Last Thursday, we went to the beach. By ‘we’, I mean Mija, Iris, the princess and I. (I’m including Mija and Iris because they’ve already identified themselves as my companions in comments to Chris’s discussion of this incident.) I had lots of fun, but we were outside for 3 1/2 hours in the middle of the day.
And when it was over, my back was burnt. Pretty badly. Chris even posted a picture of it.
To be honest, I didn’t dream it would be a spankable offense. I mentioned it to Chris later when he met us for dinner, and was almost immediately informed otherwise.
Chris thought I was being mouthy earlier. Personally, I think he received rather more of an education that I actually intended at ShadowLane, but that’s a rather different entry than the one I’m composing just now. In any event, he pulled out the new ‘nanny paddle’ he bought from The London Tanners, settled the princess on the bed watching Scooby-Doo, and suggested we retire to the family room (50 feet away with a closed door between us) for a few minutes to deal with the problem, so as to not have to worry about it later when we wanted to play.
I left the front door unlocked twice last week.
Chris has a habit of asking, on his way out the door, if I’ll lock it behind him so he doesn’t have to pause and do it himself. Now, to be fair, he usually has his hands full or is in a ‘9-1-1’ rush, and he always asks and doesn’t tell, but I generally feel obliged to say yes.
Sometimes, however, ‘right now’ isn’t convenient. I’m in the bathroom with the baby, getting dressed, feel lazy, have something on a hot stove, am in the middle of Civ IV, trying to change a diaper, etc. So I’ll answer with perfectly good intentions, “I will in a few minutes.” And generally I do.
22:00: I’m faithfully working. Focused. Accomplishing tasks. Have just started a complex report to be made to my overseers and peers. I have the presence of mind to ask Chris to, well, remind me to retrieve the laundry from the dryer before going to bed.
22:30: Chris asks me, perfectly unruffled, when I will be ready for bed. Distracted by my project, I give the misguided answer of “in a few minutes.” Still tranquil, Chris reminds me that I need to unload the dryer. I immediately fall back into my impressive balance sheet and let the rest of the world drift away.
I’m cross-posting here an excerpt from an entry in my personal blog because it explains, in part, how I became interested in exploring the punishment. I originally thought about expanding this into a longer treatise on why and how very, very different sensual/play spankings are from punishment for me, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon.
We got together with friends in the spanking scene [last] Saturday night. At one point, the discussion turned to why we all liked it – to how we got to where we are. Perhaps I’ve never said and perhaps I should later expand these thoughts into a more comprehensive essay, but I do crave structure and discipline and known consequences for misdeeds (all aside from my admittedly sluttish, erotic attraction to sensual spanking as a form of pleasure).
An acquaintance commented recently that while I have frequently described real-life scenes (play or punishment) and have shared them over the years in newsgroups, disguised as fictional writing, with friends and even in chatrooms with other spankos, I don’t generally report or share in written form what happens in the hours after the scene. As my playtime with C is usually overtly sexual, it stands to reason that my scene descriptions would be so, too.
Not necessarily so.
Certainly my scene descriptions often allude to an underlying sexual agenda even if I don’t address it directly. I don’t (couldn’t) deny the arousing aspects of play, or that I find certain types of kink extremely … err … exciting. I also can’t deny that spanking, in and of itself, is both stimulating and painful.
I have several reasons for creating a proverbial ‘line in the sand’ while relating scenes for public consumption, whether for play or punishment.
The members of Punishment Book received an e-mail a few days ago from a woman who wanted to know if we were "serious". Not only are we serious (to varying degrees) but we’re really not that uncommon. The number of women writing blogs about domestic discipline, BDSM, or other variations of "serious" alternative lifestyles is phenomenal. I use ‘serious’ here not to indicate a sober, distinctly unamusing relationship, but in the more colloquial, American way. Yes, we are way serious. This is real to us, although our perspectives on it are all quite different.
I live for months without a punishment spanking; more specifically, months can pass without C punishing me with a spanking for some sort of misbehavior that is not part of a kinky playtime. Playtime, being much different and quite erotic, often includes spankings – and other punishments – for naughtiness both imagined or deliberately invoked. Playtime temporarily alleviates a desire – a very real and very strong desire – to know that C has limits that even I cannot cross. (Trust me, C gives me a very wide berth to do and say and spend and be what I want.) By that, I mean, there are rules about playtime and I push or break them frequently enough – and I know it is safe for me to do so and that C’s love and desire for me is in no way at risk by such, uh, incidents.
Unfortunately, that sense of safety is not automatically transferred to our working days. The truth is, I am insecure enough and enough of a perfectionist that I am become very unhappy when life does not work out the way I intend. Accidents upset me. Irritating C – at least when I do not mean to – is enough to make me cry. Being impatient with the baby’s irrationality (a feature of infants, even) causes intense guilt.
So a few weeks ago I dropped the digital camera.
A lot of stuff has been going on around here recently. Not that this is an excuse or anything, but it's hard for me to think clearly about discipline, punishment, spanking, kink, or anything sexual when my parents inhabit my office and other living space and work occupies nearly every waking minute that the baby doesn’t.
Anyway, awhile ago, Lil asked the question: "Have any of you ever needed discipline (even a play spanking) from your Dom, then discovered that he is not remotely interested in giving you one, or even having anything at all to do with spanking?"
The question brought up an entire gamut of emotions and memories for me. And to be honest, a (general) topic I've considered writing about before is the dissonance between partners' kinks and/or libidos. It's a topic in which I have a personal interest.
I suppose most of the time that most married couples don't have equal libidos. That is, one half of the couple is probably more interested in sex than the other half. Or, at least, at any given opportunity, one partner is generally more interested in sex than the other because of fatigue, stress, timing, atmosphere, or even the evening television schedule. So I suspect it is normal that partners' kink abilities don't exactly align either.
I might be alone on this. My fellow authors might understandably be flabbergasted (and mortified) by this topic.
However, this blog is written by women, right? No, I do not intend this as a debate on whether we should be called or call ourselves ladies, girls, hotties, wives, bottoms, subs, spankees, women, chicks, or any other myriad of labels assigned to our gender. It’s just that I believe that all of the authors of this site are of the female persuasion. Not that our gentlemen (and not so gentlemanly) friends and observers don’t enjoy the blog – but there are a few topics that truly are generally confined by culture and modesty to discussion among women, and I need to write about one of them.
[Hint: If you can imagine anything related to the female body as the least bit squicky, perhaps you ought to skip to the next article.]
This incident begins about two weeks ago – the day our daughter discovered that the shredder bin was full of a million tiny pieces of paper.
Now, she’d found the shredder before, and delighted in dropping things into the bin. I’ve found lost sets of keys, lost highlighters and pens, lost baby toys, even lost rubber duckies.
About two weeks ago, however, she discovered that she could reach down into the shredder and pull out all of the delightful mess inside.
I hate messes.