldn't "act more like Michelle"), I spent a lot of time wishing for and imagining some sort of strict but loving father figure, such as the angel in this story. Though that fantasy was not yet in its Byzantine incarnation.

The Byzantine part came in graduate school. While I remained a devout Christian all through college (I even went to an Evangelical university -- at least for my freshman year until I couldn't afford it any longer and had to transfer to a state school), I became an increasingly uncomfortable Evangelical. A great deal of that had to do with the fact that I was studying the history of Evangelicalism as part of my research, which is sorta like seeing how sausage is made. I think I was also bored with the liturgical aspects of Evangelicalism -- or rather, the lack thereof. I've always craved ritual. As a teenager during Holy Week I would try diligently each day to follow the events of the week in the Gospels. And in college I put together a mixed tape of contemporary Christian music that had to do with Easter. But it felt so woefully inadequate.

When I finally started attending an Orthodox church, the priest's wife -- who was herself a former Evangelical -- welcomed me to "Easter on steroids." I loved it. As well as the Divine Liturgy -- the equivalent of Mass. It felt so other-worldly. So vertical. So connected with my spiritual imagination and my hunger for ritual. There was an aesthetic about it that my very cells relished. Though I became an Orthodox catechumen, at the end of the day I ended up Catholic for theological reasons that seemed very important to me at the time but seem less important now. And thankfully there was an Orthodox liturgical equivalent in the Catholic Church -- the Byzantine or Greek rite.

Around the same time as my chrismation (or confirmation) I began to explore my spanking kink, and I feel certain that connecting with ritual and my imagination on a spiritual level prompted me to connect to ritual and my imagination on a sexual level. Indeed one of the things I loved about my new faith was how sensual it was. How the Byzantine church seeks to utilize each one of the five senses in worship.

I certainly don't believe sex and spirituality are contradictory -- at least not now. At the time, however, they seemed as diametrical as they come, and I had no idea how to reconcile them. And so, like all good Catholics -- and, I would argue, good Baptists -- I simply dog-paddled about in guilt. I mean, what kind of good Christian girl posts to a newsgroup called soc.sexuality.spanking? Or talks to strange men on the Internet in spanking chatrooms?

Yet the Bible never says you shouldn't spank or be spanked. Indeed one could argue there are a fair number of verses to suggest it almost encourages it. But I couldn't deny a link between my spanking kink and sex. And sex -- and everything that goes with it -- was certainly bad. Or at least felt like it was. After a night of heavy petting and spanking play with a guy I was going out with, I quickly sought out my priest for confession. He counseled me that the only thing the Bible prohibited was sexual intercourse outside of marriage and for everything else, I was going to have to decide where I wanted to set the boundaries.

Clearly spanking was going to be well within the boundaries upon which I decided. But eventually as I became an increasingly uncomfortable Catholic and no longer took the Bible (or the Magisterium) as literally as I had before, fornication also moved to well within my boundaries. As has embracing the sexualities of others including not just homosexuality or BDSM, but polyamory and sex work. I don't doubt that my inability to attend Divine Liturgy on a regular basis (it's been two years since I was last able to go, though I hope my improving health will change that) hastened my changing faith. Or rather, made its evolution feel a bit less dissonant and guilt-ridden.

But as I said above, kink and faith are not necessarily dissonant. I think my favorite example of this is the story Raven shared in this comment about coming out to her spiritual director. "...[H]e reassured me that he didn't find it to be problematic or strange and thought it was a wonderful gift that God had given to me." Isn't it just? I responded to her comment at the time by mentioning something my priest had once said about how, because we are made in the image of God, when we hide who we really are to the world, we hide some aspect of God. I can't say that I understand the Divine well enough to know exactly what aspect of being kinky is part of being made in the image of God. But I know it is, and that knowledge that God not only accepts me but wants me to be the person made in the image of God that I am -- kinky and all -- is a powerful and liberating thing.

I think it's when I'm getting a particularly hard or specifically disciplinary spanking that I feel spanking intersect with the spiritual the most. It's like communion in a way. Instead of the Eucharist binding us together, it's a hairbrush or ping pong paddle. There is sacrifice, suffering, and redemption. Something transcendent that binds the two of us together into one whole, if only for a few minutes.

And in those few minutes, I'm so grateful to be a spanko. So savor the spiritual. Am so at peace with myself.

*******************
Note: I found an old freewrite this afternoon when I was working on the last paragraphs of this post that I published over at the Punishment Book.

New updates on the blog and me

I've been doing a lot of fiddling with my blog the last couple of days. If you tried to access this blog yesterday with Internet Explorer, you may well have encountered a page that was mostly unreadable.

However, I've finally switched over to Blogger's new (or new to me) easy-to-use layout function when I became completely exasperated this afternoon pretending I actually know how to use HTML and fucked up the entire blog when I accidentally hit "tab" and "space." After spending a few hours recreating what I had with the layout function, as well as adding the bits I was trying to add earlier, I'm content for the time being. Even if the new layout function has some annoying quirks in it that limit my creativity. Well, hell, let's be honest. It's not my creativity but my anal-retentiveness it's impinging upon. But it will have to do for now. And it will make reading this blog easier on IE.

The added bits include the very first advertisement ever on NSB. Yes, I know. I'm a total whore. Vibe Review, a sex toy store that includes educational articles and toy reviews, approached me about becoming an editorial reviewer for their site. The deal means I get to play with sex toys for free, not to mention get a relatively generous commission on toys purchased by readers of this blog who follow the link from this blog to their site. What can I say? I've sold my blogging soul for free toys. But the ad was tasteful with nothing flashing (which I can't say for a few other spanking-related places I'd like to be an affiliate for), a lot of the toys are phthalate-free, and they have a very woman-friendly feel. Now I have told them quite frankly that their BDSM section sucks, and they are apparently working on that. But a good vibrator still comes in handy when you've spent a long night reading all those spanking blogs out there, right?

There will be another addition to the blog coming in the next week or so (hopefully by the time A. leaves). My dearest (who is quite the artist) has drawn a kick-ass picture that will serve as a logo for me and the blog. It's only in the doodle phase at the moment but I'm really looking forward to sharing it with you all.

And there should be a return to more frequent blogging (if I'm not jinxing it by saying so -- I do have a colonoscopy scheduled for Tuesday, eep!). The last few weeks I've been feeling better than I have in well over a year, so much so that I've been out of the apartment enjoying the summer in my limited way. But I'm slowly developing a routine with my new found energy, and hopefully that should mean more posts, including one tomorrow or Monday about spanking and my spiritual life that I've been working on for the last week or so, as well as some forthcoming posts for the Punishment Book.

So that's it folks. Welcome to the newly updated Natty's Spanking Blog.

An all natural spanking

Lately my pain threshold has been very low, perhaps due to daily morphine causing a bit of opioid-induced hyperalgesia. What it means in spanking terms is that even the lowliest hand spanking hurts.

After my spanking last night for staying up past my bedtime a few nights in a row (PB post forthcoming) -- a spanking which only involved A.'s hand -- A. grinned and called it an "all natural spanking" containing no implements or knickers. Just hand on bare ass, like nature intended. Or something like that.

And while there weren't any implements, it still felt like he scalded my poor cheeks. I was laying over his lap, yelping and kicking, knowing that he wasn't really spanking me all that hard. And I must say, it's rather disappointing on a couple of levels. Disappointing because I feel like I should be less of a wuss and take a lot more. Disappointing because the sting wears off about the time my endorphines kick in, meaning by that point I actually sorta wish I was getting more.

A., however, doesn't mind at all. "It's just less work for me."

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.

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.

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...

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.