Monthly Archives: April 2006

Just Splenda

Just great.  No really.

So this morning I was sipping my coffee (trust me, the day doesn’t start for me until I get my caffine fix) and teasing Pab a bit to see if we were going to get to do anything fun today or if he had to work.  He’d just told me that we’d go for a bit of a wander, but I needed to let him finish something he was doing.

I left the room with some sort of comment.  Probably very clever and funny (though of course I can’t remember it) and got a small, shivery threat as my reward. 

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Telling Truths & Telling Tales

I feel odd writing this because it’s something I want to discuss (hence
the whole writing thing) and yet don’t want to be pointing fingers or
telling tales at someone else’s expense.

So here’s my attempt to have it both ways.

In the past couple weeks it’s come to light that a popular blogger who
wrote about spanking, her marriage and domestic discipline / punishment
over the past several years has basically been creating an elaborate
fiction.  Though I didn’t read her very often (and therefore the site
wasn’t linked from the Punishment Book) I’m on another list with some
people who were very regular readers and feel upset / betrayed and all
sorts of other negative feelings.

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FAQ Question 2: So How Can I Make My…

…[husband / wife / boyfriend / girlfriend / partner] decide to [discipline / spank / punish] me?

I’m not sure about the other women posting here, but I get emailed this question a lot.  We’ve gotten a couple people asking this recently either on this site or by email.  Haron answered it a bit here, writing:

…it’s impossible to give advice without knowing more about you, your
boyfriend, his preferences and your own. Is he even into spanking, or
is he doing it to humour you?

On the whole, it’s been my experience that the only way to "get"
somebody to do anything is to discuss it with them, endlessly and
painstakingly. To explain why it’s important to you, and how it would
make you happier, and what attracts you about it. I’m not in favour of
pestering, but unless you communicate your desires clearly, he won’t
start punishing you out of the blue.

If you *have* talked about it, and he still won’t do it – well. It’s a different story.

This is a great answer to this question.  I’m going to write a bit more because, well, why not?

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Paddled For Working Too Hard

"What happened to your morning break?" asked Abel, standing over me.

I blinked at him. I was going through one of my productive spells, typing away, as though the whole thesis had always been a breeze. A morning break? I wasn’t aware it was time to have one, no more than I could tell what time it was, or what day it was, or for how long I’d been typing.

Sometimes I go through dry spells in my work, where I stare at the screen for hours, studying every fleck of dust, waiting for the moment it’s finally time to make coffee, or an excuse to forget about the whole thing altogether. And then there are times when I sink my teeth into a piece of work, and not let go until it goes so dark that I can’t see my longhand notes. For some reason, Abel isn’t happy about either of these methods of research: he has drawn up a timetable for me, which includes breaks.

I love breaks. Really. But sometimes breaking up is a nuissance, and up until that morning last week I’d thought it was optional, too.

"The break? Uhm. I forgot about it," I said. I mean, I was working. The text was adding up. That was good. Right?

Not if you’re Abel.

"Upstairs," he said.

"Wha… Why?" I’d never been in trouble for working too much. This was too weird for words, and I even pinched myself on the thigh, to check whether I was having one of my frequent spanking dreams.

"You’ve been given a timetable," lectured my husband, pushing me up the stairs with a palm between my shoulder blades. "It’s there to be observed."

Well, yes, but wasn’t it there to keep me chained to the keyboard, rather than to make sure I’d had enough cups of coffee?

Not according to Abel. In reality – according to Abel’s version of reality – it was there to help me pace myself. To keep me from burning out. To make sure I was still at my desk the next day, instead of being so tired that I head out for lunch with a girlfriend and turn it into afternoon tea, after which I’d get invited to stay for dinner and sleep over.

The timetable was binding, you see, and that included the breaks.

In our bedroom he told me to bend down with my elbows on the bed, and picked up a frat paddle that had stayed there from when we’d last played with it. (Note to self: in future, tidy away implements after playing. Like, immediately.)

"That’s so unfair!" I protested. "I didn’t know I had to take breaks! Hey, put that thing down!" I babbled my protestations. This has been known to get me into further trouble, but Abel must have been feeling generous, or maybe lazy. (Hi, Abel – do you like this entry? Good.)

He gently advised me to shut up, and then swung the paddle back, and landed it on my jean-clad behind with a good crack.

"Oooooh," I said appreciatevely. I didn’t cry it out – this wasn’t a hard enough stroke to yelp – but sort of breathed it, as tingling spread over my cheeks.

"Alright, stand up," said Abel.

And that was it. One swat, and he gave me a hug, and told me to go downstairs and have a break.

I didn’t even have a heart to mumble anything rude, because he’d hardly been too harsh. But now I set up reminders for when I’m due to break for coffee.