The New Girl

Had I greater self-awareness, vocabulary, and anything more than a Commodore 64 computer when I was seven years old, I could have started a blog about spanking then. After mythological creatures and Ancient Egypt, it was one of my earliest fascinations. Sitting at my orange and yellow Playskool plastic picnic table, I'd ask the neighborhood children about their most recent transgressions and punishments. My hometown, a small New England colonial town, was still old-fashioned in its ways, and my parents were more liberal than most. I had no stories, but everybody else did. I'd listen in torrid fascination as my friends' bottoms were bared in tale and in my mind.

My second grade play may have defined my destiny. I was cast as a colonial mother to seven children, all of whom were apparently quite naughty, as I was made to threaten them with punishment. My line, as I remember it, was, "Best behave, children, unless you want to get a switching before supper." I wonder now how many second-graders today would even know what a switching is. I knew quite well at the time, because I had a book about the daily life of colonial children. My favorite page was the one that described the concepts of the switch and the birch--with illustrations. The problem with knowing full-well what I was saying in that play was that I didn't want to give anyone a switching. I was relieved once the line was said, knowing I would never have to be on that side of an implement again.

The problem with being a seven year old spanking enthusiast is that it's a very lonely thing, and not especially comprehensible. I couldn't exactly ask my strictly-hands-off-except-for-hugs parents to spank me, and my friends saw spanking as a bad thing, so they were out, too. I had to make do with having countless "rose gardens" grown on my arm. If you aren't familiar, "rose gardens" were a strange exercise in elementary sado-masochism. One girl would take another girl's arm and, with her fingers, enact a farmer going to buy seeds ( soft tickle), planting the seeds (a little scrape of the nail), the fall of rain (the pitter patter of fingertips), and finally, the roses bloom (mean little pinches that made red spots appear). I hated the pinches but loved the marks left afterwards--a sentiment all too familiar now that those "pinches" are the strokes of a cane, strap, or paddle.

Only now that I am grown am I starting to feel like I have the right to be that naughty girl. My recent discovery of spanking blogs (thank you, Misses Haze and Flynn) and my June honeymoon (a road-trip up the Pacific coast, planned for the scenery but turned into a thousand-mile run through a candy store as we stopped at every antique store along the way in search of canes, straps, and other toys of ill-repute) have made me at long last comfortable in my skin--except for the skin of my bottom. It's been five days since my last caning and I'm still a bit tender, still a bit bruised, but even those marks are proof that I am finally the naughty little girl I always wanted to be.