Category Archives: sparkle

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.

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.




* 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!

Listening & Leading (or sometimes, topping from the bottom is okay)

We were together on the bed not so long ago, doing what we do very well. Canoodling, I called it once, and Chris laughed at the word but agreed. Sometimes it is foreplay, and sometimes not. It is touching, often naked touching. Sometimes there is spanking.

It'd been about a week, because of one thing and another, and I'd sorely missed his time and attention. In addition to my own woes, I was under a work deadline (finished 2:30 this morning, yay!, waiting for feedback now). And I have a bit of a cold coupled with a nasty cough. Chris has just started another semester of graduate school and the subjects addressed in these courses promise to be of a pertinent and absorbing nature for him. He has a new toy and is busy getting iTunes behaving properly instead of me.

And, he'd been to the gym that evening.

You know, in and of itself, that's not a problem. Except his particular fitness facility is filled with college co-eds, most of whom have been worshiping at their own altars since puberty and are exceedingly conscious of how they look. Everywhere. I've seen them.

So he comes home and tweets this sentence while grilling dinner: "Saw a great pair
of shorts at the gym today. Well, wasn't so much the shorts as what was
in the shorts. Or rather partially in the shorts."

For some reason, it hit me the wrong way, you know? Now, I'm not a jealous person, normally, although I've had my moments, and my jealousy tends to focus on things rather than people (i.e. that video game, that volunteer opportunity that takes 40 hrs of your week outside of work, that iTouch you're playing with when I'm in the room trying to have a conversation with you, etc). And, as Chris pointed out later, I'm generally just as likely to point out that cute bum before he even notices it. Generally.

So we're canooding, and he's got me all tucked up against him.

Intending to confide, I told him that I'd been jealous about the girl whose bottom was half-displayed by her shorts, presumably intentionally.

He was honestly surprised, and why shouldn't he be? I'd normally not care a whit. But "I haven't felt very sexy lately," I reminded him, proceeding to cough up a lung into my pillow.

Chris gathered me up in his arms and muttered against my ear. "I should hairbrush you for that."

And here's why this blog entry is on Punishment Book… because if he had hairbrushed me, it wouldn't have been a nice little loving spanking with a hairbrush. No, it would have hurt. It would have felt like punishment, and he would have intended it to be painful. I don't think the momentary reaction of jealousy would have been included in why he wanted to hairbrush me then and there, but the feeling that caused the jealousy – the feeling and sense that I was undesirable – would have been what he was punishing.

He doesn't like it when I express self-doubt. I believe there is a standing rule around here that if I ever say "I'm a terrible mother" again, I'm headed straight over his lap with the ebony hairbrush, no ifs ands or buts. I know this and how he feels about my expressions of internal angst and self-loathing.

And yet, I need to be able to confide in him and tell him my fears and my hopes and my needs. If I can't confide in him and trust him to make it better, then who else is there to turn to? (Nobody, not like that, and my heart would break or ice over, and I would withdraw emotionally and probably sexually.) And if I can't confide in him and trust him with my whole heart and not just the stronger pieces of it, then are we really as strong as we believe us to be?

But, if he can't punish me for fear of breaking that trust, am I manipulating things to get my own way? And is, as he pointed out in very pertinent ways much later, my backside really his to do with as he pleases if he can't hairbrush me without risking a silly breakdown? Should I be repressing all of those feelings so that he can hurt me at will and way? Should he hurt me at will and way even if he risks those silly breakdowns, just to prove the point that he can and that he's unhappy with me?

In the end, this is yet another reason why our relationship is not a simple Top/bottom arrangement, and why Chris must be (and is) a listening leader. It's a symbiosis … and that's probably best. He didn't spank me, but listened to the tremors in my voice when I pointed out that hairbrushing me would discourage me from, in the future, telling him when I was upset. I did suggest he arrange for a hairbrushing on a different night. I even suggested (for more selfish reasons!) that he combine it with bondage. And the moment passed without tears or recriminations or the hard spanking he wanted to give me.

This morning, I'm still confused as to why I was jealous.


Thank you, Chris, for not forcing the hairbrush. And thank you, for listening when I said to please not. I don't think it would have worked out quite the way you intended – then and there in that moment, I think it would have escalated it instead of purged it as you intended – but I know you could have. And you know I wouldn't have stopped you, if you'd insisted. So thank you.

Maintenance Fail…

I can't remember the last time I was actually punished for something. Honestly.

It's not that I'm perfect, but that I'm not spanked for being imperfect. We're all imperfect. So fouling up Chris's lunch or forgetting to get the car washed or not doing the laundry do not garner punishments. Chris gets serious if it affects the family's health, the family's safety or putting shredded paper in the canister without bagging it first. Otherwise, he's just as likely to indulge me as not.

I'm perfectly happy with that.

The thing is, discipline – punishment – has been part of my quirky head for as long as I've had it. A variety of fantasies have provided me with dream fodder for decades now, and I'm not ashamed to say that in the days that preceded a real, live disciplinary agreement, the whole notion of being punished was a lot more rosy than reality. In my dreams, I'd misbehave a lot more and get spanked a lot. In reality, I misbehave very little and get spanked a lot.

So for a few months now, I've been pondering … and I think I have to conclude that mock punishments and maintenance ('just because') spankings are no longer enough of a substitute for discipline. And, I have to say, I'm not entirely happy about that. It doesn't seem quite right that I should be jonesing for punishment, simply to satisfy some sulky petulant corner of my brain. It doesn't seem fair to me or to Chris, and as really pushing his buttons means needlessly endangering someone or something, it really isn't fair to our home and family.

Add in 4-6 days of enforced neglect from regular reinforcing intimacy and I have been ripe for challenging Chris in the last two evenings.

So last night I took our daughter's 50-cent disk shooter off the bureau, where I'd left it after confiscating it from her, and shot it just past his head. It hit the wall behind him, but he did stop talking mid-sentence, grabbed me, and dragged me over his knee for 5 minutes of hard spanking. I remember dimly hearing the words "You're asking for it, aren't you?" I don't really remember answering.

Tonight, after he studiously and deliberately ignored my three hints that he might want to do the dishes, I took an ice cube from the freezer and put it in the back of his shirt. I'm sure I had a good reason – maybe to get him to pay attention, as he kept ignoring me. Or maybe to get him to pay attention to me? In any event, when he very clearly told me to remove it from the back of his shirt and said he'd had enough, I did remove it.

And then pushed it down his pants so it slipped between his ass cheeks.

Of course I got spanked for it, later. When the princess was asleep and the house quiet, there was a paddle and a strap. Perhaps the playfulness of it all has gotten to me too, because I didn't have to fight off any guilt. Pain, yes. Guilt, no. Not even much repentance, honestly.

I've never really been a brat. I doubt I've bratted like this since well before the princess was born. Even Chris asked me what had gotten into me. I'm worried that I'm trying yet a new way to get what I want from him on a nearly constant basis – his dedicated, focused, energized attention.

I suppose this is one of the problems of taking a fetish and turning it into a working, living relationship. There's no question that discipline helped me master the concept of locking the doors to our house, or taking care in the sun. I'm more careful about what I do with a cell phone in the car, too. There's also little question that I pursued a disciplinary arrangement with Chris because I thought it would help me prioritize his needs and desires more, and I think that it still mostly has that effect. But I can't and won't deny that I also found the whole concept of a disciplinary relationship sizzling hot. It pushes nearly every power-exchange fantasy in my head and feeds my sexuality with instantaneous arousal.

I'm afraid that spanking me 'just because' isn't a preventing sort of
spanking anymore. But if it doesn't work, what will stop me from
pushing again and again and again?

Frantic Fondling

A few minutes of research indicates that I have been seriously absent here. Seriously. I’ve written 2 entries since this very day last year. Why, you ask? Because I’m a well-behaved (if wanton) girl. Usually.

Not today, though.

In the interest of complete transparency, I have been spanked frequently in the last year. And you might say that I’ve been in trouble once or twice. Generally, though, I think I’ve been fairly level-headed and emotionally stable this last year. All in all, there have been noticeably fewer days when I’ve been in a tantrum with Chris, fewer days when I’m so overwhelmed that I vacillate between distraction and depression, and many fewer days when the little things add up so dramatically that I break down in tears by bedtime.

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I Like to Ask

Over the past several weeks, Chris has tried gamely to convince me to ask for a hairbrushing.

This, right now, I cannot do. I tried, really I did. I knew it would please him to take a piece of ebony or mahogany to my bottom until I was beyond whining. I knew it would please him in a convoluted way to end a punishment that has gone on much longer than either of us anticipated when he imposed it…

Maybe I should back up.

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Navigating The Parent Trap

If it sounds like a rambling rant and looks like a rambling rant, it probably IS a rambling rant.

Now that you’ve been warned…

Chris and I are learning how our kink life and our family life fit together again. In April, he took a new job 350 miles from home, and went off to carve a new niche for us. A new home. Meanwhile, the princess and I stayed behind for awhile. It was crunch time for me professionally. The princess was in school and happy there. We had to get our house ready to put on the real estate market (yes, great timing, huh?). For 3 1/2 months we were together as a family only intermittently, and several of those times were in the midst of family gatherines, while traveling, and in less than optimal or normal circumstances.

In mid-July we packed up my car, the dog, Chris’s truck, two car seats, ten boxes of toys and various other essentials and headed off. Our house is still for sale (surprise, surprise) so Chris had rented a condo for us that was big enough, but with no extra space. We had, like all couples just starting out or just starting over, a lot of catching up to do – and a lot of adjusting to do. All four of us – but especially Chris and I – have had to re-assess how and why we do what we do.

It’s been fantastic – but not necessarily easy.

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Broil It

I did something really stupid last night. It was inexcusable, particularly in our house. That being said, I had a terrible headache (i.e. edging to a migraine) which to this moment in time hasn’t gone away completely.

What did I do? Put a slab of London broil on the boiler, put it in the oven, set the oven to low, and went and sat down on the couch with the princess. She climbed up on my lap and we got all cuddly and watched Scooby-Doo.

And I fell asleep.

I woke up to the smoke detector blaring at full volume.

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