It is blessed to give AND receive

At one point during my phone conversation today with A., the phone line became crackly.

“I’ll call you back and see if that makes it better.”

I hung up the phone and dialed the zillions of numbers that calling an international phone number entails.* Given my proclivity for transposing numbers thanks to my ME/CFS riddled brain, I have ended up calling the wrong number a couple of times this week -- particularly distressing given how late we talk (tonight it was after 1am UK time). So far, the two blokes to answer a call from me have been kindly night owls.

“Hello,” said A. in an even deeper voice than normal and a slightly posher accent.

“Oh dear, have I got the wrong number?” I played along with feigned concern.

“I believe you have.”

“I hope it’s not one of those strict English gentlemen.”

“I’m afraid it is, you naughty girl. Calling at such a late hour. I know what you American girls are like. In need of a good spanking.”

At which point, I giggled nervously but quickly began laughing. A. too began to laugh.

Eventually we returned to our spontaneous roleplay.

“I think what you need is a butt plug,” A. said, in a mixture of his normal voice and the one with which he answered the phone. “I know you American girls have them in your under-the-bed play place.”

“Oh dear!” I exclaimed in the playacting tone of before.

“I’m serious. You need to get a butt plug.” He was now in quintessential A. toppy voice.

“Really?” I pouted.

“Don’t moan. It’s only going to make it worse.”

I dug around in my naughty drawer.

“Is it okay if it’s the vibrating one? I can’t find anything else.” Plus, I much prefer that one as it actually does something (something yummy, I might add) other than just sit there.

“I guess so if that’s all we have. But don’t you dare turn it on until I say so.”

“Yes, Sir.”

All of the sparse phone play of the last few months has been with me topping, as has most of the play planning for when he returns.

“You do know,” he began, “that the universe inside that apartment will have to be evened out. You will pay for all the topping you do. It will be very Buddhist. Very Yin and Yang.”

“Would it be a very smart-ass thing to point out that Yin and Yang isn’t really Buddhist but Confucian?” I said as respectfully as I could (and incorrectly; I meant to say “Taoist” but said Confucian as that was the first word in my head after “Chinese”).

He laughed, but in that completely shocked at such impudence sort of way.

“Yes, it would be a VERY smart-ass thing to say!”

Which, of course, made me laugh.

“You are so out of practice at subbing.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am.”

“Is your butt plug in?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” Then with as cooly a dominant a voice as he could muster said, “Now, I want you to tell me the password to your eBay account.”

I gasped.

I bought part of his Christmas present on eBay last week but changed the password to my account so he wouldn’t see it before he got it. And indeed he was -- or at least acted -- a tad hurt. But he did acknowledge without an ounce of shame that the first thing he would do is look to see what I bought. So. You know. It was for his own good. Tough Christmas Love.

“That is a TOTAL violation of your dom privileges!” I exclaimed.

“Well...you’re in...total violation of...my eBay privileges!”

I divulged nothing.

“I hate surprises,” he muttered. The same way he has almost every day since he found out I’d suspended his access to my eBay account. I, however, love them and find the old adage that it is more blessed to give than to receive even more accurate in this situation.

The switch in roles had been rather precarious up to this point, but A. then shifted into full top gear, telling me when to turn the dial up on my anal vibe, how he was going to turn Sunday afternoons into Punishment Day, what he was going to do to me on said Punishment Day.

When A. first started sharing more about his subby fantasies a few years ago, I worried that I would have a hard time being able to think of him in a dominant sort of way again. But I quickly found out that would not be a problem. Once he’s in top mode and I’m in Natty mode, it’s hard to believe I could have ever doubted his ability to be the same dominant A. I fell in love with eight years ago.

To everything there is a time. A time to top. A time to bottom. A time to give. A time to receive. Tonight was my time to receive. And while I enjoy giving more and more as time goes by, it sure is a blessing to receive.

_________________________________________________
*Yes, I know. I need to familiarize myself with the speed dial function on my phone.

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?

Impish

I'm always sleepy when it's over. Endorphines flood muscles relaxing after tensing through blow after blow. I cuddle with my pillow imagining that it's his chest.

It was just another punishment. And for my customary offense: not going to bed on time. But the circumstances were somewhat ambivalent. I had substantially reduced my melatonin intake Friday night after a weary week under its somnific spell and didn't fall asleep until 6am. When it came time to go to bed on Saturday night upon the conclusion of Saturday Night Live, I didn't really see much point in getting there in a timely fashion. That I got confused about Daylight Savings Time and mistakenly thought I had an extra hour to spare is quite beside the point. I slid beneath the sheets well after 2am but didn't fall asleep until after 3...er, 4am. And since I didn't wake up until after 3pm on Sunday afternoon, it seemed silly to go to bed at 11:30, especially as I didn't even eat dinner until 10:45.

"I thought we agreed you would still, at least, get into bed at 11:30 even if you didn't feel sleepy?"

A. reminded me of this key clause in the bedtime compact that I had regrettably forgotten, making him a helpful, if austere arbiter.

"Yes," I sighed.

"Best fetch the ruler (phew!) and the long-handled brush (damn!), please."

It would be an odd sight to anyone peering through the gaps of my green velvet blackout curtains. While a muted-Margaret Warner conversing with Gwen Ifill looks on, a grown woman talking into a phone headset pulls down her purple pajama bottoms, lays over her bed and begins hitting her pale and considerable cheeks -- first awkwardly with a 24-inch ruler. After a minute or two, she stops briefly, resuming again a minute later -- counting this time to sixteen. Whimpering here and there after the ruler lands particularly hard or in a sensitive spot.

I really needed the spanking. The throb of nothingness on my backside has been building for weeks and has been particularly grueling during the last few days. When I woke up this afternoon, I felt impish. I sent a slightly devilish reply to a post on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup and spent the afternoon doing anything I could think of to avoid doing the physical therapy and meditation that are part of my required daily routine. I was in, as I am apt to say, my Natty mood.

"Tell me when you get to 9," A. directed as I started whacking my bottom with the long-handled (clothes)brush -- nine being the number from one to ten on the pain scale.

After a couple of minutes of whacking and whimpering, my endorphines kicking in and my arm (which was finally in the middle of the procrastinated-physical therapy exercises when A. called) beginning to tremble from overuse, I conceded that it was next to impossible to reach nine over the phone.

But that didn't finish my ordeal. I was still required to wallop my hind sixteen, then twelve times, and finish with eight more for forgetting to address A. as Sir during the first half of my punishment, as is entirely appropriate for such a sober occasion. Had he seen the roll of my eyes when I got the order to add those eight strokes, well, I daresay there would have been far more.

Like I said...impish.

"Big cuddle for my girl" was A.'s hearty but tender verbal comfort when it was over. It always ends with that. With me hugging my pillow and my eyelids growing heavy and my bottom smarting. With vows to do better and that strange buzz of penitence and contentment.

Except tonight I only feel a little penitent. And instead of contentment, I'm...hungry.

I find myself even pondering that which should never be pondered, namely, should I go for the hat-trick and miss my bedtime a third Saturday in a row?

(Cross-posted at the Punishment Book)

Only a muddled rant about A. leaving

I was attempting to write a post threading the change in Washington that A. and I watched on Tuesday with the change happening to us that day, namely A.'s return to England the next morning. But my brain is goo. Liquidy gelatinous goo, matching my gooey limbs and gooey breathing and all around gooey ickiness.

Tuesday night before A. left was not nearly as erotic as last time. There was a little spanking (a few whacks of the ruler and the cane, respectively) and a lot less sleep (hence the current ickiness) as he had a very early flight so we just stayed up until it was time for him to leave.

This separation is probably going to be a long one thanks to the asinine vagueness of the Visa Waiver Program in which there is no rule about how many times a person can visit the US using the VWP, only that one cannot "abuse" it. And nobody from the State Department on down can say exactly what does constitute "abuse." It is solely up to the discretion of each individual border officer. So you can imagine the vicissitudes that accompany concentrating so much power into one lone bitchy bureaucrat with a small penis like the one who grudgingly let A. into the country when he arrived this last time, but only after a long lecture and final warning (implying earlier warnings that A. has no recollection of) about how A. is abusing the system by coming to visit so much. We are still trying to ascertain the nature of this "final" warning. Does this mean he can't visit anymore? Or that he needs to space the visits out more? Or...?

I can only hope that the change our new president is bringing with him will include, among other things, clearly articulated border policy. I mean, the UK manages to do it successfully. They state definitively that, say, I cannot be there more than six months out of any twelve-month period. Seems reasonable, no?

If only I was healthy enough to get on a plane for 14 hours...

Alright, enough of my rant.

My health has been really up and down lately -- and more down the last two weeks than up. My in plenum quickly vanished amid a bad reaction to a new medication that I still haven't quite recovered from. But once I do recover, I should be posting more, especially as I tend to do more writing when A. is gone.

Since this post has been short on anything remotely sexy, I'll send you over to this post I was reading a few days ago extolling the virtues of a well-arched female bottom awaiting a good hiding. Sometimes simplicity really is best.

How the hell did I end up here?

I've been thinking over the last few weeks about what an amazing transformation I made in a mere decade.

In 1994, I was living with a family from my Baptist church while going to university. I had never had a drop of alcohol or even been kissed. I was teaching Children's Church, directing a weekly children's Bible memorization program, and leading music for my church college group in addition to my studies.

By 2004, not only had I been laid and drunk, I started writing a sex blog about spanking. Sure, I was still going to church, but I was Byzantine Catholic (and a dubious one at that by that point).

Have any of you, as you've started blogging or going to spanking parties wondered, how the hell did I end up here? Have you found that in embracing your sexuality, it has taken you places you never expected to go? Do you ever wonder who this new sexual deviant is, or asked the inverse question, who was that uptight, repressed person I used to be?

Needless to say, I've been rather pensive lately. It's probably why I haven't been posting as much. I mean, I've actually been journaling...in private.

But A. gets in tomorrow night, and I know we have at least one play session that we want to blog about coming up on Friday night (you know, health permitting), so hopefully my meditative mood will disperse and I'll have more juicy posts forthcoming.

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.

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.

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!"

Yay!

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

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

I'm gonna get spanked...

...in about two hours (stupid late flight). Well, if he's up to it after flying for nineteen hours or so.

I'm a little tired too at the moment. I've been working on all kinds of things to prepare for A.'s arrival -- a few kinky things included -- and I'm starting to wear down a bit. But I've actually had energy to do some things before A. comes. That's right. No blood clots in my lungs. No fickle spanking mojo. No stubborn UTIs. This time just lots of pent up kinky energy and a tingly bottom (and other parts) hungry for attention. Finally.

Yes, I know it won't last forever. And I have to be careful not to exert myself. Indeed last night A. was reminding me of this. He didn't order or threaten. Just pleaded fervently with me to be careful and please, please not overdo it.

Well, okay, I probably overdid it just a little bit. But not enough to seriously set me back. Though maybe just enough to get spanked for it.

::grin::

More weird spanking dreams and my funny boy

I think my spanking mojo is returning after my icky two weeks.

I had a dream last night that I was in a sort of auditorium of spankos including friends Mija, Haron, Bailey and lots of people I don't know. And it was like some sort of improvisational spanking story was occurring with a medical bent. Like, it looked like a doctor's office. And I think I was supposed to take my clothes off and put on a gown. Then Aunty Agony came out looking very stern in a gray suit. Except, I've never met her or seen a picture of her so I suspect it was a picture of someone posted on her blog -- that I was reading last night before going to bed. After she came out I think I was about to be laid out on a gurney and spanked, which I was very embarrassed about.

That's when Meals on Wheels knocked on the door and woke me up. It was surreal.

But, I have felt a bit more frisky. Have actually been craving a bit of spanking today. Though I'm probably still too tired for one. Which is fine since A. isn't here.

In fact, today marks six months that we have been apart. It's not the longest we've been apart. That record was set in 2004 when I was last in England that April and we expected I would return in a few months for doctoral studies. My body had other ideas and we didn't see each other until that December when it became clear I was not going to be well enough to go over there and A. would have to come over here if we were ever going to see each other. Now we rely completely on A. coming over here as he's the one who is capable of earning an income and enduring trans-Atlantic travel. So far we've been remarkably lucky considering neither of us makes much money. But there are always lean times, and we make it through those times as best we can.

We're luckier than a lot of people in our situation: we can talk on the phone everyday for free (I have Vonage and he has some sort of funky free deal there). No matter how icky the day has been, he always makes me laugh -- which makes me feel a little better no matter how much pain I'm in or how nauseous I may be. When I started reading about endometriosis a few weeks ago (as this might be what's been causing my pelvic pain) and told him how one of the treatments is with hormones that make women grow facial hair and develop lower voices, he was quite excited. "Cool. I'll get to date the bearded lady from My Name is Earl! And we'll be able to sit and watch football together!" Totally made me giggle as well as feel less fearful of whatever might lie ahead.

Yesterday he talked about the new upcoming Billie Piper show called The Secret Diary of a Call Girl. "Billy Piper in sexy lingerie. Does it get better than that? I mean, monkeys could write the dialogue for that show, and I'd still watch it. In fact, I bet when they pitched the idea and ITV wanted to know about the script they were like, 'it's Billie Piper with a whip. We don't need a script.'" What a funny boy my A. is.

But, alas, he felt differenlty this afternoon. "I take back the part about not needing dialogue." Apparently Billie Piper in sexy lingerie wasn't enough for him. And the dialogue they had was too slick. "I thought she was more sexy in Dr Who."

Hmm...now I'm probably going to dream about Billie Piper and being a bearded lady or something.

Another line I love to remember

I just posted over at the Punishment Book about a punishment I love to remember. But there wasn't really room for me to fit another anecdote that I love to remember into that post, so I thought I'd share it here.

It again had to do with a missed bedtime (I go through phases of not getting to bed on time, but most of the time I really am between the sheets right when I should be). When A. called at his usual time he was a bit drunk, which I thought would work in my favor as he tends to be a bit subby when he's been drinking.

"Actually, I'm more in a switchy mood," he announced.

Alright. Maybe it would still be okay as whiskey was involved. So, I confessed that I'd been to bed quite late.

"You really know how to put me in a dom-y mood," he said sternly.

Damn!

"I thought maybe I'd get away with it since you'd been drinking whiskey," I explained sweetly.

"No. This is important." Still stern but mixed with a bit of tenderness.

That gave me a smile then (you know, for a few minutes before I was getting smacked), and I've got the same smile now as I write about it.

Paper paddles anyone?

I just asked A. to reinstate my bedtime this evening. Yes, it's true. I really am that much of a good girl.

Well, alright, it's really more like I'm a "the adult part of me wants to get a decent night's sleep but the kid part of me keeps wanting to stay up just a little bit longer on the new laptop and wins out and then both the adult and the kid part of me are groggy all the next day, not to mention while I try to get ready for bed" sort of good girl.

"You just want to get spanked," A. adduced.

"I do but I don't want to get spanked for that," I replied. "I want a fun spanking. A good girl spanking."

"A fun spanking, huh? Would a fun spanking include your school uniform?"

"Oh, totally." We were going to do an over the phone school scene last week but the day we planned to do it ended up being a bad pain day and was therefore canceled, which I was quite sad about.

"Do you have any appointments tomorrow?"

"Just acupuncture next door at three or so," I answered.

"Well, I think you should wear your uniform there," he said in his deadpan voice. "I want you wearing your hair in pigtails and sucking on a lollipop when you check in."

"Wearing my skirt would make getting to my hip and upper right ass a lot easier," I deadpanned back.

"So, you could say, it would be very appropriate."

"Absolutely."

"Excellent."

Then I laughed. When I finished he continued -- for real this time.

"Right, so you will you put your uniform on when you get home."

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Now, let's see, about implements...can you use the strap?" he asked.

"Well, I can use my belt. Can't really do the strap."

"Right. Well, okay. What about the ping pong bat?"

"Yeah, I can do the ping pong paddle." I really should have given him crap about calling it a "bat."

"I was just thinking the long-armed brush seems a bit harsh for this spanking."

"Yes, I think so too." I said. "Though, I should say that the ping pong paddle does sting."

"It's a spanking, it's supposed to sting! What, you want me to use a feather duster? A rolled up magazine? 'No Daddy, not the paper!'"

Gawd I love it when he gets sarcastic. It so makes me laugh.

"I think paper would be an excellent material for a paddle," I said.

I mean, don't you, dear reader?

"Paper, indeed..." A. clearly thought my idea was absolutely brilliant.

"Actually, Sir Thomas More used to whip his daughter with a feather," I pointed out.

"Ah, so some sort of symbolic thing, huh?" Then his voice got very stern. "Well, look here, we will have no such symbolic talk in this house."

I laughed.

"So, when you get home tomorrow you will put your uniform on."

"Yes, Sir."

"Good."

Then, reader, I'm afraid the conversation turned to more mundane matters of business.

But just after I got off the phone with A. I ended up talking to my sister, who has been getting pissy lately over the fact that I seem to be on the phone with A. every time she calls or wants to come over. When she said she wanted to come over tomorrow, I paused for a second and agreed. "But, let me know what time or if you're not because A. and I are planning to do something."

I could visualize her shaking her head and making the "wtf?" face on the other side of the line.

"Wha...I don't want to know."

"Yeah, I was just going to tell you not to ask."

"Seriously. Don't tell me. I don't want to know." She was serious indeed.

"I'm not telling you anything. I'm just saying let me know."

It's a tough one, gentle reader, because I do love my sister. And I know A. and I can always play Slutty School on Tuesday.

But, I really want to play tomorrow...

Too much spanking thinking

As Lele mentioned in the London Bridge post below, I have been rather chatty this last week. It's sorta been like, well, you know how when you have to pee really really badly and you've been holding it for a really long time and then you finally get to go? And you know how it just feels SO goddamn GOOD? That's what it's been like finally getting to empty my brain. It's been throbbing with too much spanking thinking for far too long -- a good year and a half or so as my old laptop crumbled bit by bit, and I could no longer use it on my lap in bed. But now that I've got the new (old) Thinkpad that, you know, is really a lap-top, it's just such a relief!

Actually, the whole thing has made me hyper. Like a little kid who's been far too overstimulated at Chuck E. Cheese. I can hardly sleep. Indeed, this has been a week of erratic slumber. It'll take me until the wee hours of the morning to fall asleep, but I'll wake up five or six hours later with my brain turning right back on again to the relentless refrain of "computer...must get online...must blog."

If A. was here, a good spanking would probably solve that problem. But work is keeping him in England far longer than he anticipated. This is actually the longest we've been apart in three years. Usually he's managed to come over every six months for three months at a time. So in July, when our time apart hit four months, I was climbing the walls with longing to be with my beloved. I'm still dying to have him cuddle me after he's soundly spanked my ass, but by last month I started to calm down a bit. Maybe it was knowing that one, hopefully this will be the last time we'll have to worry about where the money is going to come from for another plane ticket, and two, if he doesn't make it until October (which is quite likely), he'll be able to stay through my birthday (Dec. 8) and Christmas.

And in the meantime, I'll probably be channeling all that pent up spanking energy into blogging, not to mention relieving the rest of my spanking thinking both here and at the Punishment Book.

Three is a magic number

Three is a magic number,
Yes it is, it's a magic number.
Somewhere in the ancient, mystic trinity
You get three as a magic number.

Every time I think of three, I think of that Schoolhouse Rock* song. Though one would think "Naughty Number Nine" would seem more appropriate for a blog about spanking. However, three is indeed the magic number today because it's the third birthday of this here blog.

When I mentioned to A. that the blog is now three years old, he was a bit surprised. "I thought it's been longer." And the funny thing is, I feel like it's been a long three years as well. Maybe because my life has changed so much. When I first started blogging, I was still in graduate school. I was still somewhat mobile. Hell, I could still drive.

Initially, I started blogging because I wanted to give a stable home on the web to my spanking stories and essays that I had posted on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup over the years. But like everyone who blogs, I quickly discovered that it was a place to make friends. To share all those kinky hijinks and thoughts that I couldn't share with my vanilla colleagues and family (though, I'm not so sure my family is very vanilla).

Granted, there were only a handful of us in the spanking blogosphere back then: Patty, Tarte, Poiesia, Invidia and Bossman, Library Girl, Sparkle, and, of course, our originator, Dan (I know I'm missing others). Suddenly -- sometime in late 2005/early 2006 -- the number of spanking blogs exploded. But in early 2006 my spanking mojo dried up for a few months. When I came back, the size of the spanking blogosphere was overwhelming, and I don't think I've ever really caught up since. Indeed, I'm not sure if it is possible to catch up as there's just so many.

But it's definitely a case of the more, the merrier. I've been quite happy to see old friends from the newsgroup like Haron and Abel, Dyke Grrl, Alex Birch, Ted and now Jen join the fun -- each contributing their intelligent imaginations that I enjoyed so much before blogging. Mija, another newsgroup pal, has been blogging for a long time but has started blogging about fetish stuff more recently, while Pablo has been blogging for even longer (I think), including kink-related posts here and there.

Blogging is also, at times, as sort of therapy, albeit while thousands of people watch. In early 2005, when I had an improvement in my health and could write more, I processed so much about my kink -- how I use it to relate to my body, how it interacts with childhood abuse, how I integrate it into all of me, how it has helped heal old wounds. And, of course, since then when I haven't been writing about getting spanked, I've been writing about how I nourish my kink while dealing with a long-distance relationship, chronic pain, blood clots in my lungs and a debilitating illness. It hasn't always been sexy, but it's real life.

I remember starting this blog during a few-week reprieve between two very painful infections. And I named the blog after a character I wrote about in a non-kink story who represented the healthy, mischievous little girl I longed to be. The little girl that spanking allows me to be. It was also my nick on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup, so, you know, it made sense.

But I've never been able to escape the fact that I'm not really Natty, at least not the healthy, mischievous little girl. And more and more I find that I'm less interested in escaping. Don't get me wrong, there's always room for a little escaping. I mean, I'll always fantasize about being one of those poor, abused girls in a RGE-Lupus film. And I'll always have a little mischief in me. I mean, it wouldn't be very fun if I didn't.

But I also know that mostly I -- Michelle -- am both a woman and a little girl who thinks too much, is generally very good (indeed probably worries too much about being good), who is both strong and, yes, fragile. And who just needs a spanking every now and then. Or sometimes more. ::grin::

So, thanks for being with me through a lot of spankings -- with canes, straps, wooden spoons and even leeks -- and a lot more.

And on this august occasion, it'd be great to hear from some of you hundreds of nameless individuals who visit every day. Give a quick shout out in the comments section. Maybe share what you've liked over the years. Even a favorite post if you have one (mine is probably the "Under the apple tree" post, though I know a lot of people liked the Grand Canyon spanking). Think of it as NSB's Third Anniversary Delurk Day.

0O0

*For those of you who do not fit that narrow demographic of Americans chomping on Lucky Charms every Saturday morning while watching cartoons in the mid-1970s to early 1980s, Schoolhouse Rock was a campaign to educate us during commercial breaks with three minute cartoons featuring songs about math, science, history ::cough:: propaganda ::cough::, grammar, and personal finance. It was way cooler than it sounds because the songs kicked ass.

A startled sister and fucking frustration

When last I left you, dear readers, my beloved had left me all hot and bothered and was making me wait until Friday (last Friday) to attend to my...um...shall we say, excitement.

Unfortunately his brother ended up staying over the weekend, and I had a nasty fall Thursday night (thanks to a medication that made my already poor balance truly awful) leaving me with some minor injuries and not much mojo. Hence we postponed our phone play until Monday.

So yesterday A. sent me an email telling me to be in my school uniform with the long handled brush and wooden spoon handy when he called at 5:30pm (my time - PST). And being the obedient girl that I am, I was appropriately dressed along with said implements (well, actually I couldn't find the wooden spoon so I substituted the wooden spatula) at 5:30pm sharp. A. finally got around to calling me at 5:50pm (ah, the double standards of the top/bottom relationship...) to tell me he was going out for a smoke and would call me back in a few minutes.

Ten minutes later the phone rings and I answer with a "heya" only to hear my little sister reply with "you were clearly expecting someone else." D'oh!

"Um, yeah..." ::giggle:: "Actually we were, um, going to be, um, doing stuff..." Standing there in my school uniform made me feel particularly conspicuous, even if she couldn't see me.

"Oh, oh, stop! Just...I don't want to hear about it!"

I helped raise my sister and, as you can see, there is still a bit of a mother-daughter dynamic between the two of us, though most of the time it's more like a Lorelei-Rory dynamic.

"Honestly, Michelle, I don't know what I'm going to do with you. You're naughty." She paused. "So, does that help your...whatever?"

I blushed and again felt remarkably conscious of the fact that I was in my school uniform.

"Um...well...actually...um...yes it will."

"Ohmygod! You guys are so weird!"

"Hey, you're the one who brought up the 'naughty' bit."

"Just...I don't wanna hear about you're little phone sex or whatever it is..."

And we then changed the topic for the next three or four minutes until A. called.

I'm not too worried about her thinking that we're weird. For one thing, it's not like it affects our relationship. But I also have long suspected that my dear little sister is a spanko in deep denial. She's quite conservative when it comes to sex and that conservativism extends to all things kinky. But someday when she's ready...

At any rate, A. thought I was naughty too and spanked me (or...well, you know how phone spanking works) for being a slutty school girl. Then he finally let me attend to my state of arousal. Except that I COULDN'T FUCKING COME! When I finally realized that it wasn't going to happen, I yelled out a hearty "Goddamnit!" and just about started to cry.

I think I've only had one half-way decent orgasm since Valentine's Day. I'll always be just about there and then everything stops. Sorta like the Little Engine That Could, except this is more like the little clitoris that can't. Or whatever the mechanism is that causes orgasm.

I know it's just an energy issue. Sex is a lot of work, and I just don't have the energy resources that are needed for it. And it's certainly not a topic people talk about in ME/CFIDS groups. Granted, most people with ME/CFIDS don't even have a libido so I guess I'm lucky in that respect. But the whole thing is really pissing me off.

Hmm...this is the third Tuesday on the trot that I've posted. This might start to become a routine if I'm not careful. ::grin::

Warning: Neurotic dump ahead

I was cleaning up the cord mess from my latest offline debacle this afternoon and as I picked up my two defunct USB cords I thought that thought every spanko pervert thinks: wonder what it'd be like to get spanked with...? Except that instead of getting that delicious squirmy feeling and drifting off into fantasy land, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

A. is getting here tomorrow and it's like my mojo has disappeared again. ARRRRGHH! What the hell is wrong with me?

Is it that now that I'm definitely going to be getting spanked I suddenly don't want it? The last time he was coming I did end up in the hospital with bilateral pulmonary emboli, but that seems like something rather difficult to produce on a psycho-somatic level. And besides, once I got out of the hospital, I was the one who kept trying to initiate sex and spanking.

Is there something about January in which I go into some sort of vanilla period? I mean, I just assumed last January I lost my mojo because of all the urinary tract infections. Technically, I haven't had a laboratory-confirmed UTI since May, though there are flares of the sacro-iliac-pelvic pain off and on and constant low level pain since the first UTI in June 2004. But it's not like it's been any worse than it usually is. In fact, it's been ever so slightly better the last couple of weeks. I mean, I always do feel a tiny bit queasy about getting spanked when I can't even sit normally because my tailbone hurts like hell. But, ya know, it's not like that's ever stopped me most of the time. ::grin::

So, you know, wtf?!

I have to admit, I started panicking a bit this afternoon.

There has been that continuing ambivalence about my punishment kink. I've even written another "kink in my kink" post for the Punishment Book, but will post it a bit later after A. and I have some time to talk about it. So that's part of it.

And while my sacro-iliac-pelvic pain has been a tiny bit better, it's been a bad pain week otherwise. That sitting weird all the time is hard on my upper back/neck (especially as I'm, um, rather buxom) and I really wigged out one of my thoracic vertebrae, as well as endured that special time of the month. My body is sorta going through that no...no pain...no more pain!

At least, that's what I'm hoping.

When A. called me from Gatwick a little while ago, he made some squirmy threats. And ya know, I got that yummy squirmy feeling in my tummy.

So, you know, maybe it'll all be okay.

Yup. Of course it will.

An advent of a different sort

Yesterday I was throwing away my now empty chocolate advent calendar, and as I'm now in a new advent of sorts -- A. comes in ten more days -- it occurred to me that I really need a new advent calendar. My dearest isn't exactly my savior/messiah. But he is more cuddly.

So, I was thinking of a calendar counting down to the day he arrives where each day I open a window revealing a picture of a different implement. And there are a fair number of past implements to chose from...

Granted, considering the dashed spanking expectations of the last few arrivals, we're not making too many plans this time, aside from my overdue birthday spanking (December 8). And, um, a few punishment spankings that merited being delivered in person (::gulp::).

One thing we are looking forward to is our belated Christmas dinner togther. You know, it will sorta be around the same time as Eastern Christmas. And I'm Byzantine Catholic so it'll be kinda like the old country (never mind that neither of us have ancestors from an "old country" that celebrates Christmas on the Julian calander). We've been discussing the menu for said dinner and have reached an impasse regarding the poultry: turkey or chicken.

"But we never get to eat turkey except once or twice a year," I whined.

"And clearly if it was so great, people would be eating it more," A. noted.

"Nuh huh..."

I decided to try a different approach.

"So, uh, if you let us eat turkey I'll let you spank me," I offered. A. laughed.

"Yes, that would be such a sacrifice for you."

I think I've got him talked into turkey, but I also think he's leaning toward my offer. His last words in our dinner discussion, I believe, were something along the lines of "You are going to get such a beating."

::giggle::

Cool.

Unbearable fantasies?

Lately my fantasies have centered around being given a long, sound spanking with a hairbrush. Hard and rapid fire. And way, way past my breaking point so that I lose my ability to bear the pain and the spanking keeps going. And going. And going some more until I'm well and truly blubbering.

Generally when anybody spanks me, they stop too soon. I'm always what seems like a few more minutes away from the spanking being well beyond what I can endure when it suddenly stops -- well within my ability to process the pain, despite how much it truly does hurt. Once a spanko friend said he could have me crying and begging for the spanking to stop, and I replied honestly and matter-of-factly: your arm will get tired first. He thought I was being cheeky and spanked me some more. But still not any where near enough to make me cry.

Of course, there are some logistical reasons why my fantasy won't work at the moment. My beloved is 5000 miles away. I'm on anti-coagulants and should avoid excessive bruising.

There are also more ambivalent issues, like, I live with a chronic pain condition (Fibromyalgia) in which my brain is not processing pain properly in the first place, and I'm not sure that turning up the amplifier even more is a great idea. I mean, each day I take two separate narcotics, along with a muscle relaxant and an anti seizure medicine just to make life tolerable. The primary muscular-skeletal area (as in, one of several types of pain I live with) in which I'm in pain is my sacro-iliac region - i.e. the middle of my right buttock. Surely spanking can't possibly be a good thing for that -- especially one as awful as what I'm fantasizing about.

Are there just some fantasies that, while having great aesthetic appeal, should just stay fantasy?

Internet luvin

O.

M.

G.

It's internet enabled?

A. and I sooo have to get this. I mean, not that phone D/s isn't fun and all. And there's been an internet element to it as he either sends me emails with instructions for his call, or tells me what to do on the phone and then has me email him with the results.

But the thought of a Rabbit Vibrator that he can control? Oh WOW!

(Hat tip to Pink Bottomed Girls)