RSVP with a smack

Join the party at my new home.

Hope to see you there!

Naughty nooner and an interview

Somebody is here right now. He's sitting at my dining room table, working. Soon we will pick up where we left off at lunchtime.

Working remotely is awesome, no?

So, while D & I get in our rare weekday time together, why don't you go over to The Cognitive Slut, a fantastic blog that explores all things sex, and read the interview that she generously gave me? There's even a glimpse of what I look like. (Or at least a peek at my lips.)

While you're there check out her other posts, too -- her Halloween costume post is hysterical.

Contradictions

Just because I wrestle you with all of my strength does not mean that I want to win.

My triumph is knowing that even though you can always overpower me, you'll never truly hurt me.



Just because I try to push you away doesn't mean that I really want you to stay away.

I sometimes build the walls around me to see if and how you will climb them.



Just because I kneel at your feet doesn't mean I'm undeserving to be by your side.

I know that you are a man worthy of my submission. My ability to kneel before you allows me to walk confidently and proudly beside you.



Just because I want you to spank me, punish me, discipline me, doesn't mean that I am a bad person.

I am so good, in fact, that I deserve your attention, your focus. You see my potential and you hold me accountable to my goals. My light, already bright, burns stronger in your care and under your hand.



Just because I hungrily take all that you are willing to give doesn't mean that my desires are born of selfishness.

The more you give me, the more I have to give you. When I think I have nothing left, you, like a magician, find more -- pulling one vibrant scarf after another out of my empty hat, each more brilliant than the one before.

Villains and Heroes

Ever since I was old enough for such things, I've had a rescue fantasy.

I remember a conversation with my father on what would make my ideal man.

"He has to be taller and stronger than me," I declared. When asked why, the only plausible answer was, "So he can save me." (To which my father replied that he hoped I grew tall and strong enough to save myself...no fun, Dad.)

I did not elaborate on what the hero of my dreams would save me from -- but I had visions of being tied, scantily clad, to the railroad with my imminent demise barreling down the tracks. My man would DASH and LEAP and do all manner of heroic things to free me from my fate. Even then, at so tender an age, I envisioned a lecture as he held me safely in his arms, and repercussions from putting myself, his most prized possession, in danger.



In my thirty-four years, I have not once been tied to railroad tracks. And I have yet to see a man dash and leap to my rescue. Thankfully neither scenario has occurred and I have gone on happily saving myself from life's little mishaps.

But the rescue fantasy remains, seeing several evolutions from the original "knight in shining armor".

During college it manifested as a yearning for a man to recognize my self-destructive behavior and intervene, taking me firmly but lovingly by the arm and guiding me toward healthier choices. After college, I wished for a man to sit down and work on a budget with me, demonstrating how to balance the growing financial responsibilities of home ownership, car payments, and entertainment expenses.

Me being me, of course these fantasies included certain ramifications were I not to turn my life around. Those ramifications included (but were not limited to) frequent spankings: reminders in the morning, motivations in the afternoon, discipline in the evenings.



Today things are a bit different. I recognize that I don't actually need someone else to guide me through positive choices or to help me sidestep dangerous scenarios, but there is yet an ever-present villain who needs vanquishing.

That villain isn't around every day, or every week. But there are days when, suddenly, I find myself hostage to the villain's negativity, falling prey to the whispered insults and immobilized by the worst case scenarios, as tied and captive as any damsel on the tracks.

That villain, in case you have not yet identified her, is myself. I am the one who poses the most danger to my well-being.

In this thing we do, my villain cannot be defeated by a simple telling-off or fist shaking, but must be met head on -- heroically matched with words and actions to have her scamper off to an appropriate, unoccupied corner.

When my self-doubt strikes, I long for my man to take me over his lap, bare my bottom and, in soothing yet confident words, say, "Nobody talks about my girl like that. Not even her."

That is my modern day hero.

Stripped

"Strip," he commands.

He is sitting, fully clothed and patient, on the edge of the bed. The paddle is next to him, holding a silent promise.

I freeze, not out of defiance, but to absorb the effects of this moment that passes between us -- the shifting dynamic as palpable as the tremor of a train making its way down the tracks, my surging heart rate suddenly overcoming the sounds of the ticking clock until all that is left is a dim roar inside my head.

With trepidation, my fingers find their way to the button and then the zipper of my pants and I wriggle out of them, dipping my head, allowing my hair to momentarily cover my face.

I can feel his eyes assessing my revealed legs but when I look at him, he is staring at my lips which I have unconsciously licked and pulled between my teeth.

"Keep going," he says, his amusement at my hesitation clearly evident.

He has seen me naked before, both for pleasure and for punishment. This scene is not new -- he watching as I shed each article of clothing in a shy strip tease, his legs slightly spread, feet planted firmly, waiting -- but each time I am sharply reminded of our arrangement.

And, so, like his good, albeit tremulous, girl, I continue as instructed: unbuttoning my shirt and letting it slip from my shoulders to fall to the floor; reaching behind to unhook my bra which loosely cups my breasts before joining the collection of garments on the heap. I then turn from him to lower my panties, treating him to the unveiled sight as I bend and then busy my hands in the folding of my discarded clothing.

In all of this, his only movement is the flickering of his eyes, the smoothing of his hands over his denim-clad knees, the almost indiscernible rise of his chest under his long-sleeve tee, a twitch of his lips in recognition.

I am now naked. He's seen me this way hundreds of times, and yet I have never felt more exposed than standing here with my fingernails digging into the outsides of my thighs as I try to hold still while he, fully clothed, examines me.

He starts with my hair in its wild tumble of curls, continues to my sweeping collarbone which he will later kiss. I know he sees the full curves and erect nipples of the breasts he will grab and pinch, the swell of my belly encased by hip bones. He pauses as he assesses the closeness of my shave and continues down my long legs to finish at my freshly polished toes.

It is in these moments that I find myself wondering how it is possible to feel so small and yet so significant in his quiet appraisal. I no longer belong to myself; I am his.

He instructs me to come closer, to stand between his legs. I feel the soft cotton on his arms caress me as his hands assuredly cup my bottom, his hair tickling the undersides of my breasts as he holds me there, breathing in my scent.

My fate is sealed with the next three words.

"You've been naughty."

Pavlov's Belt

Like the sound of a dinner bell, my reaction to the jangle of a belt buckle boils down to a simple matter of psychology.

Take an unconditioned stimulus, or a stimulus that elicits a physiological and natural response, like a belt striking my bottom resulting in the unconditioned response: my subsequent arousal, the involuntary dampness between my legs.

Repeatedly pair it with a conditioned stimulus, the sound of the belt being taken from the loops prior to each application, so the belt removal becomes synonymous with its application.

You soon achieve an instinctive response to the belt removal. I hear the jangle and immediately feel my panties dampen, no application necessary.

On being a smart girl

No matter how smart a girl is, or how wisely she negotiates, she's going to find herself over his knee before the end of the day.

She can use logic and reason, mathematical equations, a persuasive speech, but it is an eventuality, like growing older, that must not be avoided but rather approached with grace and acceptance. She will be spanked.

So she does what any smart girl does: she makes it worse for herself.



She pokes and prods him, criticizes his word choice, allows a defiant tone to edge its way into dinner, as if the guarantee of the looming deed were not enough. She does not need to stick out her tongue, that would be taking it too far, much too obvious for a smart girl. She does, however do everything in her power to ensure that she will not only be spanked, but that she will feel it.

After all, a smart girl knows that if something's worth doing, it's worth doing well.



Second photo from Spank Amber. Other sources unknown.

Clouds in my coffee

I wasn't going to write about this but looking over my posts of this past week, I realized how solemn they all sound. I also realized how difficult posting anything of worth has been this week. I owe you an explanation, and in giving it, I hope that I can resume my regular posts, get this out of my system and move forward.

One year ago this week, my heart broke for the very first time. I didn't think I would recover from it. This week, though, has not been one of mourning for the one I lost, but rather an introspective look at how far I have come since his betrayal.

This post is not about him. That statement is rather like Carly Simon's "Clouds in my coffee" though, isn't it? Her whole song was about her unrequited love, and yet the subject would be vain to recognize himself in her words:

You're so vain, you probably think this song is about you
You're so vain, I'll bet you think this song is about you
Don't you? Don't You? Don't You?

Again, and I mean this free of irony, this post is not about him.

Like Carly, I had some dreams. They were lost when he and I said our good-byes (although he didn't so much as say those words, just vanished completely from my life). The point is that I was terribly silly to think that things would work -- looking back there were so many red flags and signs that I chose to overlook. But being the romantic, wistful dreamer that I was then, I forged ahead, allowing my heart to take over logic's domain.

Afterward I was a mess. I'd find myself crying over the kitchen sink, gripping the counter and silently pleading for him to come back or at least, at the very least, tell me why he'd left. Even now, knowing the reasons (have I mentioned my penchant for research?), I am still occasionally gripped with the lingering question: why wasn't I good enough?

I will never know. And I don't need to know.

In order to recover, I fully immersed myself in the task of living. I did laundry. I painted. I scrubbed the toilet, the sink, the floor until they sparkled and my knuckles were near bleeding from the effort. I put one foot in front of the other and walked the balance beam of treacherous emotions -- this was almost worse than the death of a loved one, a pain I did experience about a month later when my beloved grandfather died.

My dreams had died. My confidence was nearly decimated. I made poor choices simply because I valued myself less and didn't think I could or should demand as much from a partner. I clearly was not deserving, I thought.



Months went by and I thought about him less and less.

I learned to trust again, but that trust was tempered by a weariness that wasn't present before. I guarded my heart, second-guessed anyone who showed an interest in me, kept everyone at arms length until they jumped through the appropriate hoops and were granted entry into my private thoughts.

I met several men from online forums. Some of them translated into lasting friendships, most of them I do not know anymore. And one of them sneaked his way into my heart.

In the eight months that we have been together, I have thrown many roadblocks D's way. In fact, and I hope you know how uncharacteristic this is of me, the first night we met I cried while he held me. I told him the whole story, sobbing into his shoulder and then curling away from him while his body embraced mine. He let me cry, encouraged me to cry, recognized my need for it.

I owe much of my healing to him. I don't owe him my self-confidence -- that I regained on my own -- but I owe him my recovered faith in people. He showed me that people can be who they appear to be and free of ulterior motives.

I don't know what the future holds. I can't guarantee that a year from now I won't be crying over the kitchen sink again. There is one major difference: I will never allow anyone to define my worth again. I define it. I do it every day.

Comparatively speaking

Of course I know what my butt looks like. I check it out in the mirror more often than I'll admit; I take photos of it in all of its varying shades of before and after. But because I refuse to watch the videos of me being spanked, I have no idea how my bottom and its reactions differ from those I see in online clips.

So I've been sending D examples of bottoms in the line of duty, asking him, "Does it look like this?" The answer is always no: too round, too flat, too square, too skinny, too big. Why don't I just watch our video and have my answer? I can't do that. I can't even listen to the audio from LOL day without extreme mortification and self-criticism.

And then, finally, there was this clip.



Bingo. While obviously not exact, he finally said it reminded him of me. (Maybe he's just trying to shut me up.) I do see the similarities -- the fullness, the quick color that blooms on her cheeks, the bounce and jiggle. It's sexy how her bottom moves under his hand.

Perhaps I'm ready to watch our video now?

Video also found here, uploaded by crohamhurst.

Until the next time we meet

He says he can tell that I need a spanking, far more than I want a spanking.

It may be true, but he has no idea the depths of my want. I want him in the mornings, first thing. Not just a spanking, but the smell of him, the feel of his unshaven chin on my forehead as I nuzzle into him to place a kiss on his neck. I want him mid-morning as I make my phone calls, wishing it was his voice on the other end negotiating with me. I want his brand of saying good night, every night, with him propped against the headboard as I emerge from my nightly routine, see him there, and crawl gratefully over his waiting lap.

My want, it seems, has no end, cannot be satisfied by the limited time we have.

Two weekends a month. That's all the time our particular schedules can afford. That is the reality of us.

Every other Sunday, as the regular pattern of my life resumes, I return to this cycle of wanting him until the want turns into a need so great I can barely contain it. Every other Thursday, like today, I am consumed to distraction, envisioning what our weekend will hold. The rest of my life, between those times, carries on without him but always with him in mind.

On weekends like this upcoming one, when there are issues to deal with, my need is laced with trepidation. Part of me wants to celebrate our time together, joyously, with an abandonment of reality, immediately committing our carefree moments to memories that will last.

But the other part needs the weighty significance of his discipline, needs to be spoken to in ways no other can. I need his steadying presence, his powerful hands, his soothing words as I hiccup my admiration and gratitude for this most intimate gift one can give another.

Only I can determine how much I want this. Only he can determine how much I need it. He will deliver, as he always does, until my wants blur with my needs, until his own hunger is satiated, both of us already thinking about the next time we meet.

Subject change

I'm going to pretend that I did not write that last blog post. It is not there. The last thing I wrote about was the corner, which is another subject best to be avoided in tenuous times like these, but an improvement over the latest. (What a difference a few days make.)

I am tired of discussing my bottom: the particulars of its demise, the whens and hows of its tutelage. Describing in detail the positioning, the barked commands of my tender drill sergeant, how my insides turn to melted chocolate and ooze all over like a freshly baked cookie. I'm tired of detailing how my internal heat surpasses that of my cheeks as he sets them blazing with the hairbrush, how my feet kick free of my pants and how my panties tangle around my knees as a reminder, in case I have forgotten, of my inescapable vulnerability.

Yes, I am quite obviously tired of discussing such things.

So tired, in fact, that I must sleep. I must sleep with my bared bottom free of blankets as it luxuriates, for once, in the advantages of room temperature only experienced while in its naturally white state.

Accountability and forgiveness

I have not posted in a few days and I find myself doing things I shouldn't and saying things that I will later regret. I've purposely distanced myself from all of this so as to deny that there will be repercussions to my actions.

I don't crave his negative attention; I don't set out to be naughty. But there is, within this responsible and conscientious woman, a bit of a she-devil, a darker force who is desperate to be noticed and overcome by someone both astute and caring enough to recognize her.

It's not that I want someone else dictating to me things I should or should not do -- micro-management has always supremely annoyed me in any setting -- as I am quite capable of making the best decisions for myself. Being capable to make those decisions, however, has very little to do with following through on the best course of action.



When I feel myself spiraling into this decadent and destructive behavior, I want someone to step in and mediate the two sides of myself. I need someone to recognize, lovingly, that the path that I'm on is not in my best interest, a recognition that is carried out in both words and actions.

He is the only person I allow to make unfettered judgments on my behavior. He is the only person I trust enough to help guide me when I am so mired with indignation and denial. He is my voice of reason when my own, typically rational reasoning has lost its calming voice.

With my confession laid bare, denials stripped until there is only truth, with both hands in his, I feel safely cornered within the confines of his words; I am a captive audience and finally able to see myself clearly through his eyes which only convey the best intentions and deepest awareness of all the parts of me, she-devil and angel both.



He knows what I need. When he is finished talking, he has forgiven me. I have not yet forgiven myself.

While I am ultimately accountable for my actions, his is the only accountability that has ramifications beyond my own internal guilt. My guilt is a powerful, all-consuming beast and he tames it with his forgiveness. I ask for one more gift that will finally allow me to forgive myself.

I ask him to spank me, to cleanse me. I don't say that word, cleanse, but it is there and he knows it's what I need. Instead I say "I'm sorry" and "please forgive me" as my shaking fingers find the button on my pants and I slowly push them past my hips, scarcely able to look in his eyes, ashamed that it has come to this.

It has come to this. I want this even though there is no pleasure in it. To feel his strong hands upon me, cleansing me in the rain of his strokes, his words serving as antibiotics to the raging shame within, it is what I need, what we both need to be right again.

One last thought* about corner time...

This is how one should stand in the corner. Much more interesting, don't you think?


Ok, pardon the interruption. Carry on.

*Disclaimer: This, most likely, will not be my last actual thought on corner time. In fact I plan on thinking about it more this afternoon, later this evening, and perhaps even into tomorrow.

Greedy Thing

You crave this position, yearn for it with every strained muscle. The time is finally here.

Raise your hips with two pillows, bend your legs, arch your back so your bottom is up and displayed with nothing left to hide. Flex and unflex your feet, relax your hands. Breathe. Feel this moment; feel the sheets against your cheek; feel your heart race and slow, race and slow. Open your eyes.

This is you at your most pornographic. This is you at your strongest, your most vulnerable. It takes all of your power to remain this way, shivering in anticipation of what's to come while hungrily beckoning for him to satisfy your greed.



He can see you. He can see all of you, standing behind you like he is. He takes his time, admiring what you continually choose to show him. He knows that you enjoy this; he knows how hard it is for you to wait. He makes you wait.

He is silent, but his pulse races along with yours. You can feel it: each of your hearts thrumming with desire, imagining his palms opening and closing while he contemplates your thighs, your bottom, white with wanting. You lick your lips and exhale, readjust your hips while you wonder at his thoughts.



And then you hear the rustle of his body as he steps forward; you stop breathing so you can listen harder. You examine the white linen in front of you, trying to read it as one might read sheet music. You listen to the air and try to judge what is in his hand. A belt moves the air differently than a paddle; a cane would send a whisper down your spine. It is none of those things.

You sense movement behind you and it is his hand reaching for your bottom which it cups and smacks just lightly enough for you to feel the pillows beneath you more distinctly. His fingers trail down, pausing at the space between your thighs and then pushing them apart even further.



You know you are wet. You can smell it. You can feel it as acutely as his hand. And you strain for him, careful to hold position but you want, you want...you want his caress, his attention. You are on the center of the bed but you want to be the center of his world.

He tells you your positioning is perfect but you knew this -- you've anticipated this surrender, memorizing the exact position that will please him the most.



"Good girl," he praises. "My naughty girl," he says.

Your pride at "good" and "my" and "naughty" has you raising your bottom even higher until it is on its rightful pedestal to be pet and punished, forgiven and worshiped.

You know the time is now. You let it begin.

Not in Kansas anymore

I received my first ever care package today. Even when I lived overseas and was dying for Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and Tabasco Sauce, nobody ever thought to pack typically American things and pay the crazy postage to ship them to me.

But today, just now, I received this:



It was postmarked from Kansas, from a kinky friend who I've grown close to (obviously close enough that he knows my address). The suspense is killing me.

Shall I open it?



Any guesses what's inside the bubble wrap?



Ta-daaa!

If you said a quirt and a crop you'd be correct!

My Kansas friend just informed me that it's technically a "hog slapper", not a crop. But since I have neither farm nor hog, I shall refer to it as a crop. (I don't have a horse either, but I've been known to whinny like one when the occasion suits.)

Although it's certainly unlike any care package that I've imagined, it will "hit the spot" and "heat things up" far better than any boxed macaroni or hot sauce ever could.

Thank you, A!

Baddest role model of the month

Perhaps you've heard of The Spanking Bloggers Network, a group of fellow bloggers who write about...you guessed it, spanking. This November, I have the great honor of being named "Blog of the Month", joining previous winners: My Bottom Smarts, Hermione's Heart, Chross, and Poppy's Submissions. I am in fine company.

I joined the Network almost as soon as I decided on a layout for the blog; I later changed the layout (a rather generic pink template) but kept the Network. It continues to be a top referrer and also offers a forum for fellow members to collaborate, plot, and wring our hands (although not much of the latter).

Whenever a new blogger contacts me, it is one of the first suggestions that I make: join Spanking Bloggers Network. If you're interested in joining, scroll to the bottom of their page and follow the instructions. It's Pink-proof, so it must be easy.

If you're "just" a reader, please investigate the blogs on the membership roster. On its home page, the blogroll is constantly updated with its members' posts, making it a valuable resource for inhaling your up-to-the-minute spanking fix. There's something there for everyone.

And a big, hearty thank you from me to The Spanking Bloggers Network for this honorable distinction of "Blog of the Month". I'm sure nobody will strip me of my crown if those nude photos I took last year resurface -- with this group it might even mean a second nomination!

Or not.

Resolve

A choice: don't do this thing or do it and get the cane.

And it won't be the nice cane I've met before either. It'll be more of the wicked caning that I received on Saturday for doing this same thing. "A sample", he called it. It was a sample that left a half dozen stripes across the bottom of my cheeks -- now gone but the memory of their raised fury remains. It was enough of a taste to know that I don't want the full course.



If I do it, I will confess. That is the way with us. And then it will happen just as he told me it would.

"No," I will whisper.

He will order me over the foot of the bed, without warm-up, without the comfort of restraints. He will order my panties down, will watch as I struggle to obey, will instruct me to keep my bottom high and my arms stretched out in front.

And then I will see him, standing slightly to my side, my eyes pleading with his as I watch his arm rise.

"No," I will whisper again. "Please," I will say, "I won't do it again. I promise."

In response, the cane will slice through the solemn air to bite my bottom with its licking venom.

And again. And again. He will do this six times, in rapid succession, before I can absorb the full impact of the burn. And then I imagine I will sob as the pain begins to come, pleading for it to be over, vowing that I will never do this thing again. I will try to stand but he will push me back down, swatting my hands away as they instinctively attempt to rub out the fire.

Then he will begin again. I do not want to imagine the second set of six. But I know that I will have difficulty finding my breath, difficulty staying put. No I do not want this. I want to be spanked and held on his lap; I want to skip this part and be forgiven.

Will this be necessary? Will this happen? I hope that writing this post and revisiting it will lend me enough willpower to prevent the preventable, to strengthen my resolve to avoid a session with a cane like he has described.

I will not do this thing. I will not. I will not.