Category Archives: Slice of life

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?

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.

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.  

Demon Torrents

[My dad is currently out of town for a week.  The plan was that I’d be spanked each night.  Nice spankings though.  Except, well, I got in the way of that lovely plan.]

criminal-mindsAs Paul reported in a not-at-all cryptic comment on Twitter:

Not meant as ooo-look-at-us, but @eltercerojo went to bed genuinely scolded and spanked tonight. Both real and surprisingly resonant.

That’s the short version.  All of it is true.  This is going to be the longer story, one maybe that will keep something like it from happening again anytime soon.  As I’ve reported repeatedly in the past, most of my being in trouble and punishments happen not because of anything willful, but because I either don’t think things through or am not paying attention to what I’m doing.

So what happened?

Last night as I was getting ready for bed, I did a final check on my computer before letting it go to sleep for the night.  Paul noticed what it was busy doing and asked me what I was downloading.

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Less A Woman

At some point in the last ten years, I began equating my femininity with my sexuality. I don't know when or how this happened. I suspect that Chris's concerted efforts at making me feel beautiful and sexy – often while we were doing something sexually arousing – contributed. But, in the end, the mental connection was one I made.

That was all well and good until sometime around Halloween, when gynecological issues (you may know more detail than that if you follow my twitter feed) interrupted* our sexual and spanking play. Increasingly as November went by and by, I felt more and more blue. It might have been, as some have experienced, a natural consequence of the month and season. But when December and Advent came, and my mood continued in a relatively consistent downward spiral, I started being my introspective self.

You'll notice I stopped blogging. It's because I knew what I wanted to say. I knew I wanted to say it. But I didn't know quite how. I didn't know quite how to say it without it seeming like it was Chris's fault. I couldn't quite write it down without a solution.  I couldn't imagine having to respond to the practical advice of just be patient to anyone more than my doctor and overly patient husband.  (BTW, phone call to the doctor next week, as soon as we're back in town again.) I'm still not sure I'm saying anything worth actually writing down.

You see, we weren't having sex. Or spanking. And so, you see, I felt increasingly … well, ugly. Unwanted. Unwomanly. Asexual. It didn't matter that we were being intimate occasionally. Chris does enjoy oral sex (seriously, I don't know any man who doesn't) and he was able to stimulate me to orgasm, though less so as December dragged on and on and on, and my blue-ness and depression sort of worsened.

When it came time to pack for vacation, I wasn't really excited. And I'm afraid my lack of enthusiasm for much of anything contributed to the problem – why would Chris want to be intimate with me when I must have been patently uninterested? To be sure, I was uninterested in anything:  paying attention to him, working consistently, doing housework, cooking, shopping, going to Animal Kingdom and Hollywood Studios…  And I knew why. I just couldn't do anything about it. 

As the weeks passed, and the relationship between my sexuality and my femininity crystallized. I knew what was missing quite keenly (sex, spanking, kink, naked intimacy, hormonal balance, etc) and there I was, making an effort to put a facade on for the world that Christmas was coming and that everything was cheery and glorious.

Chris and I had proper sex for the first time in nearly two months on Christmas night. It was in a strange bed, in a different state, and I was so relieved I almost cried. It'd been so long that we had to think even about the position, and clearly Chris's wrist is out of shape. Boxing Day saw a repeat. Monday was a lost cause – the 20 hours spent fighting airports and airplanes and traveling was a loss – despite the best of plans I was just happy to collapse onto my own pillow last night and Chris was already snoring.

He woke me up at 5:30 this morning to fuck my ass.

I think that might have been the best Christmas present yet.

I realized this morning that, despite a vicious cold virus, I feel almost whole again. I haven't been spanked yet (staying with family and all) though we have plans to do that in a bit when the princess is off on a playdate. It promises to be a significantly painful event, made more so by my near-virgin bottom, his itchy palm and my recent acknowledgment that a significant spanking (and other bottom-related attention-getting activities) would help balance me.

So now I am wondering how I can break this sad link I have made in my head. Clearly I am a woman, whether I am celibate or sexually active. But feeling like I am not one – or less of one than I ought to be – is clearly getting in the way of my productivity, cheerfulness and wifely compatibility.

Help!

 

~~~~

* According to WordPress, I spelled femininity, interrupted, and gynecological all right on the first try! Whee! I even checked to be sure spell check was on!

Apologies

Master,

I’m really sad today because I feel like I have really failed you recently. I hope in the near future I can prove to you that I can engage and provide you the kind of service you deserve, but I can understand why you might be questioning that.

K told me today that you are out of socks, and that another load of laundry has been discovered with ink on it. I just want you to know I’m really sorry. I don’t really even have any words for the situation – every time things fall behind you run out of things, and when I try to rush and catch up things slip through the cracks like with the ink on the laundry.

This is all my fault, and I’m really sorry. I imagine you will punish me if you feel it will help, but regardless I want you to know that I want to make this situation right and I’m working on it. I want to please you, and I’m trying to adjust my habits so that things like this will happen less and less. It shouldn’t ever happen, you deserve better than that.

love,

bridget

 

There’s a First Time for Everything

(The following post is gonna be a LOT more … uh … *sexual, I guess* than I normally write. It's a cross-post from my own blog, and I'm not editing much. I hope that it inspires some discussion about others' first times — in spanking, that is — but I didn't want to take the sex that happened off, because it's kind of important to a post that will come later about how I began to know what I wanted as a spanko. Forgive me if it offends your sensitivities. *Hands you smelling salts and a fan*)

Today I was thinking about my first time. I guess for most people (read: Vanillas) the “first time” means when they lost their virginity. I could tell you that story but it’s boring and sad. (Well, that is, except for the fact that I actually had anal before I had the other kind but I do digress …) No, when I say “the first time” I mean spanking, of course. And that story is much more fun.

Like your average, everyday spanko, I believe I was “born this way.” We can have the Nature vs. Nurtue debate some other time, but I was definitely the kid who looked up the word spanking in the dictionary as soon as I could read; remembered every spanking scene I saw on television; and tried to just “happen by” when one of my cousins was getting spanked at a family function — which happened frequently. One of my cousins — who I spent the majority of my youth with, it seems — had a father who made a leather paddle, with holes, and hung it up in the livingroom as a warning to any children considering misbehaving.

I was spanked at home, and no, I didn’t like it — and as I discussed before it always made me feel very unloved and unwanted. OTHER people getting spanked, though, that was awesome. And we would play “House” or “School” in the neighborhood and I would always seek to be the Bad Kid … which I find odd considering how abhorrent I found actually being punished at home. But by my cute, red-headed next-door neighbor boy? Or the older girl up the street? I would tease and taunt and brat like crazy …

So, by the time puberty hit, I was pretty sure there was something seriously wrong with me. There was no Internet then. (Or, maybe there was by then but it was still being used in military or whatever the hell.) When I was 17 I discovered Letters to Penthouse at Borders one day with my high school best friend. Imagine my complete delight at the entire section for bdsm. I dog-eared the several “good” spanking stories. I still wasn’t sure that feeling I was having was an orgasm (though I’d had sex several times by then – stupid teenaged boys) but it was worth doing again anyway.

When I was 19, and getting ready to move to North Carolina for the first time (long story – but the first time “didn’t take”), I was dating a guy who was REALLY into me, and I thought he was very, very nice…

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Crashing into Natty

Crashing has a way of putting me in a very Natty mood. And last Wednesday, after a long Mother's Day, a longer ME/CFS Awareness Day, and a trip to the acupuncturist, I crashed. Every noise became too loud. Every light too bright. Television was painful. My cells felt like they were shaking as their vitality drained into oblivion.

All my haughtiness and dominance of the day before melted into dependency and submission. I wanted to be taken care of. Petted. Told what to do, especially as I was too exhausted to figure it out for myself.

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Someone Else’s Fantasy

There are very few things about one's body that feel sexy when one is pregnant.  There are even fewer after delivery.  (Gi-normous breasts excepted.)

Actually, I had a fairly strong libido during pregnancy.  What we couldn't enact in real life got pushed into my head and I was able to get some satisfaction from vivid fantasies, close proximity to M, and a good vibrator.  In the three weeks since our son's birth, though, I haven't been able to orgasm once.  Part of this is due to the rigors of new parenting and the simple lack of opportunity.  But even when I have a few stolen moments to myself, or M and I have a rare minute together, I can't come.  The desire is there, but my body can't get on board. 

It has also been a loooong time since I've been spanked, for punishment or
pleasure.  M has given me a few swats here and there, but intense
physical play has been off the table for a while now and will be for a
while to come (c-section incision has to heal first).  

But even though I can't play and I can't come, that doesn't mean my life is completely devoid of kink.  In fact, I've experienced lots of kinky things since becoming a mother.  None of them happen to correspond to anything I like, but in the spirit of making lemonade out of lemons, I'm trying to have a sense of humor about it.  Here are a few of them:

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