Thursday, July 19, 2007

The Weight of the World

Despite my red hair and curves, I confuse myself with Buffy the Vampire Slayer more times than you'd imagine. It's not all about wanting to be spanked by Giles, either. One of the main themes of the show is her struggle with balancing being a regular girl with being the girl who saves the world. Although most of the demons I battle are my own, I have spent years wondering how I can stand upright with the weight of the world on my shoulders.

The answer is surprisingly simple: Don't stand upright all the time.

The world balances just as well on one's bottom, and having them both whacked about a bit lessens the universal weight considerably. As a woman, I want to be in control of every aspect of my life. My name is on all the bills. But I have also felt too responsible for too much--from everything from my parents' divorce, which happened so quickly after I moved out of my childhood home that I could not help but feel that I'd been the glue for years, to my little sister's virginity, which, at almost 27 years old, is inconceivable and yet somehow my fault for having set an Ophelia-like example by loving the wrong men and then going a bit mad over the loss of them. Turning into a little girl, receiving punishment with the transformative powers of forgiveness, lightens the burden. Letting go absolves it.

Hitting the breaking point, the moment between taking the strokes and being consumed either by pain or the dark headspace that serves as both vessel and cocoon, is something I crave more than white chocolate or Chinese egg-rolls, more than Fresh's Rice Sake Bath or Cosabella (photo, right) panties. The trick is getting there. Some days, I just can't even begin. I'll be weeping within the first stroke or two. Others, I want to be brave, I want to take it and take it and take it, to be a brave little girl who can carry the world on strong shoulders or a stinging bottom, seeing no difference between the two.

It's the days when I'm ready to let go that I live for. The days that I can start by saying to myself:

  • "This stroke is for my boss who'd rather talk about herself than help me."
  • Then, "This is for not paying the cable bill, always overdue."
  • And, "This is for not doing the laundry yet, even though I meant to but got distracted with spanking blogs."
  • Then three, thank you Sir. "This is for having the nightmare I couldn't shake all day."
  • And four, thank you Sir. "This is for the naughty thought I had about Anthony Stewart Head as Headmaster in that episode of Doctor Who, even though he turned out to be a flesh-eating monster alien.
  • Five, thank you Sir. "For liking this."
  • Six, oh, thank you Sir. "For wanting to always be your naughty girl, so you'll do this with me."
  • Seven, thank you. "For wishing I was an only child, even as an adult."
  • Eight, ow, ow, ow, thank you Sir. "This is for wanting to be thinner, when you love my bottom as it is."
  • Nine, thank you. "For wanting this to end."
  • Ten, thank you Sir. "For wanting to tell the world that I am brave and strong and can take a caning when my co-workers can barely take a phone call, but I can't tell them who I really am."
  • Eleven, oh, oh, ow, Sir, please, thank you, "For wishing you would only be inside me."
  • Twelve, thank you Sir. "For..."
And when I do break, when I do begin to weep silent slow tears, then sob, when I can't hold back a cry with every stroke, when I know I've built up to it, have earned it, have struggled through every part of my mind and have released it all, I can let go. Every pain throughout the day is gone. Every familial agony and workplace drama is released in the whoosh of his chosen implement. Swish. I pay every bill in full. Crack. I am beautiful and striped and proud. Then, slice, I'm only a little girl. I'm only a little girl. With each stroke, this is all I know now. I collapse into him afterwards, this little girl fully punished, released of all her sins and the sins of those around her, and he holds me, curls around me, gently, whispering how proud he is of me. My hips begin to rise and writhe, pressing back against him even with the pain, and I am a woman, ready to carry the weight of the world once again.


  1. Wonderful post. Lovely explanation of what you get out of a spanking.

    ~Todd & Suzy

  2. Abby,

    Thanks for sharing that beautiful essay.


  3. Just discovered your lovely blog; keep up the great work!
    Jean Marie

  4. Fantastic post! Just discovered your blog via a link from your comment on ours, and love it.

  5. I found the link to your sight from Niki's not-blog. I like your candid insights into what makes you tick. I wonder if part of the releif you feel from the weight of the world after being spanked has anything to do with having had a good cry. The soft porn photo of you looking so vulnerable and inviting with your jeans down on the couch is really quite stunning. I wish you a long and successful blog.

  6. Well, I did jump to conclusions without prompting. You never said it was a picture of you. No harm done. I guess that's what I get for not watching enough TV. It still is a stunning photo and I never would have seen it if you hadn't posted it. She looks like she even wants a spanking. I still like your bare soul on these pages and will continue to lurk and comment occasionally if you will allow it. Happy Tails.

  7. Tiger--Please do! I love both the comments and just knowing I'm being read. I was just realizing this weekend that I've done more writing in the past three weeks than in the past year. Knowing I have an audience apparently makes all the difference. Thank you for continuing to come by. :-)

  8. I watch Buffy, you get spanked, and you can write well. With these three things you have forever endeared yourself to me, and gained a new reader!

    xx Dee


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