So, on my personal blog I told the scary tale of bad bad buggery that made me very sick for a few weeks. For the first couple of those weeks I was too sick to do anything remotely naughty. But after awhile, I found myself feeling very cranky. My inner ten-year old had had just about enough of the whole staying in bed thing. Trouble was, I still wasn’t healthy enough to really get out of bed much. Which just made me crankier, and yet, really wanting a spanking.
Most of you are familiar with that feeling of being annoyed by just about everything and wanting to bitch about it all (and maybe even doing so) but when all is said and done, you’d really rather just get a nice, long spanking — though you’d probably be irritated if it was offered (or told that’s what you were getting).
I was feeling that big time.
I tried to give out a few hints to A. like laying on my belly on the bed coloring (something generally viewed as an invitation to smack my very available backside). Or wearing my hair in pig tails.
However, A. seemed a bit distracted with work. And it’s true that he had been doing a lot of care taking of me over the last month and a half, as well as doing all the cooking and washing up. Being a disciplinarian would be just one more care taking task. Besides, who wants to hurt the person you love when you’ve been watching her suffer?
It meant it was time for me to be blunt.
Actually, it was more like I accidentally started rambling on to A. one night while he was rubbing some ointment onto my upper back and shoulders that I had been in my Natty mood lately. Before I knew it, I was spilling the beans about how I needed to get back to going to bed on time, and that I was feeling ornery a lot of the time. Even — what was I thinking? — that he probably needed to make me stand in the corner.
The next afternoon I was laying on the bed again coloring in my sullen mood. A. was, again, working in the kitchen. But then he came into the living/bedroom and exclaimed, “Right, you’re getting spanked tonight.”
It’s funny how you can have simultaneous conflicting emotions. I immediately felt both relief (it’s about fucking time already!) and irritation (whatever!…::eye roll::). Except then it turned into frustrating annoyance about something else.
“Um, I can’t have any marks because I’m seeing the rheumatologist tomorrow.”
Oh shit, shit, shit!
“Is it just because you don’t want to be embarrassed?” A. asked as he sat down in the wingback chair across from the bed. It was in that no nonsense sort of tone that usually puts me into a very respectful, submissive frame of mind. Usually.
“No, it’s because we’re going to be talking about my sacral-hip-pelvic pain, and if she sees a bunch of bruises on me she might not give me the cortisone shot I want,” I almost (okay, probably) snapped back.
“Are you sure she’s even going to see them?”
“Dr. V. always makes me dress down into a gown. She’s the one doctor who does.”
“Alright, then, no marks.” He stood up. “I do want you in your school uniform.”
“I don’t really have much of a libido,” I (definitely this time) snapped back. I think I even gave him The Look.
“Oh, this isn’t going to be that kind of a spanking (he normally gets very handsy when I’m in my uniform). I want you in your uniform to instill a sense of discipline.”
I gulped, even as I think I rolled my eyes and groaned a bit to myself as getting dressed up takes a lot of energy. Indeed, I didn’t even get right up to do as I was told but kept on coloring (hey, I wanted to finish the page). A. then warned me that I had better be in my uniform by the time he got done taking a bath. I colored faster.
My uniform is on some level not really all that authentic as it’s a hobbled-together collection of an old wool navy blazer of mine, a thin cotton black pleated skirt from Torrid, and a Lands End white broadcloth blouse. But two parts of the uniform are VERY authentic: the school badge and the tie. Both were part of A.’s uniform when he was a school lad. There’s even a little tag with his last name sewn onto the back of the tie (A. admits there is a very slight possibility that this particular tie might have belonged to his sister rather than him). The picture to the left is of the tie but not the badge as it identifies his school.
I had just slipped into my shoes (with frilly little girl anklets rather than knee-high socks as we’ve never settled on mandatory stockings and I couldn’t be bothered to hunt for my knee-highs) and was trying desperately to tie the tie when A. came out of the bathroom, also dressed up in his nice new khakis and red button down shirt (his “handsome shirt,” as I like to call it because the coloring is so perfect on him). As I got more and more exasperated with trying to get that damn tie tied, A. finally came over to lend me a hand.
“The greatest travesty of the American school system — none of you can tie a tie decently!” he said as he towered over me and pulled the tie under and over and down into a nice neat knot. I don’t think there is anything else that makes me feel more child-like than when A. stands hunching down over me to tie my tie (it’s not so much that he’s that tall at 5’11 as I’m that short at 5′).
“Right, I think you need to stand in the corner.” He actually said it almost timidly, which I’ve never heard him be timid when it comes to discipline. But even as I was cursing myself for my big mouth the night before, I did as I was told and went to stand in the corner by the door.
A. left to go smoke and as I knew he couldn’t see me from the balcony, especially as the curtain was closed, I snuck out and opened the bathroom door (which is, handily enough, right next to that corner) to catch a peak at me in my uniform in the mirror. I’ve only been in the whole ensemble a few times for play, but usually there was something slightly wrong with it – there were faux pockets on the skirt, or the tie wasn’t completely tied, or the badge wasn’t yet sewn on, etc. This time it was flawless, and I couldn’t help but smile at just how cool I looked. But only for a few seconds. Didn’t want to push my luck.
As I stood there congratulating myself for having gotten away with shirking a few seconds of my corner time, I could hear A. come back in and rumble around. Normally that would have made me nervous that he was getting out a bunch of implements. But since I couldn’t be marked up, I knew most implements were out of the question. Indeed, it definitely drained whatever sense of foreboding I might have otherwise had.
“Alright, come here, please.”
I turned around and was shocked to find that he had brought the straight-backed wooden chair in from balcony and was sitting on it looking very stern. He spanked me once many years before in this most traditional manner but I remembered it being very uncomfortable for both of us. And I was a bit thinner then than I was this time. The memory and my surprise made me freeze a foot or two away from him.
“Come here, please. Closer. Over my lap.”
I sighed. Well, here goes…
Over I went, bracing myself with my hands on the floor on his left side and the toes of my right foot, which barely reached the floor, on his right. My left foot dangled.
Now, to be fair, as the spanking was a good month ago now, I only vaguely remember what was said, especially as I was also getting my bare bottom smacked quite hard the whole time (tops – I know you all seem to like chatting with us while we’re over your knee, but do note that it is very difficult to carry on a conversation whilst getting spanked — you know, just fyi…). But, I think it went something along the lines of the following.
“I think we need a little bit more discipline.” Down went my white cotton panties. “Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, Sir,” I said while nodding and biting my lower lip.
Then the smacking began.
I think there is something about that position over the lap on the chair that made me feel more vulnerable. Or at least made my bottom feel more vulnerable. The slaps felt extra stingy. Especially when they landed on my thighs.
“There is one week before I leave and we need to establish some good habits before I’m gone.” Lots of smacking; me yelping. “You will be in bed every night by 12:10 at the latest.”
More smacking and me yelping.
There was further discussion, but I can’t really remember now what it was (see how effective discussion during a spanking is? Hmmm?). I know there was something that I had to think about before I could answer, which got me more spanked, which, in turn, lengthened the amount of time it took me to answer.
Eventually I got moved to the bed, where I had to bend over a pile of pillows so that my broad bottom was in striking distance of the strap. Then it was back over his lap, albeit while he sat on the bed. At one point we talked a bit about when he would be able to come back over (sometime in June). And when he returned to finish off my spanking with his large hard hand, the tears began to come, though the sting of that hand had very little to do with it.
Finally it was time to cuddle, and I cried a little more in the arms I knew I’d be missing all too soon. My sullenness was dissipating, though was not completely gone as I hadn’t really been broken. Perhaps we’d get to that spanking later, after my appointment with the rheumatologist.
In the meantime, A. had gone a good half an hour without groping my tie-covered boobies. Soon discipline broke down completely as the headmaster began playing with his “special girl” (sorry to squick!). Ultimately, that ended up being the spanking I got later in the week. But, well, that’s a post for a separate blog.