Mrmph in Translation

I now think about writing and spanking more than I think about anything else. On the one hand, this is a huge relief, because previous to starting to this blog, I tended to obsess about finances, the possibility of an upcoming move, and my complete distaste for my job. Now, when I think about finances, I wonder if I can afford the shipping fees for getting a really nice tawse from overseas. I think about where we'll live next and hope that the walls are thicker, or at least that our bedroom window won't be directly next to the neighbor's front porch. I don't think about my job all that much now--even when I'm at it, I'm thinking about spanking and blogging and the bulk of my day is spent checking my personal email for comments and coming up with ideas for new posts.

There is one time, however, that I am not thinking about writing, blogging, or, for that matter, my love of spanking. Ironically, that time is when I am being spanked.

Much to my chagrin, we've been playing a good deal with strappings recently. I finally understand the idea of tanning someone's hide, as one would tan an animal skin. As my flesh turns brighter and hotter, I actually feel as if I am becoming leather myself. I feel as if the texture of my very flesh is changing, softening and toughening at once. But these thoughts aren't clear until the strapping is over, after I have discovered that I have not turned into leather after all, as I put on a pair of clean white panties and admire the redness showing through and along the sides of my panty-line. I can't actually think about what's just happened until what's just happened is over.

When, on Tueday, I found myself receiving a strapping yet again, I decided I would try to think about how I would write about it later. I made it about two strokes when I realized I wasn't thinking about writing anymore. Refocusing, I began to think about how I was standing, how to set the scene when... I realize I've lost focus again. I can feel the heat swelling over my bottom, the sting spreading so that each stroke is less... Oh, ouch, ouch, ouch! Okay, so I can't describe the heat, then. But my readers! I'm just becoming established here. I want to be able to write about this experience. The strap is of medium-weight, a rich chocolate shade of leather, the sort you'd use to... No, no, no, no, no, I'll be good I swear, just don't.... And so I never was able to think about the experience itself as I'd describe it here. Even thoughts that could be later translated into this entry were at the time expressed as "Mrmph!"

That complete inability to focus or to analyze is the secret boon of spanking. I've made a number of questionable choices in my life, and I have justified all of them by saying, "But if I do this, then I can write about it." I have purposely chosen the darker paths because they'd make more interesting stories. I've even stared into the eyes of a lover I know I'm about to lose and wondered not how to keep him, but how I'd describe him in text once he was gone. I have lived a good deal of my life as a character. But when I am being spanked, either as myself or if I am roleplaying the naughty little girl, I don't think of myself as a character in a story. I can barely think at all, but when I do, I'm very present, experiencing what I am experiencing and free of all else.

So while I do think about blogging quite often now, I think about it during the times when I would have been wondering what to make for dinner. I think about it while the women in my office debate whether to go to the new IKEA. I even think about it as I fall asleep. But at last, I am thinking about what parts of my life I can turn into a story or a blog entry. I am no longer thinking about what part of a story I should turn into my life.