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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

When you're not here

Imagining you behind me, I press my hips against the arm of the couch, lift my nightgown and drape myself over the cushions. You'd explore the offering first with your hands and then with your lips and tongue and teeth.

I am wearing your favorite panties -- the ones with the tiny, cream bows, a blanket of lacy gray cloaking my hills in a light fog, giving you a hint of the treasures that lie hidden. Your hot, assessing eyes would roam, determining where to start as we both savor this anticipatory moment.


When you are done with your appraisal, I would turn and run my hand down your firm stomach, licking you with my fingertips and devouring you with my eyes, as I slowly unbuckle your belt and release the button on your pants, tempting you to make your move. I am uncertain whether you would choose to remove your belt and press me back into position or if you would, instead, allow me to ease your pants down to receive a proper homecoming kiss.

I sigh, knowing that if you were here we would erase the days spent apart by writing our new history in the living room, over the kitchen table, scrawled across the countertops and painted on the floors.

Because you say so

We both know that I will do it.

Last Friday, when you ordered me to fetch that wooden paddle from your bedroom, telling me to keep my skirt up and my panties where they were, rolled under my cheeks in such a way that made me want to reach back and hide my burning shame, in my mind I hesitated. But that hesitation didn't last long, because you said so and it must be done.



When you ordered me to the corner my resistance was gone, weathered away by the storm of your palm and paddle thundering against my cheeks, your words making me feel small and quiet but not insignificant. Never insignificant. I feel like the center of your world when you hold me. When you look at me, I know you are seeing all of the parts, flaws and all, and you cherish them. You even kiss the ugly parts of me.

And when you made me bend in front of you while you were seated, I knew you were seeing everything -- turning me into a house without walls, opening me in such a way that hiding was impossible -- and it scared me for a moment. But I did it because you said so.



This is unusual for me. I am the girl who needs to know why. I am the woman who makes up her own mind. But because you say so, I do not question you. I know that you will keep me safe, battling my own fears right alongside me, demanding that with you there is always truth. With you, in humility there is dignity.

I love it when you say so.

I need you to say so.

I am yours because I say so.

Paper Tigers

I say, love will come to you.
Hoping just because I spoke the words
that they're true,
as if I've offered up a crystal ball
to look through:
where there's now one, there will be two.

-Indigo Girls "Love Will Come to You"

If there were words that could function as shields, I'd find them and shield her. If there were words that could act as medicine, I'd administer them and heal her. I'd champion and protect her, bolster and defend her, go into battle armed solely with poetry and praise.

If only there were words that could do all of that.

Because there aren't, my words are mere paper tigers, sent with a wish that they nestle on her desk among her scribblings and cover her in silken velvet to calm the predator of pain inside her. I wish her love. I wish her hope. I wish her the warmth of arms enveloping her until the morning light awakens her with a kiss to the lovely forehead which holds her brilliant mind.

In this world, this spanking world, I neglectfully avoid in-depth discussions of love and friendship, two things far more valuable than the flush of pink cheeks. Why do I do that? Perhaps because mere words do not do them justice; they do not convey all that I am thankful for. I am thankful for her.

And I wish, I wish...but I have stopped wishing, so it is more a statement of fact without knowledge of how or when.

Love will come. I am certain. It will come.

Crazed (not crazy)

I hate this. I love this.

My life would be so much simpler, yet fundamentally incomplete, without it.

This craving that cannot be satisfied by anything else inches its way into the dishes, the laundry, phone calls with friends. On my daily walk I fantasize bizarre and unusual scenarios -- being spanked by my neighbor, the postman, the man with the annoying dog who I pass most mornings.


And yet there are times when I most definitely do not enjoy D's attention to detail when painting my behind. It is not an entirely pleasant or dignified affair, me blubbering "stop, stop, please" as I fight to gain some space between my bottom and the strap, my losing battle later evident in the mirror when I gaze upon my poor, punished cheeks.

Unless I'm role-playing, I'm not the type to protest much when it comes time to unbutton my pants -- I want this. And I certainly don't protest after the first few warming smacks from D's hand; I could handle a warm-up that lasts all day.


But when things really get going, when the *thwack* and *crack* of the wooden paddle echo in the room, I wonder what ever made me think I enjoy this. I want it to stop. I want to escape.

Is this really what I think about when lying in my bed? Is this really what I focus on over my first cup of coffee?

I must be crazy.


I feel my body's response to the unrelenting rhythm, the spanks landing lower and lower on my cheeks, and, as the spanking builds, I can't help but grind against him, then rise up to meet my adversary, simultaneously hoping for the end while yearning for it to continue.

I would point to the amazing sex we enjoy afterward, but I know that that's only part of the attraction. I've had spanking relationships with no sex at all which served their purpose -- although it must be said that I would carve out some alone time, one foot propped on the bathtub while my fingers provided relief to the other aching area that needed attention.


Wondering why I love to be spanked would be like wondering why another needs to be kissed -- although for me there's nothing sweeter than a kiss laced with the possibility of a spanking later.

And when my pleas turn to moans which turn to gasps punctuated by cresting waves, who am I to question why I have this need?

I just do.

Note to readers: Duct tape can only hold a computer together for so long. Mine is finally being fixed by a real professional and I will be offline for a few days. I pinky promise to respond to comments upon my return.

If cats could talk...

If cats could talk, mine would describe how last night, in a moment of kinship, I arched my back and howled as if in heat while the strange man used me as a scratching post, his paws rubbing and smacking with alarming speed and accuracy.

She would tell you, in great detail, about my mews and growls, the way I lifted my bottom up for more attention and rubbed my scent all over the man, marking him as mine.

Then her story would shift to one of petting and purring, whispering and moaning as he took his turn in marking me as his, her owner now owned by the man with the brush in his hand.

Birthday wish

There are wishes grand and small.

There are wishes we've had since the beginning of wishing, and some that are born right this instant, wishes that if they came true would make all the difference in the life of the wisher or wishes that make no matter to the bigger picture.

Today is my birthday.

When I blew out all 34 candles I made a wish, as I have for the 33 years before. I squeezed my eyes tight for a second and threw my whole being into that wish. I pictured all that stood in the way of my wish-come-true-ending. I pictured how far I have come and how much further I have yet to go. I thought about the pain in last year's wish that did not come true. I thought about how much I am still recovering from that lost wish. Last year's wish was big, but not-so-big...it was almost realized but then slipped inexplicably from my horizon.

Now mine is a small wish. I am not idealistic enough to wish for world peace, or the end of hunger, or a better economy, or the end to oil spills, or even for my 20-year-old body to magically reappear in the mirror. No, it is a small wish.



And because I am not a superstitious person, I can share my wish here. It is simple: no more wishing.

I have hopes and dreams, but I will not wish anymore. Wishing has only reminded me of the things I do not have, the things I have lost, the person I will never be. A wish, to me, is telling myself that I am not enough, that the world is not enough. It is propaganda. It is self-defeating. It is a child's dream.

I am here, in this moment, achieving exactly what I have achieved -- no more, no less. And that is absolutely enough.

This is my gift to myself today. It is freedom to be who I am. It is an affirmation of the wonderful person I am right this second. If all the seconds that follow are as blessed as the ones before, then I am all right. I am fine and optimistic and I am thankful.

Tonight I raise a solitary glass in a toast to my new world founded on reality and careful planning for the future -- a world without wishing but still full of hope, a world full of spankings and spooning afterward. This world, for me, holds more love and friendship than any star in the cosmos could ever grant.

Not now, honey. I have a headache.

This post may break "girl code".

I've experienced daily headaches since my mid-20s. After trying just about all of the pharmaceuticals on the market, and a battery of tests, nothing has ever actually fixed it. I'm not complaining -- it's just a fact of life around here. Most days I don't even notice that I have the headache; it's just there, waiting to suck.

I have, however, discovered home remedies.

The first I discovered by accident: jalapeños. At the first sign that my headache is turning serious, I pop a jalapeño and the pain abates. I have a theory on this, but it's not very scientific and I may get laughed at...but it has to do with the spiciness dilating blood vessels in the brain, thereby releasing pressure.

The second remedy is experiencing earth-shattering orgasms while in a dark room. This barely needs explanation. Don't orgasms temporarily cure most of what ails us?

The third remedy was discovered through a series of unfortunate events (in which I believe I dropped a few f-bombs) that had me landing face down over a set of knees. Despite my headache, the owner of those knees took it upon himself to spank some politeness into me.

And spank he did. As he spanked, I noticed something happening to my head. It was no longer tight and pounding; clear thought had returned and I could, instead, focus on the pain in my bottom alone. Afterward, the headache took its time in reappearing -- I had hours of freedom from head pain.

Of course, my throbbing head was upgraded to a throbbing bottom, but I think you all know how much I'm likely to complain about that.

This is where I may be selling out the sisterhood: that tried and true excuse of, "Not now, honey; I have a headache" no longer holds.

It's been officially debunked and replaced with, "NOW, honey! I have a headache!!"

Naked

Before I met D, he saw me naked.

I'd sent photos of my bottom before, in various poses and hues of pink, covered in panties at first and then, as my courage grew, completely bare. Those photos I'd come to regard as a hand-shake among spankos. "Nice to meet you. Here's my beautiful bum."

I'd sent photos of my breasts at his special request, including one close-up of my right nipple which I'd teased into a peak between my damp fingers.


But this last photo was the most risque of all. I was standing naked except for a thin swatch of black lace covering my pussy, exposed to the man I would soon be meeting. Even though you could not see my face, my shyness was evident in the way my arm curled protectively around my hips and in the slant of my shoulders, at once conveying a mix of self-confidence and vulnerability.

I hit 'send' and nervously waited, realizing that tinged with fear was exhilaration at my audacity. I am, despite my tendency to send photographs of my spanked bottom, a good girl.

I could not believe that I would have taken a virtually fully nude photograph, much less sent it. In shedding my inhibitions, had I become bereft of decency? And, if so, was this a bad thing?

His response came mercifully fast and was full of compliments. "You are beautiful. I can't wait to meet you," he typed quickly over Yahoo Messenger.

I released the breath I hadn't known I'd been holding.


We spankos are visual creatures. I am no different, pouring over photo after photo of women in various stages of undress, draped over couches, knees and tables. We like what we like, whether it's athletic or chubby or lean or curvy. Because D and I were so well matched in every other way and had grown incredibly close in a short amount of time, I wanted reassurance that he would find my physical form as attractive as my words.

The only thing left to discover was how we moved together, if we fit. Would our online chemistry translate to the real thing?

The knowledge that this man whose hand I was shaking for the first time had already seen me naked only added to the sizzle of our first meeting. And, in case you are new to this blog, I am delighted to report that the chemistry was, and still is, most certainly there.

Shimmer

I wake up in the cocoon of his comforter, the well-washed softness of the sheets caressing my naked body, the heat from my bottom like a warming brick in the bed.

I remember how it started, when I was placed over his lap and he began the slow beat against my bared cheeks; I remember kicking my feet as he increased the heat with the paddle.

And then I remember...intangibles. Everything was at a distance. My body and mind surrendered to him as he took me to El Dorado, the Lost City of Gold. His voice, soothing and faraway, recalled as a kiss to the forehead -- reassuring and kind, as if he wanted to tell me something.


Look at what I can show you. Look where I can take you if you permit me.
Look at the golden magnificence, shining its offering, laid at your feet.
Listen to the thunder; smell the washed air, crisp and impossibly alive with electricity.

Inhale.
Exhale.

Be.

There is no need to measure time, but it feels as though I was gone for hours before I feel his lips press against my nose, his hand cupping my face, his breath tickling my ear and neck.

Prompting me to open my eyes, he whispers for me to see our world as it really is: the dim quiet of his bedroom; the glowing sunlight of early evening fighting through the blinds; and my gold dust-covered King shimmering beside me, my souvenir from El Dorado.

To my lover

The only way to tell you this is with my panties at mid-thigh.



Do you see the beauty mark that hides beneath the roundness of this cheek?

Yes, that one.

That is yours.



Do you see the way my thighs kiss together just above my panties and then part to form a Y?

Trace the space with your fingers.

That space between is yours.



And these thighs that hold so much power?

These thighs that know no yielding, no rest throughout the day, yield to you.

They are yours, too.



And the way my bottom flares from my hips like an upside-down heart?

When I'm over your knees, it is righted, a heart made for you to color to your desired hue -- any shade of pink or red will do.

Yes, my bottom is yours, too.



I want to say more but the only way to tell you is with my hips across your knees...

Paying for it

"There are no good girls gone wrong,
just bad girls found out."

-Mae West

I'm not used to people catching on. I'm used to getting away with it.

Perhaps it is my innocent appearance -- wide blue eyes, cherubic cheeks framed in blonde curls, my tendency toward blushing -- but I was never suspected of wrongdoing by authority figures.

For an entire month as a senior in high school, I fabricated an excuse to leave English class mid-way through so I could sit in the parking lot and smoke. No note was needed; the strength of my pristine reputation was enough.

I never once had detention. And despite my propensity for turning in late papers, I never received a poor mark in any class.

No, I was not suspected of any wrongdoing until now. My past years of skating under authority's radar, blinking my eyes in feigned innocence, my face wearing the "who me?" expression, are over. He knows exactly who I am.

When he tells me to lower my panties, he needs no reason. But sometimes I guess I do. Perhaps that's why, when I'm over his knee, my mind flashes back to the wealth of past, unaccounted-for offenses. I've not told him this yet. He hasn't added up the penalties and interest.

But I have:

Twenty-five separate spankings for that month in senior year that I skipped class. Forty-seven spankings for being tardy to Accounting. Thirty-eight spankings for stealing rolls of toilet paper from the dorms when I lived in off-campus housing and money was tight. One hundred fifty-six spankings for the entire semester of Philosophy that I missed while still managing an "A". Ka-ching, ka-ching -- the list goes on.

I continue to add to it, earning spankings for being ornery, disobedient and bossy.

It is a 30-year mortgage that I pay off weekly. Neither those who have tolerated my misbehavior nor my disciplinarian are aware of the deposits. But given that the payments are so delicious, perhaps I should have incurred more naughty debt in my youth?


This week's payment is late. I'm looking forward to paying that off with interest. Maybe it's time to let him know about the secret bank account.