Punishmentbook.org

A little announcement: five articulate, strong, educated women have joined forces to write about disciplinary spanking at a brand, spanking new site called punishmentbook.org.

Hmm...I make it sound like the Super Friends or something. Yeah, maybe you can say we're battling the forces of misogyny in the spanko world. ;)

Story: Cranky At Trader Joe's [M/F]

My last post reminded me of this story I wrote a few years back, and I've been meaning to post it. So, here it is. Enjoy. :)


CRANKY AT TRADER JOE’S [M/F]

Yeah, I admit it. I was pretty damn cranky by the time I got to Trader Joe’s. I had a cold, so my sinuses were practically swollen shut. The traffic around town had been about as congested as my head. And now they were out of the cereal I had been craving – Organic Wheat Squares. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! I cursed and whined under my breath as I stamped my foot. This always happens. They just had them the other day and now that I wanted them they were gone…

Within my peripheral vision I could see the solemn man, who I had earlier cut in front of to grab a cart, looking at me with one eyebrow raised. I saw him first in the parking lot. He had his hands in his pockets, sort of strolling along. Late thirties, maybe. Gray Dockers and a stripped, short sleeved shirt. Not too much like the Reedies, leftover hippies, or soccer moms who usually patronized Trader Joe’s. I huffed and slammed on my brakes while he sauntered out of the way.

You would have thought he’d have long been in the store already by the time I got to the entrance, but I could see him perusing the produce along the sidewalk into the store as I half staggered from fatigue and half marched with purpose from the car to the door. He was one step ahead of me to the pile of carts, but I darted into the corral, pulled out a cart, and whipped it around into the store. Now this same guy had caught me in a temper tantrum over breakfast cereal. I shook it off and shrugged. Whatever. I had cough drops and chicken noodle soup to get…

I noticed him a few more times around the store. I guess he stood out because he didn’t have a cart. Not even a basket. Didn’t even seem to be really there to buy anything. Just look. Weird. I shook my head again and closed my eyes to review my mental shopping list.

I was still revisiting that list when I got in the check out line and a tight voice pricked my ear.

“You know, if you were my girlfriend…” I turned around to find that same guy holding two bananas and a baguette. Then realized I’d just cut him off again. I bit my lip and blushed. “…I’d spank you.” That one eyebrow still reached for his scalp.

“Oh really?” I asked. Half guilty. Half amused. “And why’s that?”

“I think you know why, Miss…” His face was somber. Stern. Then a slight, wry smile twinkled his eyes. “You’ve acted like a perfect brat from the moment you got here.” I smiled too. And took my turn at the check out counter.

He was coming out the exit by the time I’d parked the cart and pulled out the sack of groceries. I blushed as he brushed past me.

“Hey, I’m, um, sorry I cut you off in the check out line. I’d never do that on purpose. I wasn’t really paying attention…I’ve got this cold and…” I stood gripping the paper handles of the bag, facing him but looking down at the pavement.

“Hmm, well, colds are rather nasty, I suppose.” His face softened. “Still you should pay more attention. And cold or no cold, you should never throw a temper tantrum in a grocery store. You’re not a two-year old.” I giggled and bit my lower lip.

“I know…” I still vacillated between the pavement and up at him. Then I smirked. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing for my backside I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Yes, well, just because you’re not doesn’t mean I can’t still take you over my knee.” More raised eyebrow action. “Tell you what, put your groceries in your car and meet me in the corner of the parking lot over there.” He pointed to the far southwest corner. A forlorn crook of pavement and fence over which the first branches of spring hovered.

“Huh?” This was a joke. Had to be. Right?

“You heard me. Now get going. My car’s in front of that produce store next door, so I’ll drive over and you meet me there.” With that he turned and headed off. I stood agape as I watched him walk several cars down to a black Volkswagen Passat, pull out keys from his pocket, open the door, get in, pull out the car from it’s space and then drive to the appointed meeting spot.

It’s funny, because at that point I could have just gotten in my car and driven off without a thought. But it didn’t even occur to me to do so. Instead, I put the groceries in the back of my beat up, white Chevy Sprint and headed for the Passat in that lonely corner.

He was moving the front seats forward by the time I tottered over. First the driver’s side, then the passenger side while I stood in front of the trunk, arms folded over my chest. Then he opened the back door on the passenger side and beckoned me. He slid in onto the backseat. Patted the black leather next to him. I sat down and closed the door.

“Now, young lady, we’ve already reviewed why you deserve a spanking, so let’s just get on with it, shall we? Take down your pants and panties and lay across my lap.” I looked up at him for the first time since the exit of the store. His face was severe, but not mean. No trace of a dirty guy looking forward to some free naked ass. Just very grave. Very focused. I did as I was told and soon had an intimate view of the leather grain.

I’m not sure which registered in my brain first. That smacking sound of his hand hitting the lower middle of my bare buttocks or the pain it produced. I blinked hard. Another spank came. And another. Fierce. Unrelenting. My squeaky whimpers competed with the clapping of his hand against my skin. I clasped my hands together underneath my forehead as he slapped with precision on that spot where my bottom and thighs meet. Curled my toes inside my shoes. Pushed my feet against the door.

After a solid several minutes, he stopped. Reached over me, opened the compartment between the front seats and pulled something out.

“You’re in luck, my dear. It just so happens that I have a good, sturdy hairbrush with me today.” My breathing stopped for a moment, then I gulped and lay my head on my hands.

This is luck?

“I suspect from your behavior today that nobody’s done much of this for you.” He laid the smooth, wooden side of the brush against my bottom, which instinctively clenched. “Indeed, if anyone had, you wouldn’t be throwing a fit in a grocery store at your age. Or rudely cutting people off in the check out line.”

He lifted the brush and crashed it down hard. I started screeching before I realized I was, but settled back down to loud whimpers punctuated with “oweeee” after every couple of whacks. My legs began to fly back and forth between my bottom and the door. My stomach tried to pull my backside out of range, without success.

It had probably only been a few minutes. He probably hadn’t smacked me more than 25 or 30 times. But it felt like I had been through time and back again. I wanted to cry. Wanted tears to release some hidden hurt that lay beyond my raw behind. But as they would not come, I simply liberated the dry sobs that came. It was probably just as well. Real tears would have made my sinuses throb even worse…

“There now, it’s over…” He gently patted the back of my head. My moans subsided into deep breaths and soon I lay relaxed. Sore as hell, but relaxed. “Well, now. I think that’s enough to make you think twice before you throw another fit.” I nodded. “And I trust you’ll be kind and considerate from now on to your fellow shoppers.” I nodded again. “Alright then, you can pull up your pants and go.” He tugged them up from my knees as far as he could. I turned, slid into an upright position -- but not without visible wincing – and pulled them up the rest of the way. Took another big breath.

“I really am sorry I cut you off. I hate it when people do that…” He smiled and put the hairbrush back into that front divider. I opened the door and climbed out. He followed. “Well, uh, hmm… well, I guess, uh, have a nice day.”

“You too.” He closed the back passenger door.

“And uh …” I looked down at the pavement. Bit my lower lip. The looked up and nodded slightly. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He winked.

I giggled and headed back to my car.

A nice spring-like day that ended in a spanking

The weather outside feels like April. Except less rain. Go figure. It was bright and sunny today and as my boyfriend and I were both up (he never went to bed, I actually got up early), we decided to go to Multnomah Falls.

Not only was the weather amazing, but I’m feeling really good as well. We took the only Flexcar available at the time, the Honda Element, which is way over on 5th and Harrison – a good 8 blocks or so. When we took this car last month, I had to drag myself through every last block. Today, we detoured through Smith Center to stop at the ATM and when we were stopped at the light waiting to cross the street, I realized that we were almost to the car. Six blocks (snapping my fingers) just like that.

School is in session, so this time as we walked to the car, I could see everyone rushing to class or to the coffee shop. Remembered and longed for that time when I was able to rush to class or hang out with my friends at the Broadway Café instead of shuffle along with a cane in my hand. But then I stopped. Decided that was the past. I’m grateful for that past. For the experiences I had. But I will live in today. Be the person I am at this moment rather than miss the past.

I drove out there, hiked all the way up a little past the Benson bridge and back to the car without even having to sit down (though, I might have sat down had the benches not all been wet). As we passed the sign showing the distance to the top of the falls, I remembered how I once hiked up there as a kid. Had that pang of longing to be able to do that again. And then stopped. Decided I would be grateful for what I had today: more energy than I’ve had in months and months. Enough energy to hike .4 miles.

Then we drove through the old Columbia Highway and stopped up at Crown Point to get the view of the Columbia Gorge. Since it was windy (as it usually is) we only stayed for a couple of minutes and then drove into Troutdale where we went out to breakfast. Since we still had a bit of time left on the Flexcar, we stopped by Limbo and Trader Joe’s. On the way back we took the car through the car wash and filled up the gas tank since I get money back on my Flexcar bill for doing so.

Fitting in that last activity cut it close for getting the Flexcar back in time and it led to what I think was the closest thing we’ve ever had to a quarrel. He was concerned about the car being late (it costs an extra $4, at minimum, if we’re late), while I was certain we’d be back within enough time as we weren’t that far away.

“If we’re late, you’re getting spanked,” he said.

Again, I was certain we would be in time but made sure not to dawdle just to be super safe. Of course, I got red lights the whole way back, but we pulled into the parking place with a minute left on the reservation.

“See, I told ya,” I said as we got out of the car.

“Oh, you’re still getting spanked for cutting it so close.”

Hey, he hadn’t said that. But then I thought, well, maybe he’s just in a playful mood or something.

When we walked in the door, he took the bag of groceries and my purse. Took off my coat and scarf. “Get on the bed. Jeans off, knickers down,” he said sternly. I thought he was just being all strict to heighten the experience. I complied quickly, as you might imagine. Though did scowl when I saw him taking out the bath brush (Ugh, again? Gawd I hate that thing!). My skin was still a bit cold from being outside and of course, my bottom was still sore from the spanking on Friday. So that damn brush hurt like hell.

First there was a discussion about how at the gas station I’d said it was only going to take 4 minutes to get home – a number I honestly meant more symbolically to mean that we weren’t that far from home (as in “we’re only like, 4 minutes from home”), while he took it literally – and it took us 7 minutes to get home. We settled that misunderstanding, but apparently that wasn’t really the main issue.

“What really annoyed me,” he said while spanking me really hard, “was that you seemed to be rushing fast to get back.”

I lay there thinking back (which is REALLY hard when you’re getting trashed) to the 7 minute drive through a very familiar stretch trying to judge whether or not I had really been rushing. It didn’t seem like it. I wasn’t really speeding (well, okay there were about 5 seconds there when I was about 6 miles over the speed limit, but that probably would have happened even if I had all the time in the world). Sure, I probably took a couple of turns a bit quicker than I might have otherwise (but then again, because it’s such a familiar bit of road, I might well have been that zippy) but compared to what I normally do when I’m in a rush, that wasn’t really all that rushed. Yet, I certainly couldn’t say THAT as I’d really get whaled on.

“Well, were you or weren’t you?” Punctuating the question with several hard smacks.

“Well, I don’t know,” I said as he smacked some more. “I mean, maybe a little bit but…OW!” He spanked me several more times, then stopped and tapped the brush against my bottom. No rubbing my bottom or my back.

“Yes or no. Were you or were you not rushing?” It seemed like an unfairly bipolar question without taking into account any sort of degree, which in this case was very minor (though I couldn’t think enough through the spanking to say it that articulately). I continued with my argument that it was only a little bit, to which he responded with more smacks and then repeated the question.

This was just being mean.

I finally conceded “Yes” though maintained that I would have still stopped to fill up the gas tank as I knew we’d still be back in time. He spanked some more than asked me if I was going to rush when I’m driving, to which I replied (albeit a bit sullenly) “No, Sir.” A couple more smacks and then he stopped. Put the brush on the bed then sat down on the edge.

I climbed up toward him expecting to cuddle, pulled up my knickers, and asked if he could put some arnica cream on my bottom. “I’ll put the cream on, but you’re not getting a cuddle as you have absolutely no remorse for what you’ve done.” He was sorta smiling, so I couldn’t help but sorta smile too as he was right. I really didn’t at that point. But when he got up and went to have a smoke, I was stunned. How could he not cuddle me? I felt completely abandoned. How could he be that mean? I curled up with my pillow and scowled. Teared up a bit.

“Look,” he said, “if you think I spanked you unfairly, just say so. I mean it.” That’s when I realized he wasn’t playing at all. He really was annoyed. But by that point, so was I.

“Think of it this way,” he said more kindly. “You’re not well. You don’t drive that often. Your spatial perception is off. No, you weren’t driving or speeding in a way that was all that unsafe. But you’ve clipped my heels three times today – which was only slightly annoying – but shows that your spatial perception is off. What might be only slightly unsafe for someone else is much more unsafe for you.”

He smoked and I lay thinking through the whole thing. The drive. Not being cuddled. His comment on my spatial perception stung about as much as the spanking. It was true, though I drive more than he does. And it’s different when I’m driving than walking, though I didn’t know how to explain that. And I’d actually been even more careful than normal in changing lanes because I’m not used to driving the Element. A part of me felt some remorse. Conceded that he might have a point. But not cuddling me was just mean.

This was a shitty way to end what had been such a great day.

After he finished his cigarette, he came over. Lay down next to me. “Okay, cuddle.” I started crying softly as he put his arms around me. Then he whispered in my ear. “Will you do me a favor? Will you promise not to rush when you’re driving?” I nodded. Smiled a bit.

“Though, it’s going to be a hard habit to break,” I said with a little giggle.

And we cuddled. He rubbed my bottom. “I don’t want anything to happen to my Shadwell” (his Welsh bastardization of my Arabic nickname, Shadiah). I smiled. A lot. Not just because what he said was very sweet, but because he’d kill me if he knew what I was normally like when I’m rushing. “You keep looking like you want to say something,” he said. I grinned and blushed a little.

“Well, if I say it, I’ll get in even more trouble.” No, he assured me, I would not. So, I told him that the rushing that afternoon was nothing compared to my normal rushing.

Which, he’d already figured was the case.

There’s such a fine line between play and discipline. It certainly makes me realize how important communication is when a relationship like this involves some sort of disciplinary arrangement. Not that all relationships don’t require good communication. But somehow when you’re giving someone else control over you to some degree, it can be easy to lose yourself, which means you have to be more assertive in setting boundaries and verbalizing your feelings. With my boyfriend it’s very easy as he regularly validates my feelings and readily respects those boundaries, usually without me even having to verbally set them. But this experience made me appreciate just what a balancing act it is.

And that rushing in the car, no matter how very little it might be, makes Mr. Stern very unhappy. And when he’s unhappy, my bottom is very sore.

"Domestic Discipline" of a sort...

We were doing the dishes tonight and as I was putting away the small frying pan, I wondered aloud what it would be like to get spanked with one.

"Turn around and bend over," my boyfriend said as he took the frying pan.

I laughed. Did as I was told, though was a bit surprised as he had seemed like he wasn't really in the mood.

I can now report that frying pans sting a great deal when you get spanked with them. Even over jeans. Especially when your bottom is already pretty sore and bruised from previous spankings.

"Now that's what I call 'domestic discipline,'" he said as he hung the pan up and I rubbed my stinging bottom.

Straddling the edge

It's funny how some spankings have more emotional intensity than others. Particularly disciplinary spankings.

Last night I got spanked because I didn't finish reading the book that was on my schedule last week to finish -- one of those icky evangelical Christian historical fiction novels I'm deconstructing for my thesis. The issue for my Mr. Stern was the importance of the schedule and my failure to meet all the items I'd committed to completing that week (not many, only three items as I've gotten spanked in the past for making my schedule too ambitious). When he said I was going to get a "pretty severe spanking" later that day, I argued that it was only one thing one time that I hadn't finished when I've had months of completing my schedules. But I didn't really have a good reason for it not being done. Mostly not being able to settle down and just read the damn book. Not really budgeting enough time. Letting myself get distracted, which is easy when it's something I don't really want to read in the first place and you're in a studio apartment with your boyfriend. "So, you didn't allocate your time properly." No, I didn't -- a spankable offence certainly--but it didn't seem to merit a "pretty severe spanking" in my opinion. Unfortunately, my opinion, which I certainly have a right to voice, is not what decides as apparently it's not necessarily the most objective.

Hmph.

A year and a half ago, right before we actually met in person and he was keeping track of my offenses in a little book (which he has since lost...how very unfortunate...he he he) I decided I was going to change a deadline and casually let him know that I was changing it. "Uh, no you're not going to change it or there would be no point of having a deadline," he said. I was a bit stunned. What do you mean I can't change it? I'm a grown adult and I think I can decide when I want to change a deadline, I thought. After a bit of discussion ensued, he finally said I could send him a brief essay about why I should be allowed to move the deadline. So, I sat and thought and outlined and wrote. And the next day when he came online and read the essay, he politely but firmly declined my request. I had tickets to see Ibdaa, a Palestinian dance troupe, whose performance I needed to leave for in short order which meant that I had no time to argue with him. But damn was I sulky. I enjoyed the show but sat through it stewing. He just didn't understand. He was just being mean. He wasn't being fair. And again, I'm a grown adult. Who is he to tell me I can't change a damn deadline when I want to?

Later that night my crankiness melted into resignation and then into compliance. The only reason I was pissed off was because I was not getting my way. I was the one who had always wanted structure and discipline, and now that someone was actually giving me that, why the hell was I getting sulky? He really was not being mean but actually trying to do something for my benefit. Yes, I was a grown adult and as such had chosen of my own freewill and desire to submit to the discipline of another who I respected and cared for a great deal and knew respected and cared about me a great deal.

Yesterday as I awaited the appointed time for my spanking, I stewed and sulked and pondered. While I was still a bit confused about why my offense was so grave, I began to feel fairly acquiescent about my impending "pretty severe spanking." When the time came, I quietly laid down on the bed as I was told to and waited, which has a very similar effect to standing in the corner. As I lay there, I thought about how I had indeed been very naughty. I had purposely done things like clean house to avoid my reading. Watched television when I knew I hadn't finished my reading. And if I was really honest, I had sorta not taken it that seriously, thinking that if I got a few hours done, that would be good enough (you know the old cliche, give me an inch and I'll take a mile). My thinking time was interrupted every minute or two with him calling out to tell me what new statistic he'd found in the report I'd downloaded for him (some research we're doing for a book about the US and the rest of the world), bringing me out of my meditation on my naughtiness and back into our normal relationship. As he read more and I lay there snuggling my pillows, I began to get sleepy. "I'm going to fall asleep soon," I said with what was probably a bit of a whine.

So, in he came. When he took out the bath brush, I winced. When he also took out the wooden spoon, I got that heavy feeling in my stomach as it confirmed my worst fear. The wooden spoon is usually used on my thighs. It really was going to be a "pretty severe spanking."

"Now, why are you getting spanked?" he asked as his hand started smacking my upturned bottom while my knees sunk into the bedspread and my body cradled my pillows.

"Because I didn't finish my reading," I replied.

"And why didn't you finish your reading?"

I paused for a second to think of an articulate way of describing my dereliction of duty.

"Because I didn't 'allocate my time properly.'"

And thinking of an articulate response was becoming a challenge as even his hand over my pajama bottoms was starting to really sting. I had taken a bath not quite an hour before, but I didn't think my skin would still be that sensitive. My stomach felt even heavier as I knew what was coming.

Indeed, just a few seconds later came the tug on my pajama bottoms. More hand spanks on my now bare backside. Then smacks from something wooden but fairly light. (Guess the Implement is a slightly amusing little mental game to ever so temporarily distract you from the fact that it's scalding your backside.) Then the hairbrush. A pause to discuss my infraction a bit more.

How much reading had I actually done?

About three hours or so.

Had I simply not allocated my time properly or had it been a bit much to expect to finish the book?

Hmm...both answers would be bad -- the latter being perhaps even a bit worse since I've been spanked for that before. But honestly? Well, I didn't know. At the time it seemed like a reasonable expectation that I'd finish the book. It's easy reading. Not that long (well, by grad student standards). I had a week to read. At least I thought I did. Was that the week after we came back from Vancouver? Or the week I had the unexpected extended session with the massage therapist?

Even after looking up the dates on my schedule (well, he looked it up while I remained in my er...rather undignified position) I was still unclear. It seemed like stuff had come up that week that in hindsight probably did make it a bit unrealistic to expect that I'd finish the book. But it seemed reasonable at the time.

It's hard to think clearly when you're getting spanked.

Especially with a mean old bath brush.

Which was searing my sit spot. Over and over.

Then it came. That feeling of wanting to cry. But just for a moment. That instinctive need to be stoic quickly pushed it away. Sorta.

Even as my brain was busy trying to process the pain constantly assaulting it from the south, I was becoming aware of this tug-of-war between my desire to cry and my deeply ingrained stoicism. I'd never been aware of it before. Well, that's not completely true. I've seen glimpses of it before, but I was so much more conscious of it this time than I ever had been. I would come to that edge and start to cross over, then stop. Start to cross over again, then stop. In many ways it almost felt sorta out of body. Just sitting and watching myself going back and forth.

He stopped with the brush and started spanking with his hand again. Then told me to lay flat on the bed.

Which in some ways was good because that made my bottom less tense and vulnerable.

But very bad because it made my thighs very much more vulnerable. Which was the whole point.

As he spanked my bottom more with the bath brush, he scolded me. (Boy has he gotten a lot better and mean-- er...uh...sterner -- in his scolding). How the schedule was important. How I should tell him if I'm having trouble finishing it. Combined with my pre-spanking reflection about how naughty I'd been, it made me feel very little and naughty and guilty and repentant. I just wanted to be a good girl again.

Then came those mean smacks with the wooden spoon on my thighs. And promises that if I ever failed to finish my schedule again without good reason I'd get the wooden spoon on the top of my thighs (with the memory of such a spanking adding to the horrible "eek!!" in my gut).

I crossed over the edge again. Stepped one foot fully down on the other side and started to tear up and vocally sob.

I so wanted the spanking to stop.

I so wanted to be a good girl.

I so wanted to let all that sadness and guilt and hurt out.

But it was only one foot. The other stayed firmly planted on solid stoic soil.

For this time, at least.

The bath brush came out again for six more strokes that I had to count. Then it was over. He lay down on the bed next to me. "Big cuddle." I clutched him with a foot on either side as he held me. Still tearing up. Still letting out little sobs. But not quite fully crying.

We lay there for a long time. He stroked my hair and my bottom. Softly asked me if I was going to let him know next time if I was having problems completing my schedule.

"Yes," I nodded.

"Good girl."

I had the most intense feeling of love and intimacy with any human being I think I've ever had at that moment. It was one of, if not the most amazing thing I've ever felt. As I think back on it now, all I can think is, oh my god, I soooo want to do that again. I mean, I remember that the spanking really hurt, but it seems so absolutely beautiful and profound now. And even though I have this desire to repeat the experience, I also want very much to be good.

Though good girl spankings just don't have quite the same effect.

Chatting with the "Professor"

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Story: A Bedtime Spanking [M/F]

I wrote this story almost three years ago or so, before I met my boyfriend. So, it's not quite real life. We have no toy box (though I do have a naughty box he he he). No Purple Paddle -- actually, no paddle at all. And my boyfriend would never wear flannel pajamas lol. But, the rest of it is pretty close.

####


A Bedtime Spanking [M/f]


Julia sat at the end of the bed. Howie was in the bathroom doing his “getting ready for bed” rituals. Brushing his teeth. Flossing. Gargling.

Julia waited. She could hear him shuffling around. Then silence. Going to the bathroom now, most likely. Probably just a few minutes more.

She fidgeted. Brought her legs up onto the bed and sat cross-legged. Face in her hands.

Good lord, would he just come out already?

If she had to wait much longer she didn’t know if she could do it. To ask. But she couldn’t sleep…

Five minutes passed. What was he doing? Reading a Russian novel? Her fidgeting increased.

The door unlatched…

“Hey babe, what are you doing up? I tucked ya in a half an hour ago.” Howie emerged from the bathroom in his black and red Blazers shirt with red flannel pj bottoms.

“I can’t sleep…can you message my neck and shoulders?” Julia’s singing smile slithered across her face. Howie could see the subtle dimple in her cheek just right of her mouth in the light creeping in from behind the blinds.

“Of course.” Howie sat on his knees on the bed behind Julia. He kneaded the tight trapezius muscles that had knotted near her neck. Then manipulated down her spine and out towards her side. Julia gave little squeals of gratitude as his strong hands gently rubbed the lumps of rigid muscle. “There, is that better?”

“Oh yes, dear.” Julia’s smile. Warm like a summer afternoon. He encased her inside his arms. Laid his chin on her left shoulder.

“Ready for sleep now?” He kissed her cheek. She shrugged.

“I don’t know.” Ambiguous and sly.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nuthin’.”

“Maybe I should just hold ya for a bit.” Howie squeezed his chest tighter against her back.

“Well…maybe…” Julia let out a happy giggle. “Or…well…um, maybe…I need…abedtimespanking…” Like popping medicine down so you don’t taste it.

“Oh yeah?” Howie’s eyebrow raised and a grin overtook his face. “Hmmm…well, then, I’ll go get the paddle then.”

“Wait, I wasn’t meaning for you to use the paddle...” Julia scowled.

“But you know that if it’s gonna put you to sleep I gotta do it right.”

“Nuh UH…You can just use your hand. It’s hard…”

“Well, I’m going to get the paddle anyway, just in case.” Howie winked and walked over to the toy box next to the closet. The khaki-brown bamboo chest Julia bought at a garage sale soon after they married. He rummaged through and lifted out the Purple Paddle. A school paddle made by a friend which Julia painted a dark lavender. With little flowers, hearts, and a butterfly or two. Just thick enough to make a point and sting like the dickens, but not so thick as to bruise. At least not too much.

Julia pouted and stood up as Howie approached the bed. He sat back on the creamy down comforter with his legs stretched out. She climbed up on the bed and laid across his lap. Her navy t-shirt clad-stomach pressed against his left thigh. Her bottom covered with sky blue knit pj bottoms sprinkled with bright yellow stars and moons faced up over his right. Julia breathed in a centering breath, laid her head on her folded arms, and waited for the smacks of sleep.

Howie brushed his left hand over the middle of her back and began spanking Julia with his right palm. Steady, certain slaps. Not too hard, but enough to make her wince. Full slaps across the middle of her buttocks. Down low near her thighs. Over to the right. Then the left…Disjointed at first. Then a steady rhythm.

The pattern paused as Howie grasped the elastic waistband of Julia’s pajama bottoms and cotton panties. The stars and moons scrunched down over her fleshy cheeks. She raised her stomach and thighs just enough for him to continue pulling the cotton sky down to her knees. He rubbed his hand over her warm, rose skin then resumed his earlier cadence. Across the middle. Down near her thighs. Over to the right. Then to the left...Stingy and strong. Jiggling the pads of fat and muscle. Julia’s wincing tightened her eyes and mouth holding whimpers of hurt.

He paused again and gripped the Purple Paddle that had sat forlorn next to him. Tapped it against Julia’s red, tender skin. Then brought it down with a hard thwack.

“Ooweee…” Julia yelped. Howie followed it up with several more hard spanks. The paddle was long enough to strike both cheeks at the same time but required a determined wrist motion to do so without punishing the right cheek and neglecting the left. After a couple years of practice, Howie had mastered it. With thoughtful, resolute spanks. Julia released her whimpers. She squealed and curled her toes. Cradled her face in her arms. The spanks came down to the intersection of her thighs and buttocks. That tender sit spot. She cried out the onomatopoeic terminology of pain. The paddle sliced the top of her thighs. Scalded. Over and over. Though there were no tears, Julia’s whimpers congealed into the sound of sobs. Howie brought the paddle back up to the fleshiest part of her buttocks. He slapped down the paddle there with a measured beat for a long while. A perpetual pulse that stung but didn’t burn. Julia loosened her rigid wincing. Took in large, full breaths. Howie softened the spanks to firm pats. Then he halted.

“You feelin’ sleepy yet?” he whispered. Julia nodded as he rubbed her soft, hot skin. She continued to pull in air with her stomach. Howie picked up the paddle and resumed his stiff, smarting taps. They crescendoed into searing smacks. Harder. Faster. Biting across the middle. Onto the sit spot. Down along her thighs. Julia sunk her face back into her arms. Cried without tears. Squealed, sobbed, and squirmed. Jerked her feet towards her bottom. Gripped the comforter between her fingers. Unknown emotions that she couldn’t name spilled out with her yelps. Emotions that had been haunting the muscles throughout her body. Released by the throbbing thud of the Purple Paddle. Howie returned to the purposeful pats of earlier then stopped and slid the paddle down onto the bed.

“Shhh…it’s alright. It’s all over now.” His hand hovered over her raw buttocks and thighs in a gentle caress while Julia continued her tearless sobs. With his left hand he stroked her hair. First with his palm, then with his fingertips. Soft and tender. Her sobs turned to whimpers and then to a cleansing gathering of air. “I’ll go get the aloe vera gel while you get into bed.” He slid his left arm underneath her chest and guided her up onto her knees. She crawled over to the top of the bed, then lay down on her stomach.

The gel made Julia shiver as Howie rubbed it over her skin in small, purposeful circles. He put the bottle on the nightstand, returned the pj bottoms around her waist, then lay next to her and resumed stroking her hair. She turned the left side of her face onto his chest, atop Scottie Pippen with a big head holding a basketball. And as she roamed off into dreamland, she smiled.

Sometimes, you just need a bedtime spanking.


Coypyright 2002 Natty

Bedtime Spankings

Geesh, bedtime spankings have been getting me in so much trouble lately.

Okay, I like a nice bedtime spanking. You know, something sorta over the knee. Just the hand. Maybe a hairbrush, but not too hard.

So, every once in awhile after I'm in my jammies and brushed my teeth, I sit next to my boyfriend (who is usually on the computer) and sweetly ask for a bedtime spanking.

Well, a couple of nights ago, I was feeling slightly bratty. When he came over to the bed where I was sitting to spank me, he told me to lay down. Now, I know he meant on my tummy, and he knew I knew what he meant, but like I said, I was feeling bratty. So I laid down on my back. Grinned and said, "okay, I'm laying down." Without so much as a stern look, he simply told me to turn over. And then informed me that since I didn't do what I was supposed to do, I was going to get the riding crop.

Eek! I haven't gotten the riding crop since last Spring. Since before the horrible kidney infection in September that took all my endorphines away.

I gulped. Why couldn't I have been a good girl and done what I was told?

But you know what? The endorphines came back! I mean, it hurt like it always has. But, that's the point. Like it always has.

And they've stayed around too. Which is good because the other night when I asked for one, or rather, said it would be nice to have one, I got a bit bratty again. Though, it was sorta unintentional -- well, at least not the way I meant it to be.

We were sorta sitting there web surfing. I had mentioned earlier that a bedtime spanking would be nice. Time had passed and I was thinking that he wasn't going to bother. So when he finally said that I should go to bed, I just looked at him with my steely defiant look. "You know," he said calmly, "the longer you sit here, the more severe the implement will be..."

Ugh! I jumped up then and there to go to bed. When he came over to the bed, he spanked me with the brush, then made me turn over on to my back and lift my legs up. Double ugh! Apparently he decided that such defiance had to be curbed right then and there so I got the spoon on the back of my thighs.

Very owwee.

But, much more bearable than it would have been last month.

Yay for endorphines. And for my body that's getting back into spanko mode.

####

P.S. Yes, I know you're reading my blog and thinking "wait -- I was here on January 9th and the 17th and I didn't see these posts." Yep, you're right. But God bless Blogger as it lets me put any old date on here that I want to. So, I figured I'd post them with the dates they would have had if I would have had a chance to post them then.

There are more January blog posts from my journal forthcoming...

A New Spanking Year

I rang in the New Year with a spanking.

Well, okay, actually I rang it in throwing up. Not because I was drunk or anything. Never even got that far. I came down with a touch of the stomach flu.

Didn't feel good on New Year's Eve, but had a dinner date at a friend's and dragged myself there. I mean, it was New Year's Eve. I didn't want to stay home. Plus, I wanted my boyfriend to meet one of my best friends.

So we went. Ate dinner. Watched "Seinfeld" on DVD. My boyfriend and I planned to watch fireworks at Waterfront Park and stop off at a bar for some New Year whiskey. So, we caught the bus back downtown, by which time I was feeling really icky and feverish. But, you know, I like to be tough. And well, I have Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome so I feel like crap most of the time anyway. So, I just dragged myself along without saying I felt sick.

Turned out, there were no fireworks along the river. Just some lame ones six blocks to the west of us at Pioneer Courthouse Square behind all the office buildings. But, we'd sat there in the cold waiting for them. You know, while I was feverish and feeling icky. I finally said I wasn't feeling that well, so we went home.

It wasn't until I threw up a few hours later that he realized just how sick I was. When I heard him say "you shouldn't have been sitting out in the cold if you were this sick," I knew we'd be continuing the conversation later. Probably with a wooden spoon.

I got sorta lucky. It was only the belt. Which hurts, but is a much more manageable pain for me than a wooden spoon on my thighs.

Spanking Zen

It's been a slow blogging month due to a combination of factors: spending time with my boyfriend, illness (yeah, I was back in the ER with another UTI the very day we left for the Grand Canyon), traveling and the fatigue it brings even though it's been way fun, sharing computer time with my boyfriend, and, of course, Christmas and all the work that brings. Can you believe I didn't even get a switch in my stocking? Hmm...I'm not sure if that's a good thing or bad...

Though, while a switch in the theoretical sense sounds exciting, on a practical level, it makes me tense up. My pain threshold is still quite low. After a spanking last week, I began to wonder if I used up all my endorphines in September with that kidney infection. Usually when I get spanked, the 6th or 8th stroke or so is the worse and I'll feel like I just can't bear another smack. But then the endorphines kick in and the spanking becomes more bearable. It still hurts a lot, but I know I can tolerate it to the end. However, when I get spanked now, I never seem to get over that hump. The endorphines never seem to come like they used to and every single smack feels absolutely unbearable, even though I know they are not nearly as hard as they usually are. It feels rather frustrating, though I suppose I'm just being impatient.

What feels really annoying is that even though it seems more painful and unbearable, I still don't cry. Granted, I'm not quite as stoic as I normally am. I do make a lot more noise (you know, a lot more "owees") and I squirm a bit more. A part of me wants to be spanked until I cry, but mostly the thought of that much pain terrifies me.

Yesterday's spanking was nice though. It was sorta spontaneous. We were cuddling on the bed and inevitably his hand was caressing my bottom. Then gently smacking it. Eventually I laid over his lap and he spanked me over my PJ bottoms. Then my bare bottom. With harder smacks. And this time, I tried not to tense up like I have been. To breathe deeply. To be aware of the sting. The thud of his hand reverberating in my cheeks. To remember the pleasure I usually feel to be over his lap. That mixture of happy, contented, well-spanked little girl and aroused, sexy, voluptuously-curved woman.

Call it my own form of spanking zen.

Grand Canyon Spanking

Grand Canyon at Lipan Point

I feel so exhibitionist here, which is totally not me usually. But, it IS a cool pic. Unfortunately you can't see any marks from my spanking.

We just got back yesterday from a trip to the Grand Canyon. The weather was brilliant. During the day it was mild -- 50 degrees or so -- and cold at night so that the snow from the week before was still on the ground. But the roads were all clear and the sun was out and bright.

There were a lot of people at the main viewpoints but the smaller ones were almost deserted. "Right," my boyfriend said with a grin, "if nobody's at this next stop, you're getting spanked." As we got out of the car, a few other cars pulled in and I thought I was safe. But after a few pictures, they left and we were all alone. After taking a few more pics of our own and making sure everyone was truly gone, I bent over the rail. My coat was pulled up, my jeans and panties down. The sun was starting to set so the temperature was dropping. And in the chilly mountain air I got a good 20 or so stingy smacks on my cold backside. Ouch! ;)

And since we were taking pictures of everything else (255 pics altogether! God bless digital cameras and big old flashcards), we had to get a few pics of this.

Disorder in the Spanko Universe

Not to be outdone by political blogger wonkette, who had two BDSM related posts today, my boyfriend and I have also been doing some spanko related political analysis of our own. See, we figure that the reason the world is completely out of whack at the moment (er...pun probably intended) is that the Dom(me)/sub, Top/bottom, Spanker/Spankee -- whatever label you prefer -- order is also not right.

My boyfriend's theory is that the more public power one holds, the more likely one is to be spanked in the bedroom (please note for all those who take things way too seriously, this is a bit tongue and cheek and gross generalization). Hence, Ronald Reagan had Nancy, George H.W. had Barbara, Bill had Hillary, etc. However, I remember seeing a clip on the news a few years back (either during the 2000 election or just after, I think) where when Laura met George up on the stage for some event, he kissed her and smacked her on the bottom, suggesting that perhaps he's the spanker and she the spankee. But, alas, how could George be both the leader of the free world AND spanker in the bedroom? Clearly the cosmic order of the universe has been turned on its head!

Yet, George has gotta be hankering for someone to spank him. And considering the way he over does the whole macho thing, we think he's probably got latent homoerotic fantasies about Dick Cheney. Except, Dick is probably spanked by Lynn Cheney. So, maybe Lynn is spanking BOTH of them. Bending them both over the desk in the Oval Office, her crop in hand. That'd be appropriate for two cowboys. And who knows, maybe there's even a little strapon action. I mean, how rich would that be to know that the two fucking over the world are being fucked up the ass themselves? Though the only way that would give me the smallest amount of comfort would be if that were without lube...

And probably bent over next to them is Tony Blair. My boyfriend thinks that Tony and Cherie are both spankees, which is why British politics are so mad at the moment. But Cherie has her various gurus to go to. So, who the hell does Tony go to? Well, clearly the answer is America, as seen in current British-American relations. Yep, British troops are in Iraq all because Tony needs a good spanking (where IS Maggie Thatcher when you need her?? Though, actually she was clearly the spankee and Dennis the spanker).

Right. Enough spanko-political analysis for tonight. It's my birthday tomorrow and I got a big spanking day ahead of me. ;)

Finding That Spot

So, I'm sitting on a very sore bottom as I type this post. Yes, my boyfriend arrived three days ago, and I've been spanked everyday since. What a meanie... ;)

Actually, he's really not. He's quite sweet, slowly breaking me back in. My pain threshold is the lowest it's ever been in the four and a half years since I started exploring my spanking kink and getting my backside spanked. Even hand spankings are enough to make me yelp and kick my legs a bit.

It's not like the pain I went through this summer/fall is the only time I've been in tremendous physical pain. Six years ago when I was on blood thinners to treat blood clots in my calf and lungs that developed after surgery on my knee and ankle, my knee started hemorraghing internally. The paramedics said that it looked like there was a soccer ball on my knee. Even though they were giving me morphine by IV every 20 minutes, it felt like someone had kicked my kneecap out of place and then with all of the nerves and ligaments still attached, jumped on top of it. And since I was post-operative, they couldn't drain it because I could have bled to death. So, they just wrapped it up really tight. They don't make narcotics yet that are strong enough for that kind of pain. It used to be when I heard stories about the IRA shooting out the kneecaps of people, I'd think "omg -- that's gotta be like, the worse pain ever." Now I just sorta shrug and think, "I could take it. Wouldn't be pleasant, but I'd manage."

September wasn't quite that bad, but it was bad enough and for a much longer period of time. When I think back to when my knee bled, I feel a mixture of anger (I was released from the hospital with the blood clots far too soon by some very condescending doctors and against what my nurse thought was wise) as well as a sick sort of pride. I survived. I know what real pain is like. I'm tough. But when I think about that horrible kidney pain of September, all I feel is trauma and helplessness. I didn't have to be in that much pain for so long, but nobody understood what was wrong. In this case, it wasn't negligence but my body not giving my doctors the right information.

And now it's like I'm still in this sort of post-traumatic stress, which is, as I've talked about in another post, a result of having Fibromyalgia where my "pain amplifier" is turned up too far. Which is why it's nice having my boyfriend here at last. To curl up with in bed. To stroke my hair. To kiss my head. To cuddle me in between stingy smacks that are lighter than normal as I find that spot where my spanko imagination and my traumatized physical sensation can meet.

Pics from Jerusalem

The Notre Dame Center in Jerusalem.

The door at the end of the hallway was my room.

My convent-like room with an icon of the Holy Mother above my bed.

The wall across from my bed with yet another icon of the Theotokos.Made me afraid to even say any bad words.

Story: The Old City [F/F]

I started writing this story in April when I was staying at the Notre Dame Center, the Vatican's guesthouse in Jerusalem where I was attending a conference. See accompanying pictures (needless to say, my room didn't look at all like the one on their website, but aside from the room description, the rest of this story is entirely fictional). Oh, and shukran jazeelan to Youssef who helped me with some of the Arabic as mine is a bit rusty at the moment. ;)


The Old City [F/F]


I found the St. Joseph’s hostel in one of those travel books. Lonely Planet or something like that. It seemed cheap and in a good location. Just inside the New Gate of the Old City. Run by some Italian nuns.

“You are pilgrim, si?” asked Sister Maria, the short, plump nun in her dark blue habit who gave me the key to my room.

“Si…well, sorta. And to study.” I did want to be near the Holy Places. But I also hoped to expand my Arabic a bit. My priest had put me in touch with a friend of a friend who lived in a monastery in the Old City and could use a few extra shekels in income tutoring me.

“Bueno.” She gave a curt smile and pointed me to my room. A small cell at the end of the dark, stone hallway. With a crucifix over the bed and an icon of the Holy Mother on the opposite wall. I set my backpack on the bed and examined the card on the desk with instructions in English and Italian.

“Please label all food left in the kitchen.”

“There is a launderette near the Post Office on Jaffa Road outside of the New Gate.”

“Note that the gate to the hostel closes at 10:30 pm and you must be in your room by the beginning of quiet hours at 11 pm.”

Good, I thought. I like to go to bed early.

I began my Arabic lessons with Brother Elias the next day in the lobby of the hostel. We trudged through lesson 8 in Al-Kitab, which is where my Arabic class left off at the end of the year. Brother Elias continuously corrected the slight Egyptian accent I’d begun to pick up from characters used in the audio cassettes with the book.

“La! Do not say ‘gaamiah,’ say ‘Jaamiah.” He would always point is finger up into the air when he’d say ‘la!’

After my lessons, I roamed through the Old City. Down the winding alleys of stone where the smell of incense and urine mingled in the hot summer sun. Through the souqs where I learned quickly to ignore the offers of tea that were really the prelude to a high pressure sales pitch. Ate my share of falafel and hummus and shwerma. Managed to meet people from all over. Ethiopian pilgrims. New York Hassidim. French imams. British students attending BirZeit University in the West Bank.

It was that last group that got me into trouble. Not anything political, which is usually the case in these parts. No, trouble at the hostel.

With Sister Maria.

Who pretended not to listen in on my Arabic lessons, which I, more often than not, had failed to study for the night before.

Who would only speak to me in Arabic, particularly with vocabulary she knew I was supposed to know.

Who tutted every night as I barely made it through the gate at 10:30 upon returning from a night of frivolity with my new friends.

And of course, it had to happen. I left Ramallah one night a bit late. My taxi got held up at a checkpoint. By the time I reached the hostel, Sister Maria was walking up the stairs, having just locked the gate.

“Oh, Sister. Please let me in. I’m soooo sorry I’m late.”

“Marrat-thani, min fdlik?” I knew what her request to repeat again meant.

“Uh…er, um,” I hunted around for my Arabic. “Min fdlik, iftari al bab, ya ukht? It was probably wrong grammatically, but I think it got across the idea.

She grunted. Came down the stairs. Took out the key and opened the metal bars. Then grabbed my ear.

I gasped.

“Ohh! Ow. Please. I mean, min fdlik…” I kept trying to pull away, which just made her grab hold even tighter.

All the way to her office behind the front desk.

She finally let go and then let out a torrid of Arabic. I picked up words here and there. Tdruse – study. ‘Asdeq’aek – friends. Strained to figure out more. Though I didn’t really need to.

Then she pulled out a chair, placing the back of it toward me.

“Enhany ‘ala-lkoorsee.” She pointed to the chair. I blinked at her. What the hell did ‘enhany’ mean?

“EnHany ‘ala-lkoorsee.”

Damnit…what the hell was she saying?

“Over…chair…” She motioned with her hand. When I continued looking puzzled, she briefly bent over the back of the chair.

“Enhany ‘ala-lkoorsee,” she said as she stood back up.

She wanted me to what? Bend over the chair? Like she was going to spank me or something?

That’s when I remembered those first few nights. Before I met my friends and would be in my room by ten. When it was 11:00, Sister Maria would roam the hallways, smacking the bottoms of people still not in their rooms. Everyone giggled as they headed to bed.

Oh my god! She was going to spank me!

“Uh,…um…laaa…I mean, c’mon…”

“Enhany ‘ala-lkoorsee.” With dark eyes and a stern mouth pressed tight between her pudgy cheeks. And strong fingers that reached out and grabbed my ear again and pushed me over the chair.

Well, okay, how bad could it really be?

Next thing I know, she’s lifting my skirt up over my bottom. I tried to stand up to push it back down, but she held me firm. Along with the hem of my skirt.

Then came a big splat and a hot pain beneath my panties.

It was something wooden. A ruler I think. That stung like hell.

Again I started to stand up. And again, she held me firmly over that chair.

And rained down splat after hot, painful splat. Echoing amid the stone walls.

I curled my toes. Gripped the seat of the chair. Tried to twist my bottom away from that vicious ruler. Especially when she smacked the under side of my cheeks where my panties didn’t quite reach.

My eyes began to mist. “Min fdlik…Please…oh please stop.”

And she did stop. Began lecturing me again in Arabic. With her arm pinning me to the chair.

Then more splats with the ruler.

When I kicked my right leg up, she smacked my calf so hard I howled. Then smacked my bottom harder and faster.

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry – Aasifa…” I blubbered.

She scolded me more in Arabic. More about studying and my friends. Smacked me a few more times.

“Qefi.” She removed her arm from my back. Patted my bottom softly. Lowered my skirt. I wiped my eyes and stood up.

Sister Maria smiled at me. “You…good girl.” Nodding. With a smile that glowed and warmed my insides as much as she had warmed my bottom.

I sniffled and smiled back. “Shukran.”

She said something about my room and motioned her head toward the door. I nodded.

“Okay…taiib.”

And you know, I made it back to the hostel every night after that spanking well before the gate closed. Which, of course, left me with plenty of time to study for my sessions with Brother Elias.

Wa atikilm al-lugha al-‘arabiyye tamaman ‘endaman amshee fi’lmadina al-qadeema. (And I speak the Arabic language perfectly when I walk in the Old City.)

A point I made certain to thank Sister Maria for when it was time to leave the Old City, to which she responded by patting my bottom with a smile.

“La shukr ‘ala wajib.” (There is no thank you for doing what is a duty.)

Out...

Well, I'm so out to my sister and brother-in-law.

As promised, babysitting for my sister left me with plenty of spanko anecdotes to share. That same niece who talked about getting spanked when she was born spent all night telling me about when she got spanked by her other aunt when over at her cousin's. I can't remember what I was doing (it was sometime around the point where we were making gingerbread men) when she said "don't do that unless you want my dad to spank you." With a giggle. Now, for a second, of course, I sorta giggled to myself as I thought that might be kinda fun. "So your dad spanks the babysitters?" I asked. She giggled again. "Yup." I know that's not true as my brother-in-law is fairly obsessive about acting appropriately. And I know my niece knows I know that's not true. Especially with that mischievous grin and giggle. So, very gently I say, "you sure like to talk about spanking a lot." Another giggle. "Yup." Then her eyes narrow, though still with that grin. "But no one is ever gonna spank me again!"

Yeah, give her a few more years and she'll have her own spanking blog just like her Auntie. Though, I suspect at the rate she's going, she's gonna be a top.

Not that her spanking penchant is all that comfortable for me. When she and her older sister were a few years younger, I once playfully swatted her. She suddenly exclaimed, "oh spank me, spank me, 'Chell!" To which her older sister cut in front of her and laid herself over my lap. "No, spank me!" I sat there frozen. I wasn't sure how to respond. I mean, when they get older and find out I have a spanking kink, are they going to think their aunt sexually assaulted them? My sister sitting on the couch said dryly, "yeah, for some reason they really like getting spanked. We're thinking about getting them whips and handcuffs for Christmas."

At any rate, when my brother-in-law got home Saturday night, we were waiting for my sister to get back so he could take me home. Maybe it was the wine he poured for me while we waited. Maybe I'm just feeling more comfortable with my kink. But as he talked about how his sister has this rubber ruler-like implement that she uses to spank her kids called The Instrument (as disturbing as I find it that she uses this on her kids) that he and his brother were playing around with once and left welts on their arms, I chime up, "mmm...maybe my boyfriend and I should get one of those." He jokingly replies, "oh I think they have it at Spartacus'"(the sex shop that specializes in fetish gear down the street from me here in Portland). To which I come back with, "oh I've looked there. They don't have it." So he tells me about some riding crops he was using to decorate an apartment at one point. So I tell him about the riding crop I got Spartacus' that doesn't really hurt that much while the one my boyfriend got at the charity shop in England hurts like hell. By the time I get to "the one my boyfriend got..." he is looking at me wide-eyed. "Oh my god, you're totally in to S&M." My sister had returned home by this point and was in the bedroom. He stumbles into the bedroom going, "Michelle's totally into S&M." My sister simply says that her hand, which she had burned earlier that evening, hurt. "I'm telling you that Michelle's into S&M and all you can say is that your hand hurts??!"

Before I know it, I'll be giving him the url for this blog.

Off to babysit...

...and when I called my sister really quick before she comes to pick me up, my 8 year old niece gets on the phone and informs me that she had been thinking about when she was born. "The doctor has to spank you or you won't breathe and you'll die." My sister's kids are already incorrigible spankos at such tender ages. I'll share more anecdotes about that when I have more time. At any rate, I reply, "ah so the doctor has to spank you huh?" "Yep. But now I'm going to find him and spank HIM!"

I'm sure Auntie Natty will have more spanking vignettes from my nieces and nephew to share when I get back, as uncomfortable as the whole thing makes me...

In the meantime, I highly recommend a story that was recently posted at the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup about a spanko stuck in a nursing home who reminded me of my great-grandmother. Very cute. :)

Hmm...gosh I have such a warped family...

Looking Up

I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom, for me and you
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world...

Ah, well, the sky isn't exactly blue here in Portland today, but I feel so good! This latest round of antibiotics seems to be finally killing whatever has been left of the urinary tract/kidney infection I've had. My kidneys hardly hurt at all. I can actually twirl my hips around as if I was hula-hooping. That burning pain that's always been sorta on like background music for years has disappeared thanks to the Neurontin. And my boyfriend is coming three weeks from today. I'm practically bouncing off the walls. :)

And oh boy, is that desire for a spanking back.

Last night I was looking at the photo galleries of the movies over at RGE films and thought, mmm...I want marks like hers. And I made a most naughty discovery this morning when I reached for my vibrator: the batteries were dead.

I could even handle getting that nasty riding crop my boyfriend has, even though I know I'll hate it again as soon as it hits my ass. ;)

Whenever I'm in a run of bad health, I always have to tell myself that I will feel good again. The good days will come back. And I hold on to that with everything I have.

Likewise, whenever I start to feel better after a bad spell, even though I've had CFIDS/ME for almost 6 years now, I somehow think that, this is it: I'm finally all better and life is going to go back to the way it was before the surgery and blood clots in my lungs and hemorrhaging and all. But I've had to learn to do the opposite of the bad days. To tell myself that yes, today I feel good, but that doesn't mean I don't have CFIDS/ME anymore. That I don't know how I will feel next week. I only know that today I feel good. And if I want a chance at feeling good for more than today, I have to make sure and not overdo it too much.

The other day when I was looking through my old Arabic textbooks, I could see where I had written in the answers to various drills. Remembered how I used to sit in class, figure out which sentence I was going to have to translate or figure out the cognitive accusative for, or whatever one of the five zillion grammar concepts we were studying that day, and do it there in class before it was my turn because I hadn't done it the night before. Remembered how I used to think that if I just had the threat of a good, hard spanking looming over me, I'd not only have done my one sentence, but the entire drill, as well as the other few pages of drills that were homework that night. Looking back now, I realize I had Fibromyalgia that whole time and with the schedule I had, it's amazing I got any work done at all. My only salvation was that I was smart, so my half-assed work was still excellent work by most academic standards (got accepted to Harvard, Chicago and Georgetown for grad school).

God, I wish so much I could have that back! Could still study two languages (as half-assed as it was), take other coursework, do homework, work (10-12 hours a week) and still go to church and hang out with my friends (though admittedly, my social life was fairly limited because of my fatigue). Yes, I struggled with it all, but compared to now where I'm lucky if I can leave the house, it seems like the pinnacle of health.

And it feels silly that every time I have the good days after a lot of the bad, even after all these years, I still think that pinnacle is just around the corner.

My Stars and Stripes Knickers

It started as a reflection on the office of the whipping boy. Or how it might be turned in to a whipping girl. Then it occurred to us that perhaps such a whipping girl might be utilized to balance the karmic order in the universe. Soon we were listing various evil doers and miscreants and what would be the appropriate implement to use on their backsides -- or the whipping girl's.

The list was as follows:

Condoleeza Rice -- Hairbrush
A smart girl who is either being too naive or too incompetent (though also someone my boyfriend fantasizes about spanking).

Ken Lay -- Ruler
He should probably get something much worse as he ruined the lives of thousands, but now at least he's finally going to face trial.

Tony Blair -- Cane
That implement was a given. Wonder how many times he got the cane as a public school boy?

Marvin Olasky -- Leather Belt and Riding Crop
He's a professor of journalism at the University of Texas and the guy who founded the philosophy of "compassionate" conservativism with his book The Tragedy of American Compassion in 1993. He started out as a communist but while doing doctoral work was born again and became obsessed with John Wayne. He has his own website should you desire to read more.

Richard Perle -- All of the Above
The (former) chairman of the Defense Policy Board who orchestrated the Iraq War and pisses on international law even to the point of suggesting that the U.S. take over Saudi oil fields.

Now, each of these names is written on a piece of paper and put into a bowl, hat, etc. After they have been properly shaken up, I pick out a name and receive whatever punishment that person has been assigned.

And the karmic order is put back into balance (well, a little bit).

As all but Tony Blair are Americans (and he might as well be anyway), we thought it might be appropriate if such punishments were over knickers with the American flag. I looked online for some panties with the Stars and Stripes, and while I found a number of sites with thongs that had the flag on it (and in sizes that didn't accommodate my... er... voluptuous figure), no panties. Since I know how to sew, I decided I would make some. Couldn't find any stretchy knit fabric with the flag, but did find a heavy cotton fabric (a bit heavier than poplin but not as heavy as canvas) with flags all over and made what look sorta like bloomers (it occurred to me later that I could have simply hand sewn a flag on the back of some white cotton panties, and I may yet do that). I felt like a kinky Martha Stewart.

Sewing is great for thinking, even meditating. As I cut out pattern pieces and fed fabric beneath the needle, I kept thinking about how my grandfather who fought in the South Pacific during WWII must be spinning in his grave. I even wondered for a moment if spanking the flag is against the law. It's funny how Americans are about our flag. Almost pagan, like it's an idol or something. Veterans often talk about how they risked their lives for the flag, which is something I have a hard time understanding. Dying for freedom, democracy, principle, protecting your family -- those I understand. But a piece of cloth? Yes, I know it's a symbol of our country. But a symbol, not the country or its supposed ideals themselves. I guess the only thing I can think of that I would be offended if someone burned might be my icons (I'm Byzantine Catholic and have several icons -- Christ, the Holy Mother, etc.). But, that's like, a real religion. How do you serve both God and Flag?

So far, my Stars and Stripes knickers have only received a sort of breaking in...in which, shall we say, they were rendered crotchless...

But after last Tuesday, I believe they are going to get good and truly thrashed in the next couple of months when my boyfriend is here.

Note, however, that after he was demoted from chairman of the Defense Policy Board, Richard Perle was replaced with Karl Rove.

I shudder to think of picking his name out of the bowl after last week.

As mentioned in my last post, I'm thinking of replacing Ken Lay with Pfizer, who charges extortionate prices for medication. But then I was thinking today that perhaps we might make each implement a category into which we could place any number of people. My boyfriend suggested we add Lynn Cheney. At first I thought she would fit well in the hairbrush category, but then I remembered what she was like when she was head of the National Endowment of the Humanities in the 80s and decided she would go in the same category as Marvin Olasky. Dick, of course, would go in the "all of the above" category.

And from time to time my boyfriend suggest the United States for not just becoming one of the current greatest threats to world peace, allowing its poor to suffer, and filling its prisons with black people, but for things like McDonalds and other random things that piss him off.

Good News!

Yay for Neurontin!

I started this anti-epileptic medicine the middle of last month as its been successful in helping some people with Fibromyalgia with chronic pain. Between that and the antibiotic, I had about four days when I was pain free enough to actually start thinking about spanking again. But, as it's a freekin' expensive drug that isn't covered by my insurance, I decided to order it online from a Canadian pharmacy and ran out before I could get more. After a week, my pain came back and while spanking on an abstract level gave me that familiar tingle between my legs, when I'd think about actually getting spanked, I just tense up and get that slightly nauseous feeling.

My prescription arrived in the mail yesterday. I realize that I am now a criminal for getting my drugs from Canada and have disdained the compassionate protection of our beloved president who made it illegal for me to get two months worth of Neurontin for the same price as two weeks worth at my local pharmacy, as well as deprived the benevolent makers of Neurontin, Pfizer, of a substantial chunk of the student loans that I am using to pay for this drug when they said I was not eligible for their patient assistance program because Medicaid pays for my other prescriptions, though not this one. (May they choke on their overperforming stock dividends that allowed them to give our beloved president over $1 million this year.)

[Okay, rant over -- though I think Pfizer may replace Ken Lay in our punishment game...more about that tomorrow.]

My pain level started dropping last night and it stayed low today. This morning (or, um, this afternoon rather) I was thinking about being over my honey's knee when I woke up.

And now, I'm going to go to bed and think about it some more. :D

AAARRGH!

George Bush has been re-elected AND I have no desire to be spanked.

Is this the end of civilization as we know it??

Hopefully this kidney issue gets sorted out soon (I'm back on antibiotics and have a referral to a urologist) because my boyfriend is coming in 25 days and I suspect my stars and stripes knickers are going to get quite a work out after what happened on Tuesday.

I'll post more on my stars and stripes knickers later. ;)

Story: Spanked by Mr. Schneider

Yay! I just found out that this little story I wrote for the soc.sexuality.spanking Short Story Contest this summer won 2nd place. (Bouncing in my seat with glee, especially after reading the comments on my story [you have to scroll down past the story to read them].)

However, a warning. It's not a fun spanking story and certainly not intended to be erotic. Like most spankos, my spanking fantasies started at an early age and I daydreamed about teachers spanking me. What inspired me to write this story was wondering what I would have actually felt if I had actually been spanked by one of my teachers.

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

Spanked by Mr. Schneider [M/f, child 500 words]

I always used to think about it. Getting spanked by Mr. Schneider.

It started when we were reading To Kill A Mockingbird in my language
arts class and Hillary Hanson asked what it meant when Scout said
Atticus threatened to "wear us out." Mr. Schneider got a funny grin on
his face.

"That means he's going to whip their hide."

It made me giggle. Especially when he looked at me after he said it.

Made me dream at night that he was my dad, whipping my hide with his belt.

This one day in class my friends, Tim and Cameron, and I were playing
Paper, Rock, Scissor when we were supposed to be working on our
vocabulary worksheets.

"Paper."

I looked up as I slapped my right hand down on my left palm.
Tim and Cameron were turned around in their desks. Mr. Schneider was
scowling at me.

"Melissa, I want to see you after class." I gulped and went back to
figuring out Latin prefixes with a hot/cold tingly feeling.

He closed the door when everyone left. It was lunchtime so there wasn't
another class coming.

"Explain to me why you weren't doing your work." He unbuttoned the
cuffs of his shirt sleeves. Rolled them up to his elbows.

"I dunno." I looked down at the cream linoleum swirling around my desk.

"Not the answer I was looking for, young lady." He unbuckled his belt
and slid it through the loops of his gray slacks. My eyes felt big
inside my head. "Stand up. Pull your jeans and underwear down and bend
over the desk."

I stood up. Looked at him. My bottom lip started wiggling and my eyes
got all teary. But I just stood there. Hoping he'd change his mind and
wouldn't make me do something so embarrassing.

"Do as I asked, please." Forceful, but in the same tone of voice. I
whimpered. Sniffled. Unbuttoned my jeans. "We both know you deserve
this." He had that funny grin again. Made him seem like one of those
guys my mother said lurked in the woods behind our apartments. I bent
over the desk with my naked behind in full view. Hoping to God nobody
walked in at that moment. Praying to God somebody would.

The splat of the belt echoed in the room. And it stung like hell. But
it was when he rubbed my bottom after the first couple of whacks that I
started crying. He hit me a few more times. Then stopped and rubbed
again. More whacks. More rubbing. I think he gave me about twenty
whacks in all. I was really crying by the end.

"Shhh..." He gave me his handkerchief. Pulled me against him. Rubbed my
back and bottom. When I stopped crying, he told me I could go to lunch.

"The State allows me to use corporal punishment. So be a good girl."

With that same grin.

I still think about it. Mr. Schneider spanking me.

But now I just feel icky.



Copyright 2004 Natty

Just Right

Eeks! Two and a half weeks since I posted! That'll be one for the punishment book.

Yeah, I really do have one, or so I've been told. I've not *actually* seen it and frankly, I think my boyfriend has forgotten all about it. (Of course, if he reads this in the next three weeks before he comes, I very well may yet learn of its actual existence.)

Though, he can surprise me sometimes. This last spring when I went to visit him, I was over his lap within an hour of arriving home from the airport. He wanted a good view of the big red knickers I wore as a surprise for him.

They didn't stay up for long, as you can imagine. Soon he was smacking me with his hand, then a brush. Happy, fun smacks. Stingy, but fun. Suddenly (at least it seemed that way to me) the conversation got rather serious. "Now about your writing..." he began (I'm currently writing a decidedly non-kink novel).

I hadn't done any the week before I left. There were a few seconds here and there in all the rush to get papers graded during Finals Week and packing and appointments and such when I did think about how I hadn't sent him my required 250 words/4 days a week. In those 2-3 seconds of thought I would think, "hmm, odd. He hasn't said anything." But that's about as far as that line of thought went.

Until I was over his lap.

"Now, why didn't you send me anything last week?" Calm and curious.

I mumbled something about being really busy with all of the things I just mentioned above.

"Fair enough. But, why didn't you talk to me about it? I mean, at least an email would have been nice."

I gulped. That was true. I could have been polite enough to have sent an email at the very least.

"I guess I just figured you assumed I wasn't able to with all the other stuff."

"Right," he said. "Well, I was waiting to see if you were going to say anything. I mean if we're going to take this discipline seriously -- "

"-- Oh, I do."

That's when I felt really bad. That I had ever let him think I didn't.

"So, how long have you known that you were in trouble?" he said after a minute or so of silence.

"About...two minutes."

"Really?"

"Yeah," I said. "I mean, I guess I figured since you hadn't said anything, it was okay."

"Ah, so you were waiting for *me* to say something. And would be disappointed if I hadn't."

I laughed.

"Well, I don't know that I'd be THAT disappointed."

Though, he was right. I probably would have been. At least a little bit.

"Do you remember what happened the last time you didn't do your writing?" He smacked my bottom lightly.

That whole summer before I left to visit in the Fall I had completely blown it off. A couple of weeks after I got there, I got a severe spanking over his lap with the hairbrush and then got spanked on the back and front of my thighs with a wooden spoon. It hurt like freaking hell.

"Do you agree that you deserve that again?"

I wasn't sure. On the one hand, I'd only blown it off for a week, not two months and I had a pretty good excuse for not getting it done. On the other hand, I really felt guilty about being rude and not saying anything and making him think I wasn't taking our disciplinary arrangement seriously.

However, I was exhausted from the 10 hour flight plus the multiple hour drives to and from the airports.

"Maybe, but I'm really too tired to handle that today."

"Fair enough." He smacked me lightly with the hairbrush. "But I am going to spank you with the hairbrush."

"Okay." I nodded. Buried my face into the arm of the sofa. He gave me several sharp spanks with the brush.

"An apology would be nice."

D'oh! Why didn't I think to do that?

I turned to face him (well, as best as I could considering my position).

"I'm sorry." Though the words felt completely inadequate.

"Thank you."

He didn't spank me as hard or as long as I thought he was going to. It was sorta just right. Sorta only because a small part of me wished it would have gone on a little longer so that I might have cried. But only a small part of me. The rest was relieved as hell. :)

And definitely just right in that it made me feel safe on so many levels.

The Spanking Appointment

One of the things that has irritated me about being sick and in so much pain the last few months has been that I haven't really been able to enjoy the memory of past spankings, which is often one of the funnest parts of being spanked.

Good news today is that I can remember this event that I wrote about in my journal at the time without immediately tensing up and getting that slightly sick feeling. :)

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

March 30, 2004

I got so thrashed last night.

We’ve been doing these “spanking appointments” and yesterday it was announced that I was to report to the bedroom for a spanking at 6 pm. It always gives me butterflies in my tummy – the good kind.

About 4ish, we decided on a whim to play a game of poker, which of course, we turned into spanking poker, especially as he’s still teaching me how to play and it seems to be a good pedagogical tool. I won the first game, lost the second, won the third, lost the fourth, and then held him off for an hour before finally losing the last. Indeed, it went on for so long he had to change the appointment to 7.

As I stood to drop my trousers for my third spanking, this time 12 strokes with the wooden spoon as, appropriately enough, chosen by the cards, he smiled. “Mmmm…Michelle’s bottom…I get to see it again after sooo long.” I love how he makes me feel sexy. “You know,” I said. “I think I should get less strokes since I played so well.” He put his arms around me and kissed my head. “True. If the world were fair.” I still got 12 strokes.

When the appointed time arrived, he came to the bedroom to find me in the requested panties and bra, bent over the chair as instructed. “This is going to be a severe spanking as you’ve already had a warm-up,” he explained. He had the riding crop in his hand, his favorite new toy he picked up in a charity shop the week before I arrived. (Most of his implements are from charity shops. The British donate the perviest stuff.) I cringed. “This will help prepare you for the Flogging Room day.” A Victorian period scene we’re planning to do not long before I leave at the end of April. “It will only end when you say the words ‘mercy, please.’” I nodded. “What do you need to say for the spanking to end?” “Mercy, please,” I mumbled.

The riding crop came down with full force on my backside. I yelped. By the fourth stroke, I felt nauseous and almost said the words. But I couldn’t wuss out after only four strokes. And my pride was still smarting from losing that last poker game. I dug my fingers into the floor. Buried my face into the pillow underneath me on the seat of the chair. Soon the strokes were landing on my thighs. He patted the crop on one thigh, then seared my flesh. Stepped to the other side and did the same thing.

Just say the damn words, I told myself. But my pride and curiosity about just how far could I go left me mute.

And so the strokes kept coming. Some in the middle of my ass. Some on the side, which would make me almost jump up from the chair. Some in rapid succession. Some with a second or two in between to catch my breath. When he tapped my thighs, the words would form in my mouth but simply linger along my tongue, despite the tears forming in my eyes as the crop bit into my legs. I’ve never had to use a safe word before because a spanking was too hard. I wanted to keep it that way.

“We’re almost done.” He rubbed his hand along my back. “Almost.” I pursed my lips together. I just had to hold out a bit longer. Several more center strokes. Side strokes. Thigh strokes. Then he put the crop in the corner. “Okay. We’re done.”

It took me a moment to gather my strength to stand up. I was shaking and breathing heavy, convulsive breaths. As I came upright, he drew me against his chest. “My brave, brave girl.” I sniffled and clutched him. “You are one tough cookie.” He kissed my head. “And stubborn. Very stubborn.” I chuckled a little and sniffled some more. Still shaking, still breathing hard.

“You better lay down on the bed.” He rubbed arnica gel on my ass as I laid there wiping my eyes, telling myself that it was over now. The shaking slowly subsided as he skated ice cubes along my throbbing cheeks and thighs. “Now these are the kinds of marks you don’t see in those pictures online.” That made me smile a little. Then he laid down next to me. “Alright. Big cuddle.” And as he held me, I really cried. From relief that it was over. With left over tears from the sadness I wrote about earlier that day. Grateful that he was there to hold me. “You won that one,” he said. I grinned.

Like sugar

It's been a rough summer.

Within a month of returning from visiting my boyfriend in the Land of Spanking (aka England) and attending a conference in Jerusalem, I came down with a respiratory virus. No big deal except that when I get a fever, it's like having needles jabbing me all over -- constantly. It's one of the ways my brain doesn't quite process sensory input correctly, the result of a disorder called Fibromyalgia.

Two weeks after the virus ended, I was in the emergency room with severe back pain and a fever of 104. I had apparently developed a urinary tract infection that had backed up into my kidneys. A few weeks later, the pain in my right foot had reached a level that I sought out a podiatrist, who said I had developed soft tissue damage as a result of spraining my ankle while I was in England three months earlier. After suffering another two weeks while my insurance sorted out whether or not it would pay for it, I was put into a cast boot, which then aggravated my low back, which in turn, kinked out my cervical vertebrae.

Just as that was finally calming down, I started having severe pain in the small of my back. Thinking it was related to the earlier low back pain resulting from my weak foot, I kept trying to do my yoga and pilates to strengthen and relax the muscles. My rhuematologist sent me to have an MRI, which came back normal aside from minor arthritis. For three weeks, whenever I turned over in bed, walked more than a few steps, sat at my desk or tried to get out of the bathtub, I would have intense, throbbing pain. Eventually I again showed up at the ER, with only a low-grade fever this time thanks to all the Vicodin I had been taking, and again was diagnosed with a urinary tract infection that had backed up into my kidneys (before June, I'd never even had one). Why I can't just get normal UTI symptoms is beyond me. But, yeah, note to self: if I have back pain that lasts more than a week, get checked for a UTI. Oh and just to make life extra fun, I had also developed a bit of bursitis in my right hip because of the cast boot and weak foot.

For the first time since I was a kid, I'm afraid of being spanked.

On an abstract level, it still has some appeal. When my boyfriend made a comment the other night about being strict, it gave me that familiar tingle. But when I start to think of actually getting one or remember past spankings, my whole body tenses up and there's a sharp feeling in that spot where the sternum and the stomach meet.

Now, I know that will change as all the Substance P that's been flooding my brain and spinal fluid returns to more managable levels (though for people with Fibromyalgia, this neurotransmitter for pain is often three times the normal level found in the spinal fluid of healthy controls). Yet, I've found myself feeling quite sad about it. Like seeing an empty chair at the family dinner table.

It dawned on me today that what has been really bothering me is that I'm afraid of losing spanking.

After surgery six years ago, I developed Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome (CFIDS -- also known as Myalgic Encephalomeylitis or ME outside of the US) in addition to Fibromyalgia, and since then I've lost my teaching job, my academic career (though in the long run, that may not be a bad thing), a lot of my hobbies like hiking or gardening or cantoring at church, hanging out with my friends or playing with my nieces and nephew. In addition to being lactose intolerant, I'm now soy intolerant, as well as sensitive to insoluble fiber, acidic foods, yeast, sugar substitutes/alcohols like aspartame, Splenda or sorbitol,and most preservatives and additives. Spanking is one of the few things that allows me to feel strong again.

However, the more I read about how the brain processes pain, particularly in the case of Fibromyalgia, the more it appears that the brain becomes increasingly dysfunctional the more it is forced to process pain. Robert Bennett, a professor of medicine just up the road from me at Oregon Health Science University, explains that Fibromyalgia is "a disorder in which the central nervous system amplifies pain sensations ('central sensitization') due to a complex interplay between genetic predisposition, the cumulative burden of painful insults ('perpheral pain generators) and a dysregulation of the normal response to stressors."

I often use the analogy of having a radio on that plays 80s acid rock. The radio is always on for me, but at a level where I can try and ignore it. I can't (for the most part) turn it off so I go on as best I can, though it does make sleeping or concentrating a challenge.

This summer it's been turned up almost full blast for all but about three weeks or so. It's gone back to just below half way down the dial since starting the antibiotics last week. But it's like my ears are still hearing it. And I feel exhausted. Like I've been run over by a truck or beaten up with a baseball bat.

It's made me wonder if purposefully having someone turn the dial up is a wise thing to do. Wonder about the irony of having a disorder which amplifies pain AND having a spanking kink. Particularly considering that I'm often told I seem to have a high pain threshold (at least when it comes to spanking) when actually it's the exact opposite.

Does that mean I'm an even bigger pain slut than I thought? ;)

Not that it's really an issue at the moment. My boyfriend lives in the UK and I in Portland, Oregon, and I suspect by the time we get together again, I'll be practically begging to go over his knee.

But maybe the really hard ones will be like sugar or alcohol -- something I can have once in a while but in limited amounts. Making them all the sweeter.

And maybe, since I feel pain more intensely, spanking is something I feel more intsensely as well.

And just maybe, for once, I can feel lucky to have Fibromyalgia.