Some of the implements escaped their case after all.
The case beckons to me even from the distance of rooms. Play with us, whisper the implements that lie within the repurposed instrument case, nestled together in a bed of golden plush. We miss you, they murmur. Your backside, your thighs, the spaces between. I pretend they do not call to me. And still, inbetween the tapping of keys and the Sia album on the MP3 player, I hear the crop insisting, I want to bite you. The leather paddles try to coax me into letting them tease me, warm me, prepare me. The one short cane that fits in the case sternly demands, Let me out, young lady. Or else.
But sadly, these past few weeks there has been no "or else" to be had. I have been exhausted with work, sleeping earlier and earlier in the evening. Mr. Williams has been working later hours. By the time he comes through the front door, even the cats are too sleepy and cuddled into me to greet him. We all open our lazy eyes and blink at him. He gives us each kisses and lets us go back to sleep. On those nights when we do have the luxury of one another's time, playtime has been last on the list of priorities, favoring instead the guilty pleasures of being man and wife--chiefly, snuggly movie nights and reading in bed.
Now, just getting home on a Thursday evening with Mr. Williams working late, I find myself all too atuned to the voices in the implement case. The strange thing is, I don't miss the vicious creatures that cry for me. I don't miss the pain they cause, or the transcendence that pain has been known to help me achieve. I don't miss the marks they leave, though when I do bear marks I wear them with secret pride. I don't even miss the freedom that comes with giving up control. The world has been spinning so chaotically lately that I lack control most days these days anyway. No, the thing I miss is something so much simpler than all that. In a word, I miss anticipation.
Until recently, almost every day was filled with the expectation that I would come home and be spanked. Likewise, Mr. Williams' days were filled with expecting to spank me soon after I walked through the front door. The phantom tingling of my backside got me through the day. I looked forward to being molded into whatever form he wanted me to become. He could make me his naughty young lady or his tawdry womanly vixen. He could make me cry like a little girl or scream like a feral cat in heat. Most importantly, we were together, doing this thing that has made us a better couple and made me a better writer. I could go so far as to say it has made me whole. Perhaps that's the core of it--I miss knowing that I will have the freedom to completely be myself.
I can do that writing, of course, or doing the dishes, or taking a walk. I don't mean to say that I am not myself unless I am in the process of being spanked. I think most of you will understand what I mean when I say that spanking opens up an inner chamber, the one that holds every version of one's self, and lets them all out at once. The experience guides which will take hold, be it the girl or the woman or some other secret self, but they are all available. There is nothing limiting that release besides ourselves. In those moments, decorum be damned; there is nothing decorous about flailing with one's bottom in the air. I could even go so far as to say that in these moments I am truly human, and there is nothing decorous about being human, either. We are madcap packages of flesh and emotion, intricate thought and base instinct. When I am being spanked, I don't have to worry about how to balance those disparate parts of myself, because they balance on their own. A new credo: I am spanked, therefore I am. I miss the anticipation to be.
The only trouble with all this revelation is that it's no good on my own. I can write about it up and down the block, but the parallels between carpel tunnel and cane stripes are few and far between. To continue thieving classic literature and bending it to fit my spanko whims, I may sing the body electric, but it sure would be nicer if the song was a duet. In other words, I miss you, Mr. Williams. Thank goodness it's almost tomorrow. The weekend is only a day away.
But sadly, these past few weeks there has been no "or else" to be had. I have been exhausted with work, sleeping earlier and earlier in the evening. Mr. Williams has been working later hours. By the time he comes through the front door, even the cats are too sleepy and cuddled into me to greet him. We all open our lazy eyes and blink at him. He gives us each kisses and lets us go back to sleep. On those nights when we do have the luxury of one another's time, playtime has been last on the list of priorities, favoring instead the guilty pleasures of being man and wife--chiefly, snuggly movie nights and reading in bed.
Now, just getting home on a Thursday evening with Mr. Williams working late, I find myself all too atuned to the voices in the implement case. The strange thing is, I don't miss the vicious creatures that cry for me. I don't miss the pain they cause, or the transcendence that pain has been known to help me achieve. I don't miss the marks they leave, though when I do bear marks I wear them with secret pride. I don't even miss the freedom that comes with giving up control. The world has been spinning so chaotically lately that I lack control most days these days anyway. No, the thing I miss is something so much simpler than all that. In a word, I miss anticipation.
Until recently, almost every day was filled with the expectation that I would come home and be spanked. Likewise, Mr. Williams' days were filled with expecting to spank me soon after I walked through the front door. The phantom tingling of my backside got me through the day. I looked forward to being molded into whatever form he wanted me to become. He could make me his naughty young lady or his tawdry womanly vixen. He could make me cry like a little girl or scream like a feral cat in heat. Most importantly, we were together, doing this thing that has made us a better couple and made me a better writer. I could go so far as to say it has made me whole. Perhaps that's the core of it--I miss knowing that I will have the freedom to completely be myself.
I can do that writing, of course, or doing the dishes, or taking a walk. I don't mean to say that I am not myself unless I am in the process of being spanked. I think most of you will understand what I mean when I say that spanking opens up an inner chamber, the one that holds every version of one's self, and lets them all out at once. The experience guides which will take hold, be it the girl or the woman or some other secret self, but they are all available. There is nothing limiting that release besides ourselves. In those moments, decorum be damned; there is nothing decorous about flailing with one's bottom in the air. I could even go so far as to say that in these moments I am truly human, and there is nothing decorous about being human, either. We are madcap packages of flesh and emotion, intricate thought and base instinct. When I am being spanked, I don't have to worry about how to balance those disparate parts of myself, because they balance on their own. A new credo: I am spanked, therefore I am. I miss the anticipation to be.
The only trouble with all this revelation is that it's no good on my own. I can write about it up and down the block, but the parallels between carpel tunnel and cane stripes are few and far between. To continue thieving classic literature and bending it to fit my spanko whims, I may sing the body electric, but it sure would be nicer if the song was a duet. In other words, I miss you, Mr. Williams. Thank goodness it's almost tomorrow. The weekend is only a day away.
I got really silly with the camera after writing this post. This still is from the end of it all. Note the mischievous glint in my eye. I'll tell you all about it soon. Or if you're really curious, it's posted on (defunct link) already.
I think most of you will understand what I mean when I say that spanking opens up an inner chamber, the one that holds every version of one's self, and lets them all out at once.
ReplyDeleteYet again, you've captured the essence of the experience, what makes it what it is. Yes. This is it, exactly.
I hope you are given the key to your chamber again soon. It's horrible being locked out.
The phantom tingling of my backside - I like that line. I often experience that too, especially toward the end of the week, long after the real pain has subsided but when the anticipation of more is rising.
ReplyDeleteAnd those of us who wear BlackBerries on our belts also experience phantom vibrations on our hipbones, even when not wearing the device. It's something nobody likes to discuss. :-)
I hope Mr. W comes home soon.
Hugs,
Hermione