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.
I've been quiet for quite a while. Some of this is because life has gotten in the way. My health hasn't been great (although I've been happy to discover that part of the problem was anemia, and that's eased up by finding a better iron supplement), and there have been big non-disciplinary changes in my and W's lives.
But more than that, it's because discipline hasn't been happening, or has been happening in frustrating ways, or has been complicated in ways that I haven't been able to put into words. I've spent a lot of the past two years or so feeling rather inarticulate about many things.
I'm still rather inarticulate, but I've decided I'll go ahead and try to write something, because it's entirely possible that I will find words once I start writing.
W and I have been on hiatus with discipline off and on for nearly two years now. Contrary to my disciplinary fantasies, W does not take easily to being in charge. She struggles with it, and many of her own physical and mental health issues were getting in the way. On top of that, she didn't seem to be entirely clear about benefitting from this arrangement on her own behalf, and that was building up a lot of resentment for both of us. So, not quite two years ago, I asked to take a break until she was ready to be the one to re-initiate.
This has been a struggle, but much less of one than it might have been, because I have gotten to the point where I don't absolutely need discipline in order to cope with life. I still generally follow my rules, whether or not there are consequences for breaking them. I am able to maintain a level of emotional balance without the ongoing structure of discipline. It's still hard, but I am proud of what I've been able to manage. I trust W enough that I have worked to give her the space to take care of herself. Mostly. Well, at least more than half the time. I hope.
W has re-initiated discipline a few times, but we've wound up drifting away over and over again. When either of us is exhausted, as happens much of the time, or too busy, as also happens, discipline falls by the wayside. And each time we drift away, I find it harder to reach a place where I am able to be submissive, which makes it all the harder to re-start the next time.
That resistance has been one of my main struggles. I am frustrated with myself, for needing discipline. I'm able to acknowledge that, even though I can keep myself in line, and behave respectfully, and follow the rules even when discipline isn't happening... I still need it. I am less relaxed when discipline isn't happening. I am more stressed. But more than that, I am less open in my relationship with W.
In a lot of ways, I think that comes from having very few in-person role models for a relationship with discipline. I was able to accept being a lesbian because I knew other people who were, and I could see that it was a healthy way to deal with the fact that I am primarily attracted to women. I was able to accept kink because I knew plenty of other people who were kinky, and I could see it as part of the healthy range of sexuality. What's more, the people that I spend most of my time with, even if they are not themselves homosexual, and even if they do not practice kink... they accept those things in me.
But the only people I know who practice discipline, I know from the internet. My community doesn't include people who are out about discipline, and it does include a lot of people who are very disapproving of it. So, as much as I know that this is a healthy expression of who I am, I struggle with it. And as much as I can observe in myself that discipline is a part of how I am wired, when it is something that the people around me don't understand or disapprove of, it becomes harder to honor in myself.
And over the past two years, it's become much easier for me to deny my need for discipline to myself. I don't need it to make sure that I take care of myself, or that I treat W well, or to help manage feelings, or to help lay bad memories to rest. I am able to manage without it, but there is something missing when I do.
I feel frustrated by that, furious at myself for being unable to be as affectionate with W when discipline isn't happening. I want for it not to make a difference. I want for discipline to be something like schoolgirl scenes--something that might turn me on, sure, but that isn't necessary for me to be the person I want to be in our relationship.
I feel guilty about needing it, too. I feel like I'm withholding affection from W in order to make her do what I want. But at the same time, even when I don't intend it, when she establishes her authority with me, I respond without even thinking. I am closer to her, more open to her, more affectionate with her. Even when I try to resist that, or when I am afraid that the dynamic will disappear as quickly as it came, I respond to it. And when I am able to put it into the context of my core sexuality--no different from being a lesbian, for instance--I can understand that it's not something I need to feel guilty about. But it's hard to put it into that context for myself.
W has re-started discipline again. She has said that she misses it when it's not happening--not just because of the benefits of me being more affectionate and more attentive, but also because of the benefits she gets from being more assertive and more in control. She needs that structure of accountability as much as I do, too. Perhaps even more (since I've been a paragon of responsibility and all... or at least, I've been doing the best I can within the overwhelming limits of my physical health).
And I am finding myself struggling with another kind of resistance. I might be wired to be submissive, but that doesn't mean it's easy for me.
I'm bossy. I'm controlling. I'm always right. (Well, I know that two of three are true.) And these tendencies in me butt up against W's lifetime of bending to stronger personalities, giving up control rather than fighting to keep it, and being told that she's wrong until she almost believes it.
In our dynamic, this means that W struggles with confidence, and I struggle with not taking advantage of her doubts in order to avoid submitting. Neither of us does this intentionally, and for the most part, we don't even do it consciously.
So re-starting discipline means re-starting that uncomfortable dynamic of stepping out of the roles we are accustomed to. It means wrestling with a painful kind of emotional growth, where we attempt to be more fully ourselves.
In more concrete terms, it means that she is pushing herself to be more in charge while I find myself testing that authority as soon as she exerts it. It's frustrating for both of us, and has been a stumbling-block in our disciplinary dynamic since we began. What is even more frustrating is that we've recognized that just because I'm not overtly testing doesn't mean that I'm not engaging in a more subtle process of avoiding submitting to her authority by behaving well. My childhood left me with a deep capacity for following rules as a method of resisting authority, and it is hard for me to avoid that pattern even now.
I am an adult, and I have become more aware of these dynamics, and (thank heaven) nineteen years after leaving home, I am able to at least be conscious of where my responses are coming from. At the same time, I am aware that resisting too much will undermine W's confidence, discourage her, and make her less able to reach her dominant self.
Right now, I'm working on accepting the responses I have, even though they contradict both what I want and what I need. I am hoping that by allowing myself to simply observe "Oh, yes, I am resisting, and I am not open to ceding control," rather than trying to suppress that response, or deny it... I'm hoping that if I acknowledge those feelings without acting on them, we will get through this re-start and wind up in a new place.
It's all a process, and I'm still in the middle of it, and I'm still feeling pretty darned inarticulate. But, hey, I seem to have written fifteen hundred words, so I can't be all that inarticulate, can I?
Hello and happy holidays. It's been a busy year for lots of reasons and sadly this blog has suffered neglect. 2012 will be better, I promise, but I'm thankful that you still come and see us. All of us have experienced a lot of changes over the seven years the PB has been up. Some we've shared here, others we haven't. But we've never stopped caring about TTWD, each other or the many wonderful men and women who read here and care about the topic.
But enough about that, on to the reason for this blog post. Over the past two years I've been following Pandora Blake's quest to create a spanking film and photo site quite closely. Today that site, Dreams of Spanking, went live. There's lots of wonderful content and I like it for reasons I discuss on my blog, but my main reason for mentioning it here is that two of the Punishment Book's writers, Zille (in Caned in Jodhpurs) and Haron AKA Adele Haze (topping her lovely partner Jimmy in Her Ladyship's Breakfast) have filmed and worked on the site. I've put a couple of my favorite stills (with permission) up, but you should go and look at the site.
But most of all, congratulations to Pandora, Haron and Zille. I've always known you dream of spanking, but it's wonderful to get to see what those dreams are.
How do we love our Lurkers? Let me count the ways.
sparkle loves her lurkers enough to keep writing even if they keep lurking.
Zille loves you enough to search porn sites for spanking content.
Haron goes to munches to meet you.
Dyke Grrl set up and runs This Thing We Do.
Bridget shows you how she looks dressed as a scarf.
Angie shares her life, the light and the dark.
Natty and Iris come out and play whenever they can.
And me, Mija wants to know your favorite song.
Welcome to Love Our Lurkers Day 2011! And many thanks to the amazing Bonnie for her fantastic feats of organization.
[This blog post has been written twice. The first draft got eaten by TypePad (boo!). I thought maybe this was a sign that this story wasn't meant to be shared, but Zille and Paul convinced me that if I didn't share the story here, pictures of my bottom and its cane marks could end up on Twitter. Since the last thing I want to do is show my bottom to the world for being caned for not going to the gym enough, and thus prove why I need to go to the gym more often, I'm busy re-typing this on the bus.]
As those of you who read here and / or Spanking Blog know, I've asked Paul to help me make better use of my gym membership by giving me 49 strokes of the cane, that's one for every dollar my membership costs, any week I don't make it to the gym at least three times. Paul gets to pick everything about the caning except the number of strokes. He can choose the cane he wants, what I wear and what position I'm caned in. This week I only went to the gym once. My reckoning was last night (Sunday).
Now I wasn't entirely sure I would really get caned for missing the gym this week. I had some very good excuses. First, my gym isn't air conditioned and last week it was very hot several days. So I didn't go to the gym for fear of getting over-heated. Then my mother showed up with all her loveliness and drama. I spent one whole day running errands with her. So I didn't go to the gym that day either. Saturday was taken up with a family party. I couldn't go to the gym Saturday. And Sunday I had to go out to brunch with a friend of my parents. And then I had to come home and get my writing sample ready. I couldn't go to the gym on Sunday. Suddenly all the days were gone and a week had past with only one gym trip. But of course Paul would understand.
He understood and even agreed I had very good reasons for not having gone to the gym. But that didn't matter. I hadn't gone and I'd asked him to punish me, to cane me, if I didn't go. I think if he had made the rule, he might have let me off this week. Maybe not. But because I asked for this and didn't say "except for weeks when it's really hot or I'm really busy" he followed through. And that's right. My gym opens at 5:30 AM and is open until 11:00 PM. We make time for things that are important and getting good use out of my gym membership and spending some time on my body is important. Truth be told, for all that my excuses are good, I could have gone.
Paul let me know yesterday afternoon that I was going to be caned. I struggled a bit with the knowledge. I was in the midst of wrestling with the text of my writing sample and couldn't quite make room in my head for the idea of being caned. So I buried myself in my work and didn't think about it. Even as evening progressed (with me still working away) I was in denial. You see, not only is my dad with us this week, my mom is here as well. They sleep in the bedroom next to ours. And unlike my dad, my mom is a light sleeper.
When I came out of the bathroom after doing all those evening things, the nursery cane was at the end of the bed. He was going to go through with it.
I thought about calling safeword on the caning. I mean, my mom.
But the thing is, part of me didn't want to. I want to be held accountable. I asked for this. So I cowardly tried to slide into bed with the vague hope that if I fell asleep fast (all that writing and editing had made me tired) Paul wouldn't cane me. After all, he's always trying to get me to sleep. He sternly told me not to get into bed.
So I took a deep breath and stood next to the bed, after closing the door, and, rather sadly, pushing my bed stool up against it. I hoped that like last week, this week he'd be using the cane over the knee (thats' what the nursery cane, which is short and thin, is made for). Sure enough, he sat down on the bed and had me pull down my pjs. I took them down and climbed over his lap. He spent a good amount of time adjusting my position, turning the top of my body closer to the head of the bed and my bottom further down his leg. What he was doing wasn't clear to me until the first stroke landed.
He was giving himself more room to swing so the tip of the cane would land harder.
The first stroke landed like a cut. The thing is, the nursery cane is very very thin and really really stings. That was true last week, but from the start it was clear this caning was a lot harder than the one the week before before. But, my brain cried, as I considered screaming, my parents are in the next room. So I pulled my hands forward (my arms had been folded behind my back) and started counting off the strokes on my right fingers, one at a time, while on my left I kept track in groups of twelve.
The thing about the thin cane is that it really stings. When Paul used it on me it felt more like a switch than a cane. By the time he reached twelve I could feel the tip marks crossing. The sting was terrible and I fought with myself to lie still. Paul will probably say I wasn't still, but I'm sure I mostly was. As I counted each one off it seemed an impossible number was left. When he reached twenty-four I started to panic and tears welled up in my eyes. I tried to keep my breathing slow and even because I knew if I started crying I might make noise. And making noise, being heard by my parents seemed much worse than even the hurt the cane was doing.
Strange as it may seem, at thirty-six I felt a sense of relief because it meant there were only twelve left. However much they might hurt, I could get through twelve more. Paul sped up and the strokes landed harder still and faster, making me gasp into the sheets. My feet fluttered as I tried hard not to kick. After quite a build-up of pain, it ended in a rush -- an almost "is that all there is?" moment. Then the burn started to soak in.
Paul kept me over his lap as he rubbed some LUSH dream cream into my bottom. It stings, but in a soothing sort of way. It hurt enough that I teared a bit as we snuggled close but I expected all signs to be gone by morning. This is so not the case. Almost 24 hours later and I'm still sitting tenderly, the right side of my bottom is still hot to the touch. Yes, this is me pouting a bit.
But not too much. I did, after all, ask for this. And I'm sure this week I will make it to the gym at least three times. Why am I sure? First because I want to. Second because my bottom really hurts. And third, my parents will not be here next weekend. Paul has let it be known that should he have to cane me next week, I won't be getting off with the nursery cane.
I'm going to be such a good girl. No, really.
The Punishment Book has been sleeping for a bit. I think this is inevitable -- we're all busy with lives and individual blogs. Some of us who are doing discipline and punishment may not want to write about it at the moment. Or maybe feel it's a story we've already told. At the same time, this blog, which was one of the only DD / disipline or WIIWD blogs 7 years ago is now one of many.
But I thought I might tell you what's been up with me. As those of you who read my own blog know, I finally finished my Ph.D. -- which means I lost my job. Paul and I are oddly in the position, for the first time in our relationship where I have to depend on him financially for everything. To put it mildly, this sucks (although he's been lovely about it). I start a new part time job in January so hopefully I'm not going to get to used to it.
Meanwhile, not having money of my own has made me very aware of all my expenses. I don't waste money generally, but I have been making coffee and lunch at home a lot more often. I also have had to face the fact that I have been wasting money for months in one specific area. My gym fees are $49 a month and I haven't been using it. I considered dropping the membership but the thing is I really do need to exercise more -- a yoga DVD here and there and walking isn't really cutting it. Plus, when I go, I enjoy my gym. So I asked Paul to give me 45 strokes of the cane any week I don't go to the gym at least three times.
How did the first week go? I got 49 strokes of the small cane (with my dad sleeping in the next room -- yuck!) on Sunday night. Monday I went to the gym. This week is already going better.
Oh and for those of you still reading... hello again.
[I wrote this for my blog but I'm reposting it here because the discrimination against M/M spanking in the spanking scene is a total kink in my kink as Natty would say. It makes me feel bad about myself and being part of this scene. It's a face of homophobia, something I don't tolerate in any part of my life and I'm done tolerating in the spanking scene. Be warned.]
As many of you know, I'm not exactly white. I'm Mexican American or as I prefer to call myself, Chicana. My father and my grandparents were born here in Los Angeles, but my great-grandparents came up from Zacatecas, Mexico. I grew up in Los Angeles where having a white mother didn't make me anything but Mexican. That said, I didn't experience too much discrimination. My parents were very careful, protecting my sister, brother and me from the hate and fear that my father's face and skin color could evoke. Still, up through the 1980s, they had a hard time moving into white neighborhoods. Realtors refused to show them homes, tried to steer them to the browner parts of town. And this was with my mother being white.
My uncle's family experienced all that and much more. My cousins don't have a white mother to temper their skin tone and that color's effect on the neighborhood. When they moved into a white part of town, a "welcome wagon" met them with a chicken casserole and a request that they keep their children in the backyard for fear the sight of these brown children would lower property values.
So what you say? Sad, but these are different times, right?
I say wrong and I'm calling our spanking community out on it. What groups like Crimson Moon and Ms. Margaret's SCONY are doing by not allowing M/M spanking in their groups, what SpankingTube is doing by not having M/M searches come up in their general search is the same damn thing as racial redlining was in a previous generation. It maybe legally right, but it's ethically reprehensible.
But, but, some people don't like M/M spanking. So what? I don't like oral sex. I don't ask that it be banned or shunted off into a corner so I don't have to stumble upon it. I just avert my gaze and look at something I do like. For those of you who think you can't learn to stomach M/M spanking, I urge you to free your mind and grow the fuck up. If your arousal is so fragile that the sight or suggestion of M/M spanking can take it down, you may need some medical help. Not everything in the scene has to exist specifically to get you off.
But, but, you agree with me. Really. You wish these spanking groups or SpankingTube didn't discriminate. Then live your beliefs. Don't patronize them. Don't use their sites. Don't go to their parties. And let them know why you're not. That you'd like to, but because of their policy toward M/M spanking in our scene, you can't. Then go places like Shadow Lane and SF-CP that are open to everyone whatever their orientation.
But, but, Mija, you're ranting.
Yes. Yes I am. Don't hate. You know you don't want to. And don't support people who can and do.
ADDED: For more information on what SpankingTube is doing and why it sucks see this post by Paul: The Problem with SpankingTube.com
For a less rant-y take on M/M spanking see this post by Indy: Homophobia in the Scene.
----
PS. What did my uncle do? He had his twin brother move in next door with his family. And then two put up a basketball hoop so all the kids played outside in the street, property values be damned.
This is just a quick note based on some comments we've had here recently. We all freely to consent and in many cases initiated discipline / punishment relationships.
This is not a blog about wives and girlfriends who get beaten because that's the way wives and girlfriends should be treated by the men or women in their lives. It's a real life discussion (albeit rather a slow one lately) by women who freely choose this because, for whatever reasons (it varies -- just ask us, we've been writing for six years here alone) it works for us.
How does discipline / punishment work for me? I like it. I like the way it makes me feel. How does it make me feel? Focused. Loved. Respected. Looked after. Powerful. That Paul punishes me makes me, well, feel lust in my heart toward him. If he decided he didn't want to do it anymore, I would feel the loss. I asked for this -- I love that we have this dynamic between us, want Paul to have the power to punish me if and when he decides to do it.
Go ahead and think me twisted or sick if you want. But don't paint me as an unwilling victim. I won't let you.
[My dad is currently out of town for a week. The plan was that I'd be spanked each night. Nice spankings though. Except, well, I got in the way of that lovely plan.]
As Paul reported in a not-at-all cryptic comment on Twitter:
Not meant as ooo-look-at-us, but @eltercerojo went to bed genuinely scolded and spanked tonight. Both real and surprisingly resonant.
That's the short version. All of it is true. This is going to be the longer story, one maybe that will keep something like it from happening again anytime soon. As I've reported repeatedly in the past, most of my being in trouble and punishments happen not because of anything willful, but because I either don't think things through or am not paying attention to what I'm doing.
So what happened?
Last night as I was getting ready for bed, I did a final check on my computer before letting it go to sleep for the night. Paul noticed what it was busy doing and asked me what I was downloading.
"Criminal Minds" said I. My mother recently got me hooked on the show, which I'd never seen. It combines two of my favorite things -- the police procedural and serial killers. As is the case with me when I find something I like, I've become obsessed with the show, recording the new episodes and the ION and A&E reruns on our DVR, watching them as fast as I can. Definitely enjoying each episode. Except for one thing -- the reruns aren't being broadcast in the original order, at least not exactly. Thus I'm only able to get a rough idea of the series arching plot lines. So Wednesday I decided to somehow download the episodes onto my computer so I could watch them in order. I was so focused on my desire to collect these episodes that the lack legality / ethics of what I was doing never crossed my mind.
I know. What an idiot.
The legal issues did not escape Paul who at first thought I was joking. He doesn't like Criminal Minds anyway and has been patiently exasperated with my obsessive viewing. So blinded was I with what I wanted, I didn't get why he was cross and scolding at first. I thought he was just annoyed I was going to be watching even more. My first hint was when he said:
"You're doing this from my account? The one with my name on it?"
Oh yes. Oh no.
It's not often that Paul scolds me. Last night he really did. I tried to justify myself at first, but then like a flash of light I realized how wrong and careless I was being. And not even using my own accounts, but using Paul's. What had I been thinking? Not very much was the answer to that.
He told me to finish getting ready for bed (brushing teeth, washing face, taking meds) and then to go stand in the corner.
"Which corner?" I asked, kind of stalling.
"You know which corner." His no nonsense tone made my stomach flip-flop. Still, even while I stood there for however long it was, even when he took me by the ear and pulled me to the bedroom, I imagined he'd use his hand. After all, that was what we'd talked about earlier. A long hard one maybe, but a hand spanking.
Except the heavy ebony hairbrush was on the nightstand next to the bed. This was serious.
I immediately went from feeling sorry for what I'd done to being worried about what was about to happen.
Paul sat on the edge of the bed and put me over his leg. On the one hand this position is easier to hold than being over his lap on a chair. On the other hand, he can pin my arms and legs easily. I've never managed to escape or even effectively block smacks. I went over his leg and buried my face in the comforter.
My pajamas were tugged down. A hand spanking started hard over my panties, followed by an even harder hairbrushing. Adding to my intense discomfort was the fact I could hear our new neighbors upstairs. Were they hearing my spanking? I struggled to stay quiet and block the brush, only to have it move to my thighs until my hands were again pinned. Paul pulled my panties down and continued, this time on my bare bottom. I forgot about the upstairs neighbors and screamed into the pillow.
"I'm really sorry." And I was too.
"I know" and the spanking continued. There was nothing more I could do or say -- my tears began in earnest and I stopped trying to escape.
He finished with some hard final smacks with the brush as I cried and struggled to stay still.
And then it was over. We hugged and I curled up against his chest, sulking a bit. Not because the punishment was unfair or undeserved. But because it happened at all. Yet as I think about it today, I can't help but imagine what would have happened without it. Paul's resentment of my thoughtlessness. My guilt coupled with the resentment feeling guilty creates. The hours or even days it might have taken for life to be back in balance.
I hate stories about spanking that end in feeling of gratitude. But I am grateful. Not to Paul, who enjoyed last night, but for this scene that exists between us as both play and reality. It's not at all a bad life.
(And even though I offered, he said I didn't need to delete the CM episodes.)
I have so much to write about last night’s punishment that instead of trying to do one of my epic posts and it taking so long that I don’t post anything for the next three weeks, I’m going to try the mad notion of breaking things up into more manageable posts – crazy talk, I know!
I have so many emotions that I’ll start off with something more simple and basic: facts and thoughts about the new type of ginger butt-plug I made.
It was not an unmitigated success, but it did have a huge successful point in that we were a lot less concerned that we were going to loose the fig inside me, never to see it again. (As happened on Kink.com a while ago!)
However, I am used to carving ginger plugs with one notched area to simulate a butt-plug – and didn’t think about the fact that this time the notched area, which is usually where the sphincter ani internus (internal anal sphincter muscle) grabs aholt of the notch in the ginger, to keep it from sucking on in, or spitting it out (And the fact that I never trusted it for the former, and it didn’t work so great for the latter is why we were trying new methods!), was used by the flange from the cut-down butt-plug, and so the big fail was that I did not make the notched area longer nor make a second notched area....
So my bottom spent the whole punishment happily trying to spit that mean old ginger root right out! (I am pretty sure that actually ginger causes the anus to spasm and expel the burning foreign object from your bottom. I get why it would try to do this, but it’s something that needs to be worked around, because figging is the best punishment in the world. More on that later.)
I’m happy to say that the one worry I had, that the plastic flange would break the ginger did not happen, although this was a thick, tough old root. (We did the world a favour by stuffing it up my bum instead of leaving it for someone to try and cook with!) I should add that because this root was pretty old, it was stringy, which was probably good for tensile strength, but also meant it was very, very strong, intensity-wise.
Mr Defeu did not have it more than one-third up my bottom before the stinging began. I knew I was in serious trouble at that point!
To sum up on the actual fig-plug: yes, cutting the flange off a butt-plug works well, and at least on thicker ginger-roots, does not break it at the notch you have to cut in to hold it there. However, that notch either needs to be lengthened to give the anus room to grab on, as well, or a second notch needs to be put on. Unsure yet which will disturb structural integrity more. I will report back after the next punishment or discipline session in which ginger is used. (I hope soon!)
Okay, more about the experience of the ginger tomorrow!
In the meantime, I just found this blog, and loved the discussion of real punishment and the emotional journey it entails: Bonnie-Jo -- Life of a College Spanko
(Reposted from my blog, to share with my darling PB-ers! I'm such a dork that when I found out I was getting a punishment, one of my thoughts was, "Ohmigawd! I'll have something to post on PB!" [blush])At some point in the last ten years, I began equating my femininity with my sexuality. I don't know when or how this happened. I suspect that Chris's concerted efforts at making me feel beautiful and sexy - often while we were doing something sexually arousing - contributed. But, in the end, the mental connection was one I made.
That was all well and good until sometime around Halloween, when gynecological issues (you may know more detail than that if you follow my twitter feed) interrupted* our sexual and spanking play. Increasingly as November went by and by, I felt more and more blue. It might have been, as some have experienced, a natural consequence of the month and season. But when December and Advent came, and my mood continued in a relatively consistent downward spiral, I started being my introspective self.
You'll notice I stopped blogging. It's because I knew what I wanted to say. I knew I wanted to say it. But I didn't know quite how. I didn't know quite how to say it without it seeming like it was Chris's fault. I couldn't quite write it down without a solution. I couldn't imagine having to respond to the practical advice of just be patient to anyone more than my doctor and overly patient husband. (BTW, phone call to the doctor next week, as soon as we're back in town again.) I'm still not sure I'm saying anything worth actually writing down.
You see, we weren't having sex. Or spanking. And so, you see, I felt increasingly ... well, ugly. Unwanted. Unwomanly. Asexual. It didn't matter that we were being intimate occasionally. Chris does enjoy oral sex (seriously, I don't know any man who doesn't) and he was able to stimulate me to orgasm, though less so as December dragged on and on and on, and my blue-ness and depression sort of worsened.
When it came time to pack for vacation, I wasn't really excited. And I'm afraid my lack of enthusiasm for much of anything contributed to the problem - why would Chris want to be intimate with me when I must have been patently uninterested? To be sure, I was uninterested in anything: paying attention to him, working consistently, doing housework, cooking, shopping, going to Animal Kingdom and Hollywood Studios... And I knew why. I just couldn't do anything about it.
As the weeks passed, and the relationship between my sexuality and my femininity crystallized. I knew what was missing quite keenly (sex, spanking, kink, naked intimacy, hormonal balance, etc) and there I was, making an effort to put a facade on for the world that Christmas was coming and that everything was cheery and glorious.
Chris and I had proper sex for the first time in nearly two months on Christmas night. It was in a strange bed, in a different state, and I was so relieved I almost cried. It'd been so long that we had to think even about the position, and clearly Chris's wrist is out of shape. Boxing Day saw a repeat. Monday was a lost cause - the 20 hours spent fighting airports and airplanes and traveling was a loss - despite the best of plans I was just happy to collapse onto my own pillow last night and Chris was already snoring.
He woke me up at 5:30 this morning to fuck my ass.
I think that might have been the best Christmas present yet.
I realized this morning that, despite a vicious cold virus, I feel almost whole again. I haven't been spanked yet (staying with family and all) though we have plans to do that in a bit when the princess is off on a playdate. It promises to be a significantly painful event, made more so by my near-virgin bottom, his itchy palm and my recent acknowledgment that a significant spanking (and other bottom-related attention-getting activities) would help balance me.
So now I am wondering how I can break this sad link I have made in my head. Clearly I am a woman, whether I am celibate or sexually active. But feeling like I am not one - or less of one than I ought to be - is clearly getting in the way of my productivity, cheerfulness and wifely compatibility.
Help!
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* 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!
Since I'm writing this on Christmas, the title seemed appropriate.
I've been thinking a lot this week about different implements and the images or feelings they evoke. In my mind, there are some that are very traditionally "domestic discipline" types of implements, and some that I could only put in the "S&M" category -- they "feel" more like a sexualized, eroticized implement, to me, and I don't understand their appeal. Let me explain ...
Last week I met with a man for what was supposed to be a discipline session. Hindsight being 20-20, I can tell you that there was a LOT that was wrong with this whole arrangement. M and I are still together -- though separated by about a 9 hour drive right now that neither of us has either the time or money to make. The last two months feel like years to me, and my missing him was starting to feel like it was taking over my life. Couple this with a desire to really get control of the things I eat -- because my health issues require it right now -- and I talked to M about the possibility of my meeting someone else *strictly* for discipline. He was supportive, and trusting, and with his blessing I moved forward.
I began talking, again, to a man I'd been communicating with at the same time that I met M. I told him about my situation and he agreed to help -- he wrote to me about how important "mentoring" is to him and how he could help me, etc. Some things were not gelling very well. For instance, we didn't talk on the phone except for once or twice when he called me for a very short "phone spanking." Emails are great, but I also need conversation in order to feel completely comfortable with someone. I ignored this, though. There were other things, all of which I explained away to myself or just let go because I figured since this was "discipline only," we didn't really need to build rapport and friendship. I have been doing TTWD for far too long to have told myself this, but ... there ya go.
Some bad behavior on my part led us to decide to meet -- for the first time -- and have a pretty intense disciplinary session. There's more I could and should say about what happened that day, but I want to just focus on my original topic -- especially since I've been too hurt to even put this whole thing into words. Anyway, we started with a hand-spanking and then he bent me over the bed for "the slipper." OK, never having been spanked with a slipper before maybe I'm not the one to judge, but I always saw in videos or imagined in my head that the actual "slipper" itself was either the leather or rubber sole of one, or one that has been well-worn to the point that it is "whippy" and feels more like a thin leather paddle. What I felt and heard made me say, "Is that a SHOE?" I was assured it was a slipper -- "A Totes slipper" to be exact -- and it continued. The thud, the echo -- it all seemed wrong and I really, really felt I was being hit with a shoe. I even made a comment that "it's like a Nike." My protesting made him put it away and get something else, and that something else is the basis for my "some things aren't DD to me" argument.
He took out and began whipping me with a small martinette. Strips of leather, knotted at the ends (which resulted in small blood-blisters all over the hip they continuously landed on). It stung pretty badly, but the thing that really bugged me was the implement itself - its use at all. When I think about being disciplined -- which, to me, is different from a "scene" meant to re-establish roles which can often have a more D/s feel to it -- I think about paddles, hairbrushes, belts, wooden spoons ... yes, even switches. Aside from paddles, these are things that have other purposes, at least in theory, but are used to teach a lesson -- or to make that lesson more memorable. They have their histories in schools and homes. For some, like myself, they even evoke childhood memories and that makes them somewhat more powerful.
But the martinette? And different types of floggers? To me, those are in a completely different realm. I can't imagine an authority figure from my childhood telling me, "Bring me the flogger -- you're in big trouble!" The headspace is completely different. Were I with M that day, and we'd mutually decided to have a scene that was more about his role as the dominant and mine as the submissive -- which isn't really like us, but I could see it happening -- then an implement like that might make sense. For being disciplined for real-life infractions, things I really wanted to work on, pulling out the martinette took me totally out of the 'scene.' I was a big baby about it, too -- and I think that's very much because I was so weirded out by its use to begin with. This really didn't make sense to him -- especially when he pulled out a big paddle and I took it *very* well. He seemed to not understand the difference at all.
Is it just me? Am I just too set in my ways about what is the RIGHT implement? Mind you, I'm not making any judgements about what anyone else uses ... but I can't believe I'm completely alone in feeling like there are some things that don't make one's mind immediately think "discipline" or "punishment." There are very few cases where a hairbrush, wooden spoon or even a paddle cross over into "erotic" for me, either. (Belts? Ah, belts are just so perfect. I've known them to be purely discipline, purely sexual, or bordering on both.)
That man and I will not be seeing each other again. Ever. And the next person whose lap I care to be over is M ... his is really the only lap I care to ever be over again, I think. But I would love to know what other people think about this -- are there certain "toys" for certain scenes, for you, or are they all the same?
[I got the idea for this blog post from padme's blog (and she got it from viemoira's who got it from -- well you get the idea --) and it seemed like a fun idea. I did it first on my own blog and liked it so much I decided we should have one here too. This blog entry is constructed by taking the opening sentence or two from the first blog post of each month.]
We missed Love Our Lurkers this year, but I though the PB could offer a Thank You to our readers and also play along with this way to close the blog for 2010 and ring in 2011. I didn't note who wrote what because, well that's not the point and it's on the posts anyway. Thanks for being with us in 2010 -- I'm looking forward to where 2011 takes us.
January: I've had this plan for a while now to write about topics other than specific punishments. There are a lot of things that float around in my head and some day I will have some spare time and be able to actually sit down and write about some of them.
February: Parenting kids in a kinky household really is different. I suppose everyone experiences parenthood differently, but I think kinksters definitely have unique challenges.
March: Last week (at least it was last week when I started this post) I read Jessica Wakeman's piece over at The Frisky about her first D/s relationship and was going to write about the similarities/differences with my own first spanking relationship.
April: I've been organizing the books in our apartment, as they are threatening to take over the place, and I found this gem among Papa Otter's erotica collection.
May: Crashing has a way of putting me in a very Natty mood. And last Wednesday, after a long Mother's Day, a longer ME/CFS Awareness Day, and a trip to the acupuncturist, I crashed.
June: Dear Readers, Please be patient with me as I hash out one of the age old questions of kinky people: What is the purpose of punishment? I am sure you've all seen articles and opinion pieces about this before, but I'm not asking it in general. I'm asking it for myself. Why do Master and I include punishment in our relationship?
July: PB was off this month. How shameful!
August: This is the first time I've written about this at the time rather than after a restart, maybe because the reason doesn't seem quite as personal as has sometimes been the case. We're not doing punishment right now.
September: I am only recently starting to get back my spanking mojo after an extended hiatus for pregnancy- and postpartum-related issues.
October: Chris (of sparkle and Chris) and I have been having a conversation lately about what he as a top gets out of the punishment dynamic. We thought it made for an interesting post, since we talk a lot about what the bottom gets out of a discipline/punishment arrangement, but we don’t hear about the other side very often (or if we do, it’s from an unrealistic Tops Are Superior Creatures perspective).
November: Today I was thinking about my first time. I guess for most people (read: Vanillas) the “first time” means when they lost their virginity. I could tell you that story but it’s boring and sad.
December: In discipline or punishment terms, I always choose the not-spanking option.
Ring out the old year, ring in the new! And if you decide to blog your year's opening lines, let us know!
The lovely blogger and model Zille Defeu (one of the charming and witty PB co-authors) has been nominated on the spankingspot.com as the best new spankee of the year.
Though I'm not sure "new" quite describes someone with the range and experience of Zille, I'm thrilled for the chance to recognize her film work and encourage you to click here and vote for Zille (or Zillie as they seem to be calling her). I mean, look at this picture. Doesn't she clearly deserve it? (To win I mean. What on earth were you thinking?)
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Addendum:
Right after I hit send I thought I'd add this. In addition to her own blog writing and modeling, Zille has done a lot in the spanking scene this year. I don't follow her every move (much as that might be great fun) but I've seen her organize the CF-CP spanking party up in San Francisco (and epic fun night) and know she's worked as a volunteer judge for this year's SSC contest. She's also attended Shadow Lane as well as UK hosted parties. She and her partner were a great help at helping run errands for the Northern Spanking suite party at Shadow Lane.
What's my point? Vote for Zille not because she's got a pretty face. Vote for her because, in best sense of the term, she's a good all-rounder and gives back to our scene and community. What more can anyone ask of anyone, spankee or not?