The tops of my thighs are quite stingy at the moment. Especially with my sweats rubbing against them. Or rather, with my sweats rubbing against my pajama bottoms rubbing against them.
Wooden spoons really are evil. As are drafty apartments.
Actually, it wasn’t as bad as I was expecting. I got sixteen on my bottom with the wooden spoon for staying up Saturday night when I was supposed to be in bed. Then ten more for forgetting to do my asthma inhaler last night (it’s a preventative thing we added to the discipline regime because I kept forgetting). Except, I’m not sure if it was ten or twenty. It was supposed to be five on each cheek but A. says it sounded like I did ten on each cheek.
"But it also sounded like you started counting at eleven," he said. Oh the mystery…
I dunno. The whole thing was a bit of a blur. See, I think if I have to do the actual hitting, I shouldn’t have to count. I mean, counting, hitting, processing the pain — it’s too much I tell you!
"I think you so wanted to be spanked," he teased.
Nuh uh. Not like that. ::pout::
At any rate, he made me finish with three on each thigh – the tops of my thighs. And they were cold (gawd I need to get insulating curtains or something!). But, all in all, I can’t really complain. Indeed, I think he was in a fairly merciful mood tonight.
Well, except the whole wooden spoon thing.