There are punishment spankings and there are discussion spankings. Last Saturday was a bit of both. The former type, punishment spankings, are fairly self-explanatory. I do something naughty, I get punished with a spanking.
The second type are a bit more difficult to describe. When I asked A. what he would call them, he blurted out “Daddy Spankings.” Why? “Because it’s where I help you figure out what you’re going to do and give you structure.” But, of course, punishment spankings would fall into that category too. Then he joked about them being “Daddy Bush Spankings” because there is an element of pre-emption to them. Yet, we both conceded that it was more than just keeping me from doing something bad. They are more about focusing my mind on the task or tasks ahead. I also find that they give attention to that little girl part of me – the “Natty” part if you will – so that she won’t be trying to distract me from what I need to focus on.
Usually we just refer to them as a discussion about my schedule which, of course, includes time across his knee.
When A. arrived six and a half weeks before, he announced that we were going to have a discussion about my writing, which is what most of these spankings have been about. I’ve been working on an autobiographical novel for awhile now and thanks to A.’s…er…motivational techniques, I’m about two hundred or so pages along. However, this winter I hit a point where I wasn’t sure which way I wanted to take the novel and needed to take a break. Then with all of the health problems I've had since May, not only have I been unsure about what to write, I’ve been too sick to write regardless.
However, various things kept getting in the way of having the discussion, which was fine with me because I still didn’t know what I wanted to do. When I mentioned that to him, he said that if I needed more time to think, that was fine. The conclusion I finally came to was to continue to put the writing on hold while I worked out some additional emotional issues and just focus on my health, as it does take up most of my energy these days.
So, the discussion was to be about my health. But we still didn't get around to it, and I was beginning to think we weren’t going to bother with it.
Until last Saturday.
“We never did have that discussion,” A. remembered as he gave me a few playful swats in the kitchen.
Um…no, we hadn’t…
“Do you know what you want to be on your schedule?”
“I guess.” I mean, there were the basics, though he sort of caught me by surprise to remember anything specific. Being the generous fellow that he is, he gave me 15 minutes to think about it, during which time he managed to knock over one of my herb pots as he closed the windows. The basil was safe, but my terra cotta pot was toast. Though if the neighor can spank his partner with the windows open, I don't know why we bother closing them, especially with the fan on.
He began removing implements from the box under the bed. I pouted as he took out the brush, the cane, and the wooden spatula. He also took out the strap, but, well, that one I don't mind so much.
I had waken up in a little girl sort of mood that day. And then got sorta cranky in that little girl sort of mood. I wanted a spanking. But not the really hard kind. And I knew this one was going to be the really hard kind because I knew this discussion would include a confession of sorts.
Yes, if we were going to talk about my health, I was going to have to confess the fact that I still have a problem with willfulness when it comes to appreciating the limitations my illness entails. Namely, if I want to do something, I will find a way to do it, my health be damned. Okay, I'm not quite that willful. But I do have a remarkable penchant for talking myself into stuff that my gut instinct says is not a good idea.
Like taking three classes this last term which meant I had class everyday when I haven't done actual in-class coursework for two years and haven't done an everyday schedule in years and years (I think the last time might have been 1996).
And starting them after I went to Divine Liturgy (the Byzantine Rite version of Mass, but longer, especially on holy days) three times the week before during Holy Week when I usually just barely manage to make it through one a week.
And didn't have a rest day like I always do in a 7 day period because of Easter, for which I had to go to my mom's.
I mean, I don't think it was the only reason I had the worse relapse of CFIDS/ME this spring/summer that I've had in three years, but it was probably one of the primary reasons.
The confession is all the more grave because it's been a pattern of mine for quite awhile now. A. has been aware of it, even spanked me once because of it, but as we don't even live on the same continent, I knew he may not be aware of just how much of a problem this was for me.
But, there was time to get to that. First was the initial discussion over his knee. The warm-up with his hand. The stopping to talk about what I was going to do and then writing them down in my notebook. Which ended up involving another confession as I'd talked about keeping my health diary a few weeks back but sorta...um...forgot. Lots of whacks with the brush. Some more discussion as we transitioned to me over a stack of pillows on the bed. That was when I made the confession. Sitting naked with the pile of pillows next to me. Looking back and forth between my lampshade and him because confessing is...hard. More notations in my notebook. More whacks with the brush. Then I had to write out exactly what I was going to do or not do. Listen as he read them aloud and after each thing I got several strokes with the cane. And just to make sure I was both truly sorry and would be truly not ignoring what my body tells me in the future, he spanked my thighs with the wooden spatula. Hard.
"Okay. It's over. Big cuddle." I crawled up to him. Sobbing but with only a slight bit of moisture in my eyes. "Please, please keep this schedule," he said with the kind of chuckle that someone horrified gives. "Or I will so thrash your thighs."
I was still sobbing the kind of sob that someone who has just had their thighs thrashed gives.
We were talking a bit more when he suddenly changed his mind.
"Back over the pillows."
"But you said it was over!" My retort was met with a volley of stinging smacks to my still simmering backside.
"When you're done complaining, we'll continue." It was that stern, implacable voice with which, while feeling that I had been dealt a true injustice, knew better than to argue. I scowled and bent over the pillows. He handed me the notebook. "I want you to read each thing out."
So, bent over the pillows with my spiral-bound notebook in hand, I read out each item on the page.
"Keep a health diary each day, including minutes on the computer."
The room reverberated with the sound of the strap smacking my ass. When it stopped, I went on to the next thing. After each item I got several hard whacks. The only thing that softened my annoyance was that at least it was the strap, which I actually kinda like. Though, not as much when it's on my already thoroughly thrashed bottom.
"I will not overextend myself when I'm feeling well nor continue doing activities when I'm feeling poorly."
That one I had to read twice. And got whacked after each time.
"Okay, now it's really over." He put the strap down and craddled me. Explained that he realized afterwards that having me read out the items would be even more effective. "What a mean boy," he teased. "I bet that's going in the blog." In a mock voice he whined, "but he said it was over!"
"Oh, you better believe that's going in the blog." I grinned.
And, so it has. Now up for your discussion.
