Rock of submissiveness

I just told A. that I'm topping tonight.

"That's not right. You're still supposed to be in subby mode with your schedule and your pigtails..."

"You switch at the drop of a hat," I pointed out.

"Yes, but that's me. I'm Even Stevens. While you...you're my rock of submissiveness."

Except the rock in his trousers showed who the submissive one was. You know, at least for tonight.

Why does it have to hurt so much?

Do you ever find yourself, the night after a spanking, thinking that spanking really hurt. Can I have more please?

Last night I got spanked at bedtime. It was the first day of my new schedule, and I failed pretty appallingly. Instead of only being on the computer for three hours, I think it was well over five (I blame the Israeli government for that too!). Instead of taking breaks after every one of those hours, I completely disregarded them. I totally forgot to lay down for one rest period, much less for the three 15-minute periods I was supposed to. I did remember to do some yoga and physical therapy, but forgot my meditation and QiGong. And, of course, I was late to bed -- seven minutes past the grace period.

In short, I blew it.

So A. administered the ruler* after pulling down my jammie bottoms while I buried my face in my pillows. Quite severely too. At one point I thought he was going to break it. Needless to say, it hurt. A lot.

But upon waking up this morning (yes, it was really in the AM too - 11:30!), all I could think of was how much I really want a good, long spell over his knee. I just wish it didn't have to hurt so much. Except, of course, if it didn't hurt, I wouldn't feel very satisfied.

Why does it have to work like that?
_____________________________________
*This ruler is no namby-pamby love-pat stick. It's 24-inches and stings like a motherfucker.

Crashing into Natty

Crashing has a way of putting me in a very Natty mood. And last Wednesday, after a long Mother's Day, a longer ME/CFS Awareness Day, and a trip to the acupuncturist, I crashed. Every noise became too loud. Every light too bright. Television was painful. My cells felt like they were shaking as their vitality drained into oblivion.

All my haughtiness and dominance of the day before melted into dependency and submission. I wanted to be taken care of. Petted. Told what to do, especially as I was too exhausted to figure it out for myself.

Obviously I needed to rest, which I did without protest that night. I woke up the next day promising to continue resting rather than pushing through the exhaustion as I usually do....just after I checked my email. But with the bed adjusted to near zero-gravity and the Mac agreeably on my lap, the temptation to check a few more things was too much. Before I knew it,  A. had gone out and returned again two hours later to find me still on the computer.

He didn't say anything until bedtime when he asked if I could manage a spanking -- something I had not yet been able to tolerate since his arrival because of pain in my sacro-iliac joint and lower right abdomen.

"As long as it's a surface-y implement," I replied. "Like the belt."

"What about the ruler?" Twenty-four inches of deceptively light but terribly stingy wood.

"Yes." I swallowed a scowl. "The ruler would be okay." Even though I much prefer the feel of the belt.

I pulled down my jammie bottoms and laid down on the bed.

"I'm sorry I didn't rest this afternoon," I said as penitently as possible, hoping my apology might reduce my impending punishment.

"I'm sorry too. You needed that rest," was A.'s quiet, grave reply.

That stung almost as much as the ruler. 

When I'm irritated with the limitations illness imposes, I've come to find refuge in my "Princess Natalie" mood, as A. and I have begun calling it. Relishing every wet, bawdy moment of dictating my will and dishing out pain. Feeling imperious and demanding obeisance.

But when I crash and I'm too weak to be irritated, it's all Natty. Meek. Dependent. Child-like. Craving absolution from the guilt I feel for being feeble and useless. Desperate for structure to guide me through my fatigue-induced disorientation and forgetfulness. Hungry for cuddles and sometimes even a spanking to reinforce for me that there is no shame -- and much to be gained -- in resting.

A dommey vignette

A. is clearing up the apartment at the moment. It never has been fully ordered since I moved in at the end of January. He just picked up the 24-inch wooden ruler off the floor between the foot of my bed and my dresser.

"Hmm...and what might this be doing here?" He raised his eyebrow and slapped the ruler against his palm.

"I used it to beat you with the other night," was my casual, haughty response.

"Ah...right." His eyes fell and he shook his head. "I just can't get you out of this dommey mood, can I?"

I grinned. "Nope."

Hairbrush night

I usually never watch "Til Death" on Fox, but I just turned the TV on a few minutes ago to see what was on. Within 30 seconds, Brad Garrett's character was asking Martin Mull's character to stay after he got up to leave. When Mull's character said he needed to get back to his wife, Garrett's character asked "What are you afraid of? Is she gonna spank you -- or not spank you?"

Mull's character grins sheepishly, "Well it is hairbrush night...she gets really angry if I'm late." At which point he sits back down.

Unfortunately, that seemed to be the only funny part of show. It was followed by yet another unfunny episode of The Simpsons. Thank God for Seth McFarland - who manages to do both spanking references AND comedy well.

But liked the "hairbrush night" bit. Nice touch.

Why domestic discipline is not domestic violence

Last week (at least it was last week when I started this post) I read Jessica Wakeman's piece over at The Frisky about her first D/s relationship and was going to write about the similarities/differences with my own first spanking relationship. Except that within the essay was a link (that didn't work but I found eventually) to Amanda Marcotte's post at Pandagon about that article Jessica wrote for Bitch Magazine regarding domestic discipline two years ago featuring, among others, yours truly and my dear friends, Mija and Pablo (see this post for my thoughts on that article). Needless to say it rather distracted me from the post I intended to write.

I'm not sure how I missed Marcotte's post as I was reading Pandagon fairly regularly at the time (and would be now if I was awake more), but it was probably a good thing I did miss it as most likely I would have taken it quite personally ("these people are fucked the fuck up")*. Instead I shrugged off it and its comments as sort of like watching and listening to random people in a bar discuss an event they saw on TV in which you actually played an intimate part. Plus the idea of A. (or Pablo) as an ideologically-motivated pater familias or a misogynistic wife beater made me laugh.

At least, initially I shrugged it off. But...it kept bugging me. As it's been two years since her post, it seemed just a bit late to write a post in response.  However the more I continued to think about it, the more I began to feel that a post addressing why domestic discipline is not domestic violence had a great deal of merit.

Definitions: domestic discipline vs. domestic violence

Domestic discipline is planned, contained, sexually-oriented acts of power exchange with regard to real life deeds that may include physical violence between two people who have explicitly consented to those acts, the violence, and the mutually-defined structure of power exchange.

Domestic violence is behavior that seeks power and control through physical and/or psychological coercion over a partner who has not consented to being controlled (staying with the partner is not consent) and frequently includes spontaneous, unrestrained emotionally-mediated outbursts of physical and/or psychological violence.

Domestic violence is about manipulation and focuses exclusively on the desires of the abusive partner, whereas domestic discipline is far more centered on the needs and desires of the submissive partner.

Within domestic discipline, both partners create a construct in which one partner gives authority (in varying degrees) to the other partner in a way that produces sexual arousal for both. Within this construct the dominant partner will speak and act in ways that would be cruel, unfair, and absolutely inappropriate outside of the construct. Nobody ever really, truly requires a partner "take them in hand." When the submissive partner says he or she "deserved" his or her punishment or the dominant partner beats the other with a rattan cane, both are fully aware that they are acting within the construct they have both chosen and actively participated in constructing.

Safe, Sane, and Consensual

I failed to see how it’s much different from domestic violence, except that the women in this situation tend to minimize the conflict through stylizing the violence and submitting to it in a tacit exchange for their partners’ agreeing to have a limit on how much beating and abuse is handed out.

The difference is quite simple and stark: consent.  Just as in any BDSM relationship, the motto remains safe, sane, and consensual. Even in the "consent to non-consent" relationships, it always begins with consent. With discussions of fantasies and limits (hard and soft) and safe words.

Part of the process of breaking a victim down is slowly introducing her to this narrative in bits and pieces while depriving her of her independence...

Except that in domestic discipline, the overwhelming majority of the time it's the submissive (male or female) who is the one who introduces the domestic discipline narrative to his or her partner and pushes him or her to "be stricter." Or the two partners meet because they are both interested in the same narrative and join a spanking-fetish group of one sort or another. This is markedly different from the bullying that occurs in domestic violence where the abuser's narrative is forced onto his or her victim.

Some abusers will indeed use spanking as a form of violence, particularly when one partner is into spanking/DD and the other isn't. Such was the case in this situation I wrote about where the guy was (and may be still, alas) "disciplining" his girlfriend without any consent on her part because he thought "she needed it." No consent = abuse.

I've also seen situations where one partner wants the other to spank him or her and seeks to get him or her to do so by engaging in greater and greater deliberately provocative behavior (aka "bratting for it"). It's one thing to "brat" with someone you know is into spanking and may view it as a form of foreplay (though a lot of spankos are just as likely to find it annoying as hell). But doing so with someone who is not into spanking or DD is also a form of non-consensuality. Do note, however, this does NOT excuse the non-spanko partner from responding with violence (you have agency, asshole). Bratting for it may work in John Wayne movies and spanking stories, but it's not going to turn someone into a spanko anymore than a girl in a bikini will turn a gay guy straight.


It's all about sex

DD is not BDSM, which is a sexual game, though some DD couples do also enjoy incorporating BDSM elements into their relationships

This is absolutely false and indeed Jessica made a point of linking domestic discipline to sex in her article ("each and every one considers herself a 'spanko' whose fantasies have long revolved around being spanked."). DD is a sub-fetish of BDSM.  It is why you find DD groups at places like FetLife or SpankoLife. Or why DD groups on Yahoo are considered "adult." It is true that those in the "Christian Domestic Discipline" community are probably markedly uncomfortable admitting that what they do is connected to gay leathermen. It is also true that there are some Christian DDers who have a difficult time acknowledging DD is about sex. But even evangelicals who believe in the "headship" of husbands look down on domestic discipline as a sexual fetish. At the end of the day they are simply using a traditional, religious, patriarchal narrative to make palatable what is very much sexual. And we feminists who practice DD are pretty shameless in declaring that what we do is directly related to our clitorises.

...It seems that domestic discipline is a way of thwarting conflict in your relationship by assuming that every conflict or problem in the heterosexual relationship is the woman’s fault (because she’s childish, scattered, rebellious, whatever) and that it’s up to her man to discipline her.

This sentence requires unpacking, and I'll just start at the beginning.

Her point about thwarting conflict in relationship is an important one that deserves far more discussion in the domestic discipline community than it gets. I am always disturbed when I hear couples say they are using DD to avoid arguments. Conflict is a part of ANY relationship, healthy or not. Spanking (or sex, job, exercise, etc.) should never be used as a substitute for good inter-personal communication skills. Ever.

That said, once the conflict is resolved, DD couples will use spanking in the same way that non-kinky people use intercourse to make up. It may not be the way you have sex, but it includes all the aspects of love, intimacy, and affection that one associates with sex.

It's not about gender 

And I use the androgynous term partner because it could just as well be a woman as a man. Marcotte insists that one, domestic discipline only exists within hetero couples, and that two, the man is always dominant. Now based on reading Jessica's article, I can see why she thinks this. While I thought Jessica's description of domestic discipline was very perceptive on a number of levels, she made a crucial mistake in stating that female-dominant or same-sex domestic discipline is merely "theoretical." There are plenty of couples in which the wife is the one disciplining the guy (I really could have linked to a bazillion places for F/M couples). And there are also women disciplining women (if I ever find my Nanny Bea, I can add my name to that list) and men disciplining men. One very astute commenter at Pandagon pointed out that

it’s actually my impression that there’s long been more female-D/male-s than visa verse. My assumption has been that that’s because male-D/female-s overlaps with traditional gender roles, so people who like that sort of thing don’t need to go to a subculture to find it.

Indeed that's exactly been my experience as I've started switching. It took me a little while, but once I found the F/M community, I found more blogs and websites than I could ever possibly visit even if I was healthy and had all the time in the world. And I think Jessica's own male-D/female-s interest kept her from looking for that subculture, leaving the reader to falsely assume that DD is about male superiority by default.

That is not to say misogyny is lacking within the DD community, as well as in the larger BDSM community. Yes, there are men (and women) who engage in domestic discipline (and D/s)** because they believe all women are meant to submit to men (we all know that guy[s] who thinks all dominant women are just waiting for the right dominant man to submit to -- who would be him, of course!). There are men (and women) who are disturbed by feminism and find domestic discipline to be sexually, and yes, politically and religiously attractive. Add thousands of years of patriarchy and a society which is still rife with sexism, and it can make the distinction between ideology and wank fodder difficult.

My first draft of this post was snarky, sarcastic, and downright indignant. Marcotte and her commenters come across as condescending and distinctly uninterested in DD as a form of sexuality. However after more reflection, I had to acknowledge my own lingering discomfort with the language of domestic discipline -- so much so that I don't even like calling what I do "domestic discipline" because of its 1950s "Father-Knows-Best" connotation, preferring to use "punishment fetish/kink" or "What It Is We Do" instead -- even if the fantasies that make me orgasm most often involve domestic discipline. It's because of that discomfort that I almost never read fiction that includes domestic discipline, and when I do, it usually features female-dominant or same-sex couples. Or it's real-life accounts from couples where I know sexism is not the motivation. It's hard for me to not take a "sexist-until-proven-innocent" approach so I can imagine how hard it must be for people outside of our community to hear that my boyfriend spanks me when I go to bed late and not think something terribly sexist is occurring even though it really is true that gender has little to do with the disciplinary arrangement I have with A. 

I agree with Marcotte that feminism is being defined too much these days as choice and not enough as empowerment, especially given the growing climate of dis-empowering women regarding their reproductive rights or equal pay. And I'm not going to suggest -- as I often see women in the BDSM community doing -- that embracing my choice to engage in DD is some grand feminist act, anymore than my eating Cheerios for breakfast is. Domestic discipline is sex and sex is...sex with all of the love, intimacy, transcendence/spirituality, and personal fulfillment that it involves. It's not feminist or misogynist. It's certainly not a movement to return male-female relationships back to the 1950s (even if it may mean that for some who practice it). It's sex.***

But I will say that making women feel bad about the kind of sex they have contributes to their disempowerment. And that is most definitely NOT a feminist act. 


_______________________
*It is also quite possible that I knew about it at the time but deliberately chose not to read it because I suspected this sort of response and now, two years later, forgot that I wasn't going to read it. As you might imagine, my illness-induced poor short-term memory makes reruns far more interesting. ::grin::

**The line between DD and D/s is a murky one. The best way I would differentiate between the two off the top of my head is to say that DD includes a sort of parent-child dynamic while D/s has more of an adult master/slave dynamic - PG vs. R-rated, if you will (or perhaps Freud vs. Hegel). But, of course, there is enormous overlap between the two. Indeed in Jessica's article in Bitch, as well as in The Frisky post that originally sparked this post, she uses the terms interchangeably. But I'll save that question for a whole other post.

***I am fully aware that sex is political and among the many ways the patriarchy has traditionally sought to control women. In this case, it's other women -- not the patriarchy -- trying to control women and so while yes, DD may be political, engaging in it is not an act of sticking it to the Man. Unless, perhaps, it's a female-dominant relationship.

The Birch swings no more

During our last exchange, Alex Birch and I were having a very emotional debate on the soc.sexuality.spanking Usenet newsgroup about terrorism and the requirements for a liberal society. Try as we might to stay on topic (i.e. spanking), politics is never far from the list of current discussions on the newsgroup. That particular discussion did not end with any sort of agreement between the two of us. Indeed his conclusions left me in despair. Had I known it was going to be our last conversation, I sure as hell would have talked about something far more cheerful. Far more related to spanking.

We never had the pleasure to meet in person, though I always assumed we probably would at some point. When I was better and could get on a plane and go to England finally. He and A. would talk about football and the Midlands and we'd all talk about spanking and his library of out-of-print spanking fiction.

Not that we had the lengthy, ongoing Conversation that he and Mija had. I've only been reading and posting to the newsgroup for eight years (on Saturday), making me a newbie compared to them. While I'd read plenty of his posts on SSS, we didn't really interact all that much until he was setting up his wonderful blog in 2005. As I had -- at least in his mind -- already mastered blogging on Blogger, he asked for my help, earning me far more gratitude from him than was worth my certainly earnest, if not always helpful, assistance. After that I felt more comfortable talking with him both on the newsgroup and in email, though it had dwindled over the last year or so, as have most of my other correspondences, due to illness. Meaning that I didn't know about his illness...

I can't imagine the newsgroup without him. The stories. The arguments. The jokes. The arguments. The encouragement (scolding?) each and every summer to do your part in the annual Short Story Contest. The arguments.

And where will the spankosphere get its fix of out-of-print spanking fiction and pictures of spanking models from the 1970s?

I hope he's somewhere with a sassy lass across his knee, giving her the hiding they are both enjoying.

"The naughtiest person ever"

So now that the stomach flu that had me throwing up so much I broke a bunch of blood vessels in my neck is over, and whooping cough (or mycoplasma pneumonia - my doctor wasn't sure but it responded to the second antibiotic he put me on) is over, and moving into my new ginormous one bedroom, brilliant-view apartment (but not the unpacking) is over, it's time for me to do some blogging already. And I thought a nice Nurse K. anecdote might be a good way to get back into the swing of things.

As many of you know, I'm on the blood thinner Coumadin after I developed blood clots in both lungs three years ago. Because Coumadin is a rather dangerous drug, I have to get my blood tested frequently (by Nurse K) to make sure I'm not going to bleed to death or start clotting again. She (or rather a machine that she uses) measures a number called an INR, which for me should be between 2 and 3.5 (i.e. therapeutic range).

For the first two and a half years we had a hard time getting my INR to stay in the therapeutic range. But then they learned a handy trick: they had me take a daily Vitamin K supplement (if you really want to know the science behind that, email me). Once I started taking the Vitamin K, my INR stayed therapeutic for 16 months -- until last week when I broke my run of perfect INRs with an INR of 4.1 (which meant I could bleed too easily).

Why it suddenly jumped up is complicated, but most likely involved three different supplements of which I had recently changed doses (Coumadin interacts with over 180 different foods, medications, and supplements -- a real bitch), as well as the fact that I lost some weight over the last two months from being so sick. While I wasn't really bothered about the potential for bleeding (it was still unlikely), I was annoyed that I was going to have to start going in for more frequent INR checks again. As much as I love Nurse K., and as much as my entire social life at this point consists of Twitter and seeing her and my acupuncturist (yes, my life is that pathetic), it takes a lot out of me to go to the doctor's office once a week instead of once a month.

But return a week later I did. As I sat in the exam room with her yesterday, she asked me about those supplements that I was supposed to stop.

"I was a bit naughty..." I said with a wince. "I kept taking the higher dose of the CoQ10 because it's helping me so much."

"Yes, you are very naughty," Nurse K. said in a mock condemnatory tone. "You're very naughty, Michelle. You're the naughtiest person ever!"

I sat there blushing and giggling like I do when A. tells me I'm naughty. Indeed had he been there, A. would have teased me mercilessly about just how much I was blushing and giggling.

The fun ended there, however. She recorded my CoQ10 dosing. Took my INR. This time it was too low: 1.8. And that was probably a result of me being naughty for real: I took some extra Vitamin K to compensate for what I thought might be the decreased clotting time effect of the CoQ10 even after Nurse K told me not to do that last week.

I think because I was naughty for real, she stopped teasing me. "At least you're being honest -- that's the important thing." And she returned to typing in my chart.

I suppose having to return in a mere week (rather than in two) is a fair punishment for my arrogant defiance of her instructions.

And if I'm lucky, maybe Nurse K. will tell me I'm naughty again.

Story: Natty and the Confiscated MacBook

(Dedicated to A. & P., whose MacBook made this story possible -- Thanks!)

“Do I have to watch you every second?”

Natty nearly dropped her MacBook at the sound of Nanny Bea’s voice

“I...I just needed to check something real quick...”

Nanny Bea set a basket of clothes down on the chair and walked over to the bed where Natty lay with with her MacBook propped up against her thighs.

“Hand it over, please.”

“But...I promise I’m going to sleep right now.” Natty promptly closed the lid in a demonstration of good faith. “I won’t go online anymore.”

 “I’m not going to stand here all afternoon. Hand me the laptop now, please.”

Natty gazed up at her nanny with an expression of utter pathos sure to move even the hardest of Dickensian villains. But not Beatrice Seymour, who responded with her own steely, implacable gaze demanding submission -- which came quickly and with a grim sigh. And then a gasp when she placed the MacBook on top of the wardrobe, far out of the reach of her five foot charge.

“You can just wipe that scowl off your face right now...” Nanny said as she picked up the hairbrush on the dresser and sat down on the edge of the bed. “...And get yourself over my knee.”

This made Natty scowl even more.

“But I wasn’t on there for very long,” Natty whined with a huff and folded arms. “And besides, you took away my laptop, which is way too much punishment already.”

“‘Too much punishment’ indeed.. .” Nanny Bea grabbed Natty’s left ear lobe and yanked it hard. Natty quickly unfolded her arms, and with a deep guttural groan, laid herself across Nanny Bea’s lap.

But she was still scowling. With eyebrows deeply furrowed and lips pressed hard together, it was the scowl of defiance mustered by many a little girl in the face of such grave grown-up injustice.

The scowl, of course, gave way to yelps of pain once Nanny Bea had taken down her pajama bottoms and panties and began slapping the solid, ebony back of the hairbrush on Natty’s tender fleshy cheeks.

“When I put you down for a nap, young lady, I expect you to take a nap,” Nanny Bea scolded as she delivered two dozen smart smacks. “I do not want to find you on the computer, or reading a book, or watching television, or doing anything else but resting -- preferably, sleeping. Is that clear?”

“Ye -- oh! -- Yes!” Natty answered as she squirmed and squealed.

“And you still fail to understand that when I ask you to do something, you are to obey at once. I am not at all interested in debating the finer points of my instructions.”

With that Nanny Bea gave the back of Natty’s thighs five sharp slaps of the brush each, producing fresh sobs, blubbering apologies, and promises to be good.

“So, we’re going to try this again.” Nanny Bea set aside the hairbrush and stroked Natty’s hair. “You are going to lie down for a nap. In your bed. Without interruption. Got it?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Natty mumbled. She sniffled, crawled off Nanny Bea’s lap and back under the cotton sheet and quilt.

Nanny Bea bent down and kissed Natty on the forehead before leaving her. “Now be a good girl and get some rest.”

But Natty did not feel like being a good girl. Her repentance was a bit like her computer -- of the laptop variety.  Once she was no longer over Nanny Bea’s lap, she no longer felt particularly penitent. She lay in bed sulking and pouting over the many outrages she had suffered under Nanny Bea’s tyranny. Indeed she was even plotting how she might free her beloved MacBook from its confinement high upon the wardrobe when sleep - which so readily follows a good spanking - overwhelmed her insurrectionary aspirations.

The MacBook was still in captivity when it was time for bed that night. Daddy was there to cuddle and tuck Natty in, sitting on the bed with his legs stretched out as she lay her head against his chest all wrapped up in his arms.

“And were you a good girl today?”

“Well...mostly...”

“‘Mostly?’ Go on...” In a way that was prodding, stern, and resigned all at the same time.

“I just...well...Nanny was making me take a rest. But then I remembered that I needed to check something online so I opened my MacBook real quick but then Nanny --”

“-- What exactly demanded such immediate attention?”

Natty bit her lower lip.

“Um...something on Twitter...” she mumbled, knowing well Daddy’s low opinion of Twittering.

“I see. This is not sounding good...”

“But I just needed to see something really quick. And it was only going to take me a few seconds but Nanny took my MacBook away and put it on top of the wardrobe so I couldn’t get it back, which was way too harsh a punishment but then she still punished me more and it wasn’t fair!”

“Excuse me?”

Natty pressed her lips together. Hearing the subtle stringency in Daddy’s voice, she knew she had tripped onto very treacherous ground.

“But...but it wasn’t fair...” she stammered.

“Are you complaining about Nanny Bea, young lady?”

Natty had to think about her answer. If she said no, Daddy would say she was being dishonest. But she couldn’t acknowledge she was in the wrong given how justified her grievance. It would be admitting defeat -- and if there was one thing Natty hated, it was losing.

“I’m just saying that...it was...unreasonably harsh...”

“You’re just digging yourself deeper and deeper, aren’t you?” Daddy said with a raised eyebrow. “Right. I think you need a trip over my lap.” He patted his thigh.

“Please don’t spank me, Daddy! Please! Nanny already spanked me today and --”

“-- This is a poor choice of moments to argue with me, young lady.”

Would the injustice never end?

Natty tried desperately to think of some way -- any way -- to avoid the fate before her. But after a few seconds, when she could think of no means of escape, she finally sat up on her knees and lowered herself over Daddy’s lap.

“Let’s get these down,” said Daddy as he tugged at her jammie bottoms and panties. Once Natty’s bottom was bared, he peppered her fat cheeks with crisp smacks that quickly turned a keen pink whatever wasn’t mottled with purple and red from the prior spanking.

“I’m disappointed to see that you still hesitate before doing what you’re told.”

Daddy increased the force of his spanks, eliciting whimpers and yelps from Natty.

“Anything short of immediate obedience is simply not acceptable, and I should not have to keep reminding you of this.”

He dropped his hand down to the back of Natty’s thighs but the force of his blows remained the same.

“I’m also sad to see that you never stop trying to justify yourself.”

The sharp sounds of slaps and sobs reverberated off the bedroom walls as the words “disappointed” and “sad” began melting Natty’s defiance and self-pity into a puddle of regret and contrition.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” she said during a lull in the smacking. An apology of the heavy, permanent sort.

“I should think so,” Daddy responded. He struck her blushing cheeks several more times before he stopped. “No more stalling when I tell you to do something, yes?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” Daddy petted his little girl as her sniffling and staggered breathing gradually subsided. “And no more excuses?”

“No more excuses.”

“Good girl.”

He bent his head down near Natty’s face and stroked her hair.

“Now we still need to talk about what happened with Nanny Bea...”

Natty’s shoulders fell even as she nodded stiffly.

“Would you agree that you were moaning about her even though I have specifically told you not to?”

Natty’s nodding remained awkward.

“Excuse me?” Daddy cupped his ear.

“Yes, Sir...” was Natty’s tepid response.

“And would you agree that you were being very willful toward her this afternoon?”

“Yes, Sir...” With a gulp.

“And what happens to whiny, willful little girls?”

Natty blinked the sting and wet from her eyes as she let out a little whimper with her answer.

“They...um...they get...punished...”

“That’s right.” Daddy caressed her chafed bottom and bent over so that his lips were right next to Natty’s ear. “Best go fetch the cane,” he whispered tenderly.

“Yes, Sir.” Natty’s voice cracked.

Pushing herself up off the bed, she waddled to the door where the cane hung from a hook, her panties and jammie bottoms still scrunched around her knees. By the time she had made her way back to the bed, Daddy had already placed several pillows in the middle of the bedspread.

“Right. Over the pillows, please.”

Natty obeyed. She was almost shivering as her raw, exposed bottom waited for the cane.

“I’m going to give you twelve strokes, and I want you to count them, please. I want you to think about the fact that your Nanny does nothing but try to keep you healthy. When she makes you take a rest, it’s because you really need to rest. When she took your MacBook away, she did so in order to remove what was clearly a tremendous impediment to your getting the rest you needed. And you know full well that you never just spend a ‘couple of seconds’ on the computer. Indeed had she not caught you, you may well have missed your rest time altogether.”

The puddle of regret and contrition grew as Daddy delivered the twelve cane strokes. They were not particularly severe. After all, Natty was a rather sickly and fragile little girl. The twelve angry red stripes were, however, just hard enough to leave her feeling properly punished and penitent when she climbed back into bed.

However there was yet one last punishment left for Natty.

“Once you get your MacBook back,” Daddy said as he tucked and smoothed the blankets securely around his little one. “The first thing I want you to do is write a 300-word essay about how Nanny Bea takes care of you and why what she does is important.”

And for just that moment -- but only that moment -- Natty was actually a little glad her MacBook was well out of reach.


Copyright 2009 Natty


******************
You can find the first Nanny Bea story here, as well as her guest appearance here. Casey Morgan has written her own Nanny Bea story here, which I think is far more elegantly written than mine.

2010: No More Mr. Nice A.

I got my first spanking of the decade this afternoon. Laying across my bed with the phone on speaker, A. had me consider some New Year's Resolutions with a ping pong paddle and clothesbrush handy.

None of my resolutions were particularly original: take an hour-long rest each day, get to bed on time, do a better job of taking breaks from the computer.

What was novel, however, was A. setting specific and severe punishments should I forsake my resolutions. Like 60 (!) strokes with the clothesbrush for each time I neglect my daily rest period. And one stroke for each minute I'm late to bed (it's not unheard for my tardiness to exceed two hours). He has yet to decide about the computer time, but I'm expecting it to be perfectly dreadful.

Of course, he had to remind me what those strokes would feel like should (when?) I merit them. After making me warm up with the ping pong paddle, I got multiple rounds of 12 strokes with the clothesbrush, not to mention periods of simply whacking until he told me to stop. I assure you, dear reader, there was much pouting on this side of the phone line. And both my arm and bottom remain a bit tender.

With this new get-tough-on-Natty policy, I foresee a year of grave suffering for my backside. A year of arduous sitting, sojourns to the corner, and maybe even lines or worse. (I'm too embarrassed to think about A. attempting anything of a colonic nature...) 

And a year for more stories. I've got a new Nanny Bea story scheduled for Monday. Fingers-crossed, my writing head will stick around for a more productive literary spell.

Kinky Santa at FetLife

So I'm pimping FetLife's "Sitting on Kinky Santa's Lap Giveaway" here on the blog to get my name in the hat an extra time. Shameless, I know. Especially as it probably won't increase my chances of winning all that much given the sheer number of people at FetLife. But hey, just might get lucky.

What did I ask Santa for?

• A Strapped Satin Jacquard Corset from BigGalsLingerie   (who have a number of hot plus-size dresses -- including cute and sexy holiday outfits!)
  
• An Impact Play Kit from Maui Kink
  
• A Custom Cane Case and Canes from Maui Kink   (be sure to check out their amazing and unique collection of toys, including one I've got my eye on - the Victorian Rug Beater Paddle [scroll down on the link to view])

The pickings are a bit slim for those of us who identify primarily as spankos rather than more extreme BDSMers. Though if you fancy a corset or a flogger, you're set.

I wonder if next year Kinky Santa might be able to fill his bag of toys from these vendors:

• The London Tanners (been drooling over Ian's toys for years now)
• Bobbies Drop Seats (I want the sailor dress...and the Emily dress...and...and)
• Adam & Gillian's (who doesn't need a sjambok?)
• Academy Wear (The headmaster says I need a gym slip and bottle green undies)
• Medical Toys (er...just...::blush::)
  

I'm sure I'll think of a few more later. Feel free to add some you think are missing from Kinky Santa's toybag in the comments section.

The great spanko dorm

I have been having the most surreal dreams lately. Here' s my latest addition to the REM cycle spanking file.

All us spankos lived in a sort of communal setting, like a dormitory that was somewhat rustic, as if it were a giant log cabin.

Everyone was away at a Shadow Lane party except me as I was in bed (geesh, I’m even sick in my dreams). A. was with me, as was someone else who I can’t quite name now (Nanny Bea? Casey? Indy?). I was waiting for everyone to return so I could get spanked. I was specifically waiting for sparkle, Chris, Adele Haze, Mija and Pablo, who were stuck in traffic (note that everybody rode around in hovercrafts).

The great spanko dorm was in California, I believe. But it was so cold I didn't want to pull back the covers and get out of bed.

I'm sure there was more narrative but all I can remember now having just waken up was that I thought I had found sparkle already in bed and I was feeling very disappointed that I might have missed my spanking.

Spanking the monkey?

A. found this picture from Do-While's "WtF photos from Old Times" page. While this one was the most relevant to the topic of this blog, there were a few others with shades of kink.

I can't tell if she's wishing she were in the stuffed monkey's place or if she's thinking about getting this young man home and spanking him. I mean, she does kind of have a just you wait sort of look...

Kinky twitter

The good folks at Tweet Cloud have made a handy list of the top words in my tweets over the last month. A nice mix of the banal and the kinky, wouldn't you say?

HNT: Birthday spanking

Or all nekkid, as the case may be.

In the end, it was 37 strokes of the cane. No uniform or dress. Just rattan and my naked flesh -- which I can't believe I'm showing here -- after a warm up with the rubber paddle and his hand.

It was far more serious than I expected it to be. And I was a total baby throughout. If I ever figure out how to edit with iMovie, I'll try and post all 3:04 minutes of it.

After the spanking, my wicked A. tied me to the bed with the Under the Bed Restraints* -- though I did give him a bit of a fight. Upon subduing me, he affixed my ankles to our spreader bar with the ankle restraints, lifted my legs up and wide, and violated me with the Anal Vibe, the Silver Bullet, and the Miracle Massager.

It was one of the nicest, stingiest birthday spankings I've had and the best birthday orgasm ever.

______________________

*The Under-the-Bed Restraints will be reviewed in an upcoming post. Note that VibeReview is having their Winter Sale at the moment and gives me a little kickback if you purchase items at their site by clicking on a link from my blog. 

Hang on

A few days ago I was reading the (non-kink) blog of a fellow Portlander with the title "Hanging Blog Syndrome." I immediately recognized the malady. Despite having my shiny new Macbook for almost a month now (thank you again, dear friends who donated it!), you can almost hear the creaking of this poor blog as it hangs forlornly in cyberspace.

My blogging is always rather meager when A. is here -- as is his productivity also. Two people sharing a 400sq foot studio for an uninterrupted two and a half months is not particularly conducive to introspective composition.

And, of course, that chronic illness I'm always whining about makes writing* difficult when my brain has turned to cream of wheat and I'm too weak to sit up in bed, drag my fingers across a keyboard and input all the thoughts I've had during the hour upon hour of laying in bed (as has been the case off and on these last few months).  You have no idea how jealous I am of those of you who can blog every day or even every week. And even more jealous of those of you who get to read all those brilliant blogs (like this new one from Queen of the commenters, Indy).

If I could write via mere thought, my hanging blog syndrome would be a thing of the past. Though the brevity and immediacy of Twitter has made reporting fresh spankings and random pervy thoughts less onerous than blogging. I suspect you will continue to find me Twittering my kinkiness more than I blog it.

But A. is leaving on Thursday. Bad for cuddles and spanking (among other things) yet more promising for blogging, as is the recent return of my writing head. Just in time to write about the birthday spanking that I'm sure to get later this evening.

My British A. is still adjusting to the whole concept of birthday spanking. He has suggested that because I didn't get my birthday spanking on my birthday last year, it didn't count and should be added to this year's spanking. But...but...hang on here. This could just get silly rather quickly. Do we add all the years I didn't get a birthday spanking? Er...maybe I shouldn't be giving him ideas.

So I appeal to you, oh sacred jury of the spankosphere, oh International Court of Correction.** Am I not right that a birthday spanking given -- regardless of whether it's on the actual birthday or not -- means I have fulfilled my birthday spanking debt to the universe?

_____________________
*Not to mention spanking and sex. We never have gotten to our Rules of the Lashes game. And I was chagrined to note last night after bathing that I think I've only been clean shaven down there twice the entire time A. has been here. So wrong.

**I have been warned that the Court of A. is a higher authority than the International Court of Correction. Though you all could help set precedent, no?

A jolly good time

Geesh. It's been so long since I stopped by Blogger that the compose interface page has changed!

It's mostly Microsoft's fault. On October 14th I downloaded the ginormous security updates from Microsoft and haven't been able to open Windows on my laptop since. My dad spent two days last week working on a system restore to no avail. As you can imagine, I've been cursing Microsoft with the crudest expletives I can think of since.

It had to happen just after the most amazing research development in ME/CFS history. Not only have I been wanting to read obsessively about it and can't, but the ME/CFS group I hand-moderate went crazy. Instead of spending a combined total of 10 minutes a month moderating in the comfort of my bed, I've been sitting up in the kitchen on the broken down Averatec I'm sharing with A. for a half-hour to an hour a day approving posts and trying to keep everyone in line (with mixed results).

Unfortunately I can only handle sitting up in the kitchen for a maximum of a half-hour to an hour most days. So, you know, there wasn't much energy for anything else like, oh say, reading any of my other email. Twittering and/or blogging, of course, came to a screeching halt.

Moreover A. and I have been passing a cold of some sort back and forth. It's meant a stuffy nose and chest for him and vertigo for me as it affected my inner ear. For the last month we've been in a cycle where I'd start to feel better on Friday. We'd play gently on Saturday.  I'd crash on Monday and be so sick for the rest of the week that I didn't really care that I was jonesing for Twitter and didn't have a laptop with which to get online.

Last week the vertigo finally settled down, but then I started having problems again with my sacroiliac joint and left hip slipping out of place. Sitting at the computer in the kitchen was excruciating. And spanking was out of the question.

Yep. It's been a jolly good time.

But things are starting to look up. I'm sitting and walking fairly comfortably now and the world is no longer spinning, though I think we both still have a bit of stuffiness in our lungs and noses. My moderation duties have quieted back down as our group returns to its usual tepid level of discussion.

Alas, however, blogging will have to wait for a bit. Some incredibly generous friends are donating a used MacBook but it will be another week or two before it will be in bed with me (hehe that sounds so kinky).

Usually such breaks from the computer mean I have a lot to write when I finally come back. And this break, I suspect, will be no exception. So, I'll see you all in a couple of weeks with lots of naughty thoughts and stories.

Lurk out loud 4.0

Last year I promised a picture of my beaten ass had the number of lurkers commenting reached a certain number (which sadly, it did not). However this year I decided to go ahead and just post the picture first. So here is my freshly spanked bottom (a mere 30 minutes ago) along with the implements A. used.



If you look closely, you will notice that the wooden spoon is broken. I believe that is the forth wooden spoon A. has broken on my backside (and I really liked cooking with that one!). You will also note the lack of welts from the cane. Since I'm on Coumadin, A. uses the cane with light but rapid fire strokes that accumulate pain quickly (sheer agony, I tell ya!) but don't leave the deep bruises for which canes are notorious. Similar to the way Nurse Bea uses a nursery willow switch in this story that my dear friend Casey wrote just for Natty.

So dear friend, thank you for reading. Whether you leave a comment (good or bad) for this feedback whore or just lurk, I always appreciate your time and interest.

Too much wood

"Oh you stupid cow," A. cried out from behind his laptop the other day.

A few weeks back, he had sent an email to a publisher along with a synopsis of the book he had just finished as well as the book itself. Two weeks later the publisher's contact replied asking if his book was similar to a couple of other books coming out on the same topic. A. responded that no, his book dealt with different material (something she would have known had she merely bothered to read his original email). After another two weeks, she replied again and asked if he could send her a synopsis.

"Her name is Michelle, so maybe I ought to spank you for her inability to read her email," A. said as he sat down on the bed next to me. "It would make me feel better."

"Don't you have enough reasons to spank me?" I asked.

There are plenty of spankings on the agenda now that he's here. There's the small matter of my past schedules that have yet to be addressed. I was also seven minutes late for my school day the other day before canceling it because I was too worn out from cramming for the test I was suppose to take (I forgot how good at procrastinating I am) -- not to mention spanking would be part of the school game anyway. I believe there is another spanking planned, but I can't think of it at the moment.

"Yes but it's a bit like firewood, isn't it?" he quipped. "You may be all sorted for the winter with a stack of wood in the garage (pronounced "GAIR-idge"), but you're always on the lookout for that next felled tree."

Yep. A girl can never get too much wood.

When play is work

Sometimes play is just...hard work. An ordeal in which the forces of the Erotic and Encumbrance battle throughout. You know, the sort hyped by some over-the-top announcer. "Tonight on the Michelle's Sorry Life channel, watch a special Kink versus Illness smackdown! One horny girl. One debilitating illness. Who will win?" Except at the end of the whole thing, both sides are usually able to claim some amount of victory.

Such was the result of a phone spanking a couple of weeks ago. I had awaken even later than my normal mid-afternoon reveille and was just finishing up breakfast at 4:30 pm (yes, that's really PM) when A. called.

"Heya dear," I answered blithely.

"Oh. Did you get my email with your instructions?" he replied with a mixture of restrained formality and genuine uncertainty.

Instructions, eh? There was a familiar -- and pleasurable -- tightening of my pelvic muscles at this most obvious declaration of impending tele-erotic activity, even as the rest of my body whined with weariness.

"Actually I was just turning on my computer," I explained as I hastened to open my inbox, still a little disoriented given that I had only waken up an hour earlier and was feeling the inevitable crash following a rare day of jittery, almost euphoric energy.

"Well, then, I think you better open your email."

My face flushed not only from excitement, but also embarrassment that I wasn't prepared. He had ended our conversation the day before noting that he might be sending me instructions -- not to mention I had emailed him a fragment from my journal before going to sleep detailing my kinky fantasies of late. I also felt a twinge of annoyance at how what was going to be my first phone spanking since May was starting out rather awkwardly.

"I said in the email that I was going to call you at 4:30, but how about I give you a call at 5pm?

"Okay --er, Yes, Sir."

This, dear reader, is what I found in my inbox:

I want you to put on a little girl's dress, flowery knickers and white socks as soon as you have finished reading this email. Nothing else will be worn until I grant permission. The following items will be laid out on the bed:

1. a wooden spoon
2. a table tennis paddle
3. the long brush
4. a razor
5. shaving gel / foam
6. a box containing sex toys,* butt plugs and a nipple clamp.

At 4.30pm (your time) you will stand in the corner of the room and await my phone call.

My pelvic muscles tightened further, along with those of my abdomen. My bottom tingled with anticipation. And I couldn't help but gulp. However I quickly swallowed that anxious lump in my throat along with my giddiness and set about attending to his instructions, as well as letting those following me on Twitter know I was about to get spanked.

Except as I got up to fetch the various items and dress myself accordingly, I quickly realized there was more to my elevated heart rate than mere excitement. One of the peculiar quirks of my illness is that the more weary I am, the higher my heart rate gets both during activity and at rest. Pulling on my dress and arranging my bra-less breasts, sorting through my sock drawer, grabbing my razor, digging out implements from under the bed -- all of it, of course, was shooting my heart rate higher and higher, making me feel dizzy and icky.

Should I tell A. I can't do this? It wasn't so much that I was worried about disappointing him, but rather Natty. My alter ego had obligingly endured months of setbacks and downright neglect as a result of my ill health and A.'s work. I sighed. I am going to get spanked, goddamnit.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I did some diaphragmatic breathing, bringing my heart rate down a bit. Once the dizziness wore off, I stood and made my way to the corner where I was to await A.'s impending phone call.

How bad would the spanking hurt? It had been such a long time since my last one. The high ceilings of my apartment, which drew my gaze after I became bored with a fragment of chipped paint, made me feel particularly small and childish.

But the little feeling did not last long. My heart rate was creeping up again. I tried some more diaphragmatic breathing as I stood facing the corner -- so very un-childish -- but it just would not drop down below 120.** I absolutely had to lay down. I made my way to the bed, where I lay with the full skirt of my bubble-gum pink dress draped over my belly and legs in a less-than flattering spread when A. finally called.

"Hello, Sir."

"Hello, there. Where you standing in the corner as you were told?"

"I did stand in the corner after I was ready, Sir. But I had to lay down after a few minutes."

There was a pause as we both sought to figure out how to proceed. Should I tell him I could manage a spanking but no shaving? Was I even in any condition to consider orgasming? Would I be okay so long as I was laying down?

"Are you still laying on the bed?"

"Yes, Sir."

Please don't break the spell. Don't ask me if I'm alright. Let's just keep going. Let Natty keep going...

"What sort of knickers are you wearing?" A. asked after another moment of silence.

"Pink flowery knickers," Natty declared with vigor.

"Well, let's get them off."

With pleasure. Even if I did feel a bit dizzy standing up to take them down as well as rearrange the cord to my headset so it wouldn't interfere with spanking.

He had me start out with the ping pong paddle. It's a good thing it makes a lot of noise even when I'm not whacking that hard because I don't know that I could have made myself hit any harder given how tired I was and how much it stung.

"What's that on the pain scale?"

It was a momentary lull in the magic. Given the circumstances, I figured A. probably needed some reassurance that I wasn't dying on the other end of the phone, even if I always find giving a number to my pain level a difficult thing to do in a Natty frame of mind.

"Um...about an 8 -- 8 1/2."

While the whacking was draining me a bit, my heart rate was staying down. I just had to stay flat.

"I think it's about time you got that butt plug in. Have you got your Naughty Box there?"

"Yes ::gulp:: Sir."

Just typing the word butt plug makes me blush. Saying it out loud makes me blush even more. Hearing A. order me to take it out of its box and put it in my hole with a deep, imperious, British-accented voice not only makes me blush but gives me that piquant constriction of shame in my belly. If he ever moves on to enema bags (another word I can barely utter), I tell you, dear reader, the embarrassment alone will be both painful and orgasmic.

"We're going to have to get your bottom warmed up before I get there."

"Yes, Sir." I bit my bottom lip. Grinned demurely into the phone even as my cheeks continued to flush.

"Pick up the wooden spoon. Give yourself twelve on each cheek."

Oddly enough, the spoon didn't hurt nearly as much as it usually does. Probably because the handle is narrow and thin, making it difficult for me to grasp with ease. So A. switched me to the clothesbrush (long brush), with a nice thick handle. It made a much more satisfying sound across the trans-Atlantic phone line when it smacked against my bare skin. After a dozen or so strokes, endorphines began to take the edge off the sting. But they did not keep my arm from wearing out.

"Tell me about your cunt. Is it shaved?"

"No, Sir." I swallowed hard.

"Pick up the razor and shaving gel. I want you to shave yourself, but I only want you to shave one strip down the middle..."

The razor was cold as it scraped against the stubble covering my labia. But it did not feel as laborious to shave as it felt like it would just fifteen minutes earlier.

"I expect your cunt to be completely bald when I arrive in three weeks."

"Yes, Sir." I finished shaving my swathe smooth and patted my cunt dry.

"You may finger yourself now."

"Can I use my vibrator?" I can be such a greedy girl.

"Not yet. Just swirl your finger around first."

I led my index finger back and forth between my increasingly saturated cunt and my increasingly swelling clitoris. Around and around the slicked, sensitive tissue. Awakening nerves from their hibernation with each revolution around my rosebud.

"Now you may use your vibrator."

With giddy delight I burrowed the Silver Bullet into my vulva and set the plastic black heart knob at medium speed. After several minutes of rocking my pelvis gently, I turned the vibrator up to full speed. After several minutes more produced no orgasm, I placed it directly onto my clitoris, then pulled it off again when the stimulation was too much. After a few more minutes, after all the weariness and worry, all the whacking and whirling, all the work, there were, finally, those familiar contractions pushing endorphines, blood, and happiness out into my ear lobes and fingernails and toes. Only then did my heart rate momentarily surge again. And after that...a uniquely benevolent fatigue.

True, within half an hour the fatigue returned to its customary tyranny. The following day my muscles -- particularly my pelvic muscles -- were more cantankerous than usual. And I can't help but look back with a little bitterness that a mere spank and wank over the phone was so damn arduous.

Yet I also can't help but just be grateful that I did it. That I made it through and Natty got her spanking. Illness and poverty do that to a person. Make you appreciate every little bit of life you can grab hold of. Especially the hard bits.

_______________________
*Aka, "The Naughty Box." A wooden, rattan-covered box A. bought for me initially for its ostensible decorative value. However its size rendered it the perfect container for butt plugs, particularly as it also fits so nicely under the bed.

**One of the primary means of treating ME/CFS is pacing, including using a heart rate monitor to help patients stay below their remarkably low anaerobic thresholds (generally between 110-90 bpm). For a longer explanation of how this works, see this video (requires Quicktime; about 30 minutes) from exercise physiologists at the Pacific Fatigue Lab.