Maturity vs. Perversity

He spanks me. Not every day — we have a little one in the house. Spanking, these days, is infrenquent enough that I sometimes lose sight of what it feels like to be over his lap and somewhat helpless. I never completely forget, but I temporarily forget, distracted by the complex details of everyday living. It's not that he doesn't want to spank me, or that he's disenchanted with me, but we have a little girl in the house. She observant, smarter than a whip, and asks questions. She asks a lot of questions. By the time the blossoming interrogator is asleep, both of us are usually too tired for a proper spanking and indulge in the wicked delight of cuddling naked, stroking bare skin, and pretending to be vanilla.

So we drift.

There are punishments. Not often, and usually not serious. I am a good girl. Chris has said that I'm too good, at times. The mistakes are few enough, the circumstances of life trying enough, and he knows I sincerely regret them enough, that he struggles to punish me for them. Ten o'clock at night is a difficult time to start an emotionally and physically difficult experience. Also, I'm really good at distracting him. My mouth can do positively magical things when it comes to distracting him.

Do try to pull your mind from the gutter — mostly frequently, I distract him with conversation or chores. 

So we drift. 

Not badly. Many of the changes, I suspect, come with maturity and an appreciation of the good parts of our lives. Our relationship is unquestionably important to both of us. We take time and care with it and I'm a little obsessive about every word and expression that comes out of him when we are together. (Indeed, sometimes I overanalyze. Just a bit, really.)  He does many nice things for him while I usually depend on the usual methods of organizing the household and providing oral sex to let him know he's important. 

(I got your attention that time, didn't I? Hah!)

Anyway, I think we're less interested in the 'scene' online and as 'players' than we used to be, because we have each other, even though we've had each other for a dozen years now. In fact, I'd say one huge change has been a disenchantment with the spanking and BDSM 'scenes' (read: public communities) as we've come to see some of the seedier and less ethical people who lurk at its center and along the edges. I make mistakes, and there are good, bad, and middling people in every community. However, in the BDSM and related scenes, we are perhaps overly-sensitive and distrustful to folks who say one thing and then behave a different way. So instead of flinging ourselves wholeheartedly into the business of being part of a physical community, we're on a long slide toward engaging primarily with physical friends, virtual friends, and those we think are going to drift into one of those two categories or both of them. (People in my physical world, virtual world, or both, I'm not abandoning you, even if I revert to silence sometimes.)

We share less with the world, if still too much for some of the most conservative of our loved ones. I went nine months without blogging on my personal blog At A Kinky House, and it's not ever really been a sex blog. It's always been a life blog that included sex and kink because my life includes sex and kink.

It's been more than a year since I have written here, too. We've drifted.

This morning, then, while I was settling nicely the spooning position where Chris had organized me, I confessed to something in the back of my head. The ultimate result of this confession was the announcement that I was to be punished.

Let me repeat. I am spanked often, and punished occasionally. I often crave and love spankings. Conversely, I am strongly averse to punishment, even if it undeniably clears my head and my conscience and frees me from guilt. The actual conversation which produced this pronouncement is somewhat irrelevant; my unusual reaction has sparked this blog entry on Punishment Book.

I think we've drifted pretty far, to be bluntly honest. And maybe we've needed to drift. 

Having been punished, even occasionally, I am well aware of the procedure and probable outcome of the evening. It will be at least 9:30 PM before we even attempt such a thing, because earlier than that we risk waking the blossoming interrogator and, well, being interrogated. I'll have showered, and he will tell me what to wear. This might range from a full schoolgirl uniform with Mary Janes and pigtails to nothing but a white t-shirt and socks to a babydoll nightie to nothing at all. 

Just because I'm being punished doesn't mean he shouldn't enjoy it. I'd prefer he get something pleasurable out of it, after all. Punishment is difficult enough, there's no reason to make Chris miserable too. After that, he will probably stand me in front of him and remind me why I'm being punished. In this case, it will likely be a little lecture about having faith and trust, even with the worst two months of the year for me still to come. The lecture will be followed by a round with the hairbrush, because he said this morning that I needed hairbrushing.

He means a hairbrushing with the ebony brush, too. I hate the ebony brush. I will cry, and whine, and whimper, and not be the least bit stoic. Hairbrushing has this effect on me; I am a pathetic mess from the first impact and my responses do not improve. 

Afterwards, he will cradle me close to him and remind me of how much he loves me. It will be nearly bedtime, because it is a work night, and I will fall asleep on his shoulder, maybe with the iPhone in my hand as I read or check e-mail or try to read back through a Twitter feed or two.

I will be safe and loved.

I know all this. I expect all this. I can cope with this, and probably not much more. 

This morning, when Chris announced I was to be punished, however, I didn't have the typical reaction. My stomach didn't clench with nerves, my tongue didn't run off and make any sincere or insincere apologies, my guilt-ridden consciousness did not kick in and intervene. 

No, a wave of lust hit me so hard I nearly rolled over and tackled the man. He was indignant, a little hurt, and all I could think about was a long, involved fantasy spinning out in my mind, a fantasy punishment that would, in the real world, quite possibly break me down emotionally to the point that the lust I felt in that moment did not make any sense at all.

The fantasy starts much the same as the reality, with me presenting myself — clean and dressed to his specifications — to Chris. Doubtless there would be a short lecture, and then I would be hairbrushed. I would not like it. But then fantasy interferes with reality. In reality, I am usually incoherent or at least struggling to breathe through the pain. In this fantasy, he leads me to the corner and tells me to stay there, as he goes about his evening: checking email, chatting with friends, reading, paying bills, preparing for work on Monday, etc. But when he chooses, he pulls me from the corner, arranges me over the end of the bed, and straps me. He then leaves me there, open and with my hands behind my back, by sheer willpower or with assistance. I am left again to cope with the pain and wait, until he returns with yet another implement, and there is the corner to face again. 

In my fantasy, there are at least three rounds of this, perhaps more like five, until I am completely mindless, and I am tucked into bed.

In the early days, I lusted for punishment like this. In the last few years, I wished for time like this — stretches of attention where we are primarily focused on each other and energized about being with each other. Recently, I knew this was the sort of scene that was almost for certain better played out in the recesses of my mind than in real life, and coping with what punishment I do receive has been quite enough.

So why, this morning, did punishment suddenly become a fantasy again?

Boneheaded OR Where is The Punishment Book?

Some of you may be wondering what's happened to The Punishment Book and why all the old links are directing to a porn site.  There's an answer.  I made a dumb mistake and lost the original domain. 

How did I do this, you ask?

Last year I decided to move my domains from GoDaddy to another host registration because, well, there are a lot of reasons to leave GoDaddy.  Among the domains I moved was The Punishment Book (which I've had since 2005 — a long time in the world of blogs).  However, it seems somehow I only moved one of the PB domains (we had the .org and .net both) and the one I moved isn't the .org one, which was the one that was mapped.  

Following so far?

Since I generally register the blogs for two years when I do them, I wasn't even thinking about it expiring this year.  But expire it did, in January, as I found out today.  In addition, the PB has been sadly neglected of late.  Dykegirl emailed the PB authors yesterday to ask what had happened to the site.  I went and discovered the crappy porn redirect I mentioned above.  When I went to check on the domain, I discovered it had a new owner. 

A number of emails and phone calls later and what's become clear is that in January, the day the domain expired, someone else bought it.  They then kept the old domain mapping active until far after the 45 day grace period during which time I could have reclaimed the domain.  Sure they'll sell it back to me for a price — too high a price for a site that doesn't exist to make any sort of money — or s/he gets our old traffic.  I hope they choke on it.

Right now I'm working to move the content, which fortunately hasn't been lost, to the domain punishmentbook.net.  The site will be there by the end of the week. The site is back! Some great people out there have already volunteered to help by changing the links on their sites and I'll be busy doing my part to make the change known.  The new link is punishmentbook.net.

To everyone whose ever written a single comment on or about the PB and most of all to the other PB authors, both current and former, I'm sorry this happened. I'll make up for it the only way I know how, by writing more and encouraging others to write too.     

The potch

About a year ago, W instituted what we call the "potch." It's a Yiddish word that means, basically, a small smack. In our world, it means a few smacks that I get every night at bedtime. It can be as few as one, delivered just to stay in the routine, or a few dozen. It's not a major spanking, and I rarely feel it for more than a few minutes afterward.

And the thing is, even though I thought I would need more than that–even though, perhaps at some times, I do need more than that–it works. It seems meaningless, and in the beginning, there was often a temptation to skip it, because, really, what difference would a few smacks on my bottom make in our dynamic?

But on nights when it's not wise or practical to do the potch (for instance, if my mother-in-law is visiting), our dynamic begins to get out of sync. (Mind you, that could also be due to the stress of having my mother-in-law visiting… but it also happens if we skip for other reasons.)

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Something Good

One day there was a terrible, no good, very bad day. Very bad day. Let me repeat: very bad day.

Near the end of this no-good day, I drove more than usual, sat in fucking traffic more than usual, got home late, banged my knee hard. Had to clean the back seat of the car to hopefully remove the overpowering scent of apricot dragonfruit sweet Lifewater spilled during aforementioned traffic. I was perhaps a bit too dramatic with a small one who rarely gets in trouble and made a smelly, thoughtless mistake, and I felt guilty because I never want her to be in trouble – not even when she honestly should be.

You know what? It all sucked.

And then Chris pulled out the hamburger to make us dinner on the grill and it was rotten.

I mean, it's not a big deal, right? Make something else. Except (to be honest) I need to go to the grocery. We didn't have any other fresh meat. Frustrated, he asked me to not buy hamburger in the way the makes it affordable to have fresh meat in the house. It was too damn much.

It wasn't a big deal. It was a pound and a half of hamburger.

I cried.

I walked away to cry by myself. To be alone. To cry.

Chris, bless his heart, followed me into the bedroom, shut the door, and told me to calm down.

Calm down. Honestly, I was being calm. I was fighting to stay calm. I was crying while I folded laundry, by myself, my lips compressed tightly together. And he walked in and told me I needed to calm down.

How calm did he want me to be? I nearly lost it and said everything horrible thing about myself and him that might possibly every be true but isn't. I stood there and held it inside. And he grabbed my wrist and pulled me over his lap.

I asked him what he thought he was doing, even as I cried. We both knew the princess was awake and aware.  And already upset because I scolded and lectured and fussed and metaphorically stomped my feet. He pulled down my yoga pants and smacked my behind.

Not hard. Not loud. Just enough to make me want him to do it like he wanted to touch me, instead of smack me. He lectured. He offered his opinion. I cried some more, mostly because he was telling me I was overreacting. I tried not to get angry, tried not to say more than I absolutely had to say. I just cried and stayed where he put me and wished he was comforting instead of smacking and wishing that something good would happen.

Something good was happening, only we were both too hungry to see it. I was too upset to see it, and he was too tired of my horrible no-good very bad day to see it.

So I said something I shouldn't have. He went out to get dinner to feed us. I cried some more.

Last night, Chris forced innumerable orgasms on me (all right, not innumerable… but ten. I felt like I was dying.) and then fucked me. I loved every second he touched me and wanted more – without the orgasms – of the contact. But the rich pleasure wasn't the same as those few minutes I laid across his thigh and cried into the duvet.

I want the something good to come back.

Resistance

I've been quiet for quite a while. Some of this is because life has gotten in the way. My health hasn't been great (although I've been happy to discover that part of the problem was anemia, and that's eased up by finding a better iron supplement), and there have been big non-disciplinary changes in my and W's lives.

But more than that, it's because discipline hasn't been happening, or has been happening in frustrating ways, or has been complicated in ways that I haven't been able to put into words. I've spent a lot of the past two years or so feeling rather inarticulate about many things.

I'm still rather inarticulate, but I've decided I'll go ahead and try to write something, because it's entirely possible that I will find words once I start writing.

W and I have been on hiatus with discipline off and on for nearly two years now. Contrary to my disciplinary fantasies, W does not take easily to being in charge. She struggles with it, and many of her own physical and mental health issues were getting in the way. On top of that, she didn't seem to be entirely clear about benefitting from this arrangement on her own behalf, and that was building up a lot of resentment for both of us. So, not quite two years ago, I asked to take a break until she was ready to be the one to re-initiate.

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Dreams of Spanking: Congratulations Pandora, Haron and Zille

dreams-of-spanking1Hello and happy holidays.  It’s been a busy year for lots of reasons and sadly this blog has suffered neglect.  2012 will be better, I promise, but I’m thankful that you still come and see us.  All of us have experienced a lot of changes over the seven years the PB has been up.  Some we’ve shared here, others we haven’t. But we’ve never stopped caring about TTWD, each other or the many wonderful men and women who read here and care about the topic.
dreams-of-spanking2But enough about that, on to the reason for this blog post. Over the past two years I’ve been following Pandora Blake’s quest to create a spanking film and photo site quite closely.  Today that site, Dreams of Spanking, went live. There’s lots of wonderful content and I like it for reasons I discuss on my blog, but my main reason for mentioning it here is that two of the Punishment Book’s writers, Zille (in Caned in Jodhpurs) and Haron AKA Adele Haze (topping her lovely partner Jimmy in Her Ladyship’s Breakfast) have filmed and worked on the site. I’ve put a couple of my favorite stills (with permission) up, but you should go and look at the site.

But most of all, congratulations to Pandora, Haron and Zille.  I’ve always known you dream of spanking, but it’s wonderful to get to see what those dreams are.

Loving Our Lurkers

love-our-lurkersHow do we love our Lurkers? Let me count the ways.

sparkle loves her lurkers enough to keep writing even if they keep lurking.

Zille loves you enough to search porn sites for spanking content.

Haron goes to munches to meet you.

Dyke Grrl set up and runs This Thing We Do.

Bridget shows you how she looks dressed as a scarf.

Angie shares her life, the light and the dark.

Natty and Iris come out and play whenever they can.

And me, Mija wants to know your favorite song.

Welcome to Love Our Lurkers Day 2011!  And many thanks to the amazing Bonnie for her fantastic feats of organization.

 

Caned Again (Again)

[This blog post has been written twice. The first draft got eaten by TypePad (boo!). I thought maybe this was a sign that this story wasn't meant to be shared, but Zille and Paul convinced me that if I didn't share the story here, pictures of my bottom and its cane marks could end up on Twitter. Since the last thing I want to do is show my bottom to the world for being caned for not going to the gym enough, and thus prove why I need to go to the gym more often, I'm busy re-typing this on the bus.]

As those of you who read here and / or Spanking Blog know, I've asked Paul to help me make better use of my gym membership by giving me 49 strokes of the cane, that's one for every dollar my membership costs, any week I don't make it to the gym at least three times. Paul gets to pick everything about the caning except the number of strokes. He can choose the cane he wants, what I wear and what position I'm caned in. This week I only went to the gym once. My reckoning was last night (Sunday).

Now I wasn't entirely sure I would really get caned for missing the gym this week. I had some very good excuses. First, my gym isn't air conditioned and last week it was very hot several days. So I didn't go to the gym for fear of getting over-heated. Then my mother showed up with all her loveliness and drama. I spent one whole day running errands with her. So I didn't go to the gym that day either. Saturday was taken up with a family party. I couldn't go to the gym Saturday. And Sunday I had to go out to brunch with a friend of my parents. And then I had to come home and get my writing sample ready. I couldn't go to the gym on Sunday. Suddenly all the days were gone and a week had past with only one gym trip. But of course Paul would understand.

He understood and even agreed I had very good reasons for not having gone to the gym. But that didn't matter. I hadn't gone and I'd asked him to punish me, to cane me, if I didn't go. I think if he had made the rule, he might have let me off this week. Maybe not. But because I asked for this and didn't say "except for weeks when it's really hot or I'm really busy" he followed through. And that's right. My gym opens at 5:30 AM and is open until 11:00 PM. We make time for things that are important and getting good use out of my gym membership and spending some time on my body is important. Truth be told, for all that my excuses are good, I could have gone.

Paul let me know yesterday afternoon that I was going to be caned. I struggled a bit with the knowledge. I was in the midst of wrestling with the text of my writing sample and couldn't quite make room in my head for the idea of being caned. So I buried myself in my work and didn't think about it. Even as evening progressed (with me still working away) I was in denial. You see, not only is my dad with us this week, my mom is here as well. They sleep in the bedroom next to ours. And unlike my dad, my mom is a light sleeper.

When I came out of the bathroom after doing all those evening things, the nursery cane was at the end of the bed. He was going to go through with it.

I thought about calling safeword on the caning. I mean, my mom.

But the thing is, part of me didn't want to. I want to be held accountable. I asked for this. So I cowardly tried to slide into bed with the vague hope that if I fell asleep fast (all that writing and editing had made me tired) Paul wouldn't cane me. After all, he's always trying to get me to sleep. He sternly told me not to get into bed.

So I took a deep breath and stood next to the bed, after closing the door, and, rather sadly, pushing my bed stool up against it. I hoped that like last week, this week he'd be using the cane over the knee (thats' what the nursery cane, which is short and thin, is made for). Sure enough, he sat down on the bed and had me pull down my pjs. I took them down and climbed over his lap. He spent a good amount of time adjusting my position, turning the top of my body closer to the head of the bed and my bottom further down his leg. What he was doing wasn't clear to me until the first stroke landed.

He was giving himself more room to swing so the tip of the cane would land harder.

The first stroke landed like a cut. The thing is, the nursery cane is very very thin and really really stings. That was true last week, but from the start it was clear this caning was a lot harder than the one the week before before. But, my brain cried, as I considered screaming, my parents are in the next room. So I pulled my hands forward (my arms had been folded behind my back) and started counting off the strokes on my right fingers, one at a time, while on my left I kept track in groups of twelve.

The thing about the thin cane is that it really stings. When Paul used it on me it felt more like a switch than a cane. By the time he reached twelve I could feel the tip marks crossing. The sting was terrible and I fought with myself to lie still. Paul will probably say I wasn't still, but I'm sure I mostly was. As I counted each one off it seemed an impossible number was left. When he reached twenty-four I started to panic and tears welled up in my eyes. I tried to keep my breathing slow and even because I knew if I started crying I might make noise. And making noise, being heard by my parents seemed much worse than even the hurt the cane was doing.

Strange as it may seem, at thirty-six I felt a sense of relief because it meant there were only twelve left. However much they might hurt, I could get through twelve more. Paul sped up and the strokes landed harder still and faster, making me gasp into the sheets. My feet fluttered as I tried hard not to kick. After quite a build-up of pain, it ended in a rush — an almost "is that all there is?" moment. Then the burn started to soak in.

Paul kept me over his lap as he rubbed some LUSH dream cream into my bottom. It stings, but in a soothing sort of way. It hurt enough that I teared a bit as we snuggled close but I expected all signs to be gone by morning. This is so not the case. Almost 24 hours later and I'm still sitting tenderly, the right side of my bottom is still hot to the touch. Yes, this is me pouting a bit.

But not too much. I did, after all, ask for this. And I'm sure this week I will make it to the gym at least three times. Why am I sure? First because I want to. Second because my bottom really hurts. And third, my parents will not be here next weekend. Paul has let it be known that should he have to cane me next week, I won't be getting off with the nursery cane.

I'm going to be such a good girl. No, really.

Discipline & Punishment: Hello Again

The Punishment Book has been sleeping for a bit. I think this is inevitable — we're all busy with lives and individual blogs. Some of us who are doing discipline and punishment may not want to write about it at the moment. Or maybe feel it's a story we've already told. At the same time, this blog, which was one of the only DD / disipline or WIIWD blogs 7 years ago is now one of many. 

But I thought I might tell you what's been up with me.  As those of you who read my own blog know, I finally finished my Ph.D. — which means I lost my job. Paul and I are oddly in the position, for the first time in our relationship where I have to depend on him financially for everything. To put it mildly, this sucks (although he's been lovely about it).  I start a new part time job in January so hopefully I'm not going to get to used to it.

Meanwhile, not having money of my own has made me very aware of all my expenses. I don't waste money generally, but I have been making coffee and lunch at home a lot more often. I also have had to face the fact that I have been wasting money for months in one specific area.  My gym fees are $49 a month and I haven't been using it. I considered dropping the membership but the thing is I really do need to exercise more — a yoga DVD here and there and walking isn't really cutting it. Plus, when I go, I enjoy my gym. So I asked Paul to give me 45 strokes of the cane any week I don't go to the gym at least three times. 

How did the first week go? I got 49 strokes of the small cane (with my dad sleeping in the next room — yuck!) on Sunday night. Monday I went to the gym.  This week is already going better. 

Oh and for those of you still reading… hello again.  

H8 – Keep ‘Em Out of Sight

h8[I wrote this for my blog but I’m reposting it here because the discrimination against M/M spanking in the spanking scene is a total kink in my kink as Natty would say.  It makes me feel bad about myself and being part of this scene.  It’s a face of homophobia, something I don’t tolerate in any part of my life and I’m done tolerating in the spanking scene.  Be warned.]

As many of you know, I’m not exactly white. I’m Mexican American or as I prefer to call myself, Chicana. My father and my grandparents were born here in Los Angeles, but my great-grandparents came up from Zacatecas, Mexico.  I grew up in Los Angeles where having a white mother didn’t make me anything but Mexican.  That said, I didn’t experience too much discrimination.  My parents were very careful, protecting my sister, brother and me from the hate and fear that my father’s face and skin color could evoke.  Still, up through the 1980s, they had a hard time moving into white neighborhoods.  Realtors refused to show them homes, tried to steer them to the browner parts of town.  And this was with my mother being white.

My uncle’s family experienced all that and much more. My cousins don’t have a white mother to temper their skin tone and that color’s effect on the neighborhood.  When they moved into a white part of town, a “welcome wagon” met them with a chicken casserole and a request that they keep their children in the backyard for fear the sight of these brown children would lower property values.

So what you say?  Sad, but these are different times, right?

I say wrong and I’m calling our spanking community out on it. What groups like Crimson Moon and Ms. Margaret’s SCONY are doing by not allowing M/M spanking in their groups, what SpankingTube is doing by not having M/M searches come up in their general search is the same damn thing as racial redlining was in a previous generation.  It maybe legally right, but it’s ethically reprehensible.

But, but, some people don’t like M/M spanking.  So what?  I don’t like oral sex.  I don’t ask that it be banned or shunted off into a corner so I don’t have to stumble upon it.  I just avert my gaze and look at something I do like.  For those of you who think you can’t learn to stomach M/M spanking, I urge you to free your mind and grow the fuck up.   If your arousal is so fragile that the sight or suggestion of M/M spanking can take it down, you may need some medical help.  Not everything in the scene has to exist specifically to get you off.

But, but, you agree with me.  Really. You wish these spanking groups or SpankingTube didn’t discriminate.  Then live your beliefs.  Don’t patronize them.   Don’t use their sites.  Don’t go to their parties.  And let them know why you’re not.  That you’d like to, but because of their policy toward M/M spanking in our scene, you can’t.  Then go places like Shadow Lane and SF-CP that are open to everyone whatever their orientation.

But, but, Mija, you’re ranting.

Yes. Yes I am.  Don’t hate. You know you don’t want to.  And don’t support people who can and do.

ADDED: For more information on what SpankingTube is doing and why it sucks see this post by PaulThe Problem with SpankingTube.com

For a less rant-y take on M/M spanking see this post by IndyHomophobia in the Scene.

 

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PS. What did my uncle do? He had his twin brother move in next door with his family.  And then two put up a basketball hoop so all the kids played outside in the street, property values be damned.